Danel

The children watch us.

Photo by me. Design by me.

I watch the yarrow bend beneath the weight of my piss and think of our baby boy, George. Will he have sea-green eyes flecked with gold like me? Or will they be hazel, like Genie’s? I tell myself I’ll be happy no matter what, but the truth is I’m afraid they’ll be Dad’s eyes: slate-gray and passionless. I couldn’t handle that; I need love, I know this.

I look over my shoulder at the maroon Ford Escort, the only thing available at the Avis Car Rental on short notice. Nothing pretty, but she’s been a trouper so far. Soon, I’ll embrace Genie and greet our little man, George, for the first time. I’ll get some shit for not being there during his birth, but what were the odds she’d go into labor an entire month earlier than expected?

I zip up my jeans and stare at the trees, stretching my legs. I hear a rustling sound, but after a few moments, it stops. I shake my head and return to the car. The doors are locked, the keys hang from the ignition.

“Fucking fuck fuck!”

A raindrop splashes off my cheek. What would Dad say if he were standing next to me right now? “Ian, what good is cussing in a situation like this?” or “Ian, calm down.” I’ll never say things like this to George—if he wants to cuss like a sailor, I’ll let him. Hell, I’ll join him. And if he’s a dumb dumb like me, well, better than being intelligent but indifferent like Dad. What good is life if you don’t feel it?

I pick up a rock to smash the driver’s side window, but reconsider; with the crib, changing table, swaddles and burp cloths—the breast pump—I’ve already had to dip into our savings.

I huck the rock into the trees, it cracks in the distance.

The single gray lane I’ve been driving down splits the forest in two. I haven’t seen a car since I’ve been on this road, and I start to believe I might be lost. But I figure it’s only a matter of time before someone comes by or I come across a gas station—something. Still, after nearly forty-five minutes of walking without seeing anyone, I need to talk myself out of panicking.

There’s a trick I use when I start to feel a wave of panic coming on: I scrape my index fingernail on top of my thumbnail. I don’t know why this works, but whenever I feel I’m about to go off the deep end, this trick brings me back to shore. It grounds me.

But right now, it’s not working.

I feel the world rising as I sink into an abyss. My breath seems steady but I must be hyperventilating, why else would I be losing consciousness? How am I supposed to raise a child when I can’t even—

I try to pull myself back from these thoughts; I’m a drowning man, and these thoughts are rocks in my pockets. I’m out here in the middle of nowhere because…because why? Because I’m so irresponsible that I traveled for work with an eight-month-pregnant wife—

Breathe. Steady.

George will grow up without a dad, Avis Car Rental will send Genie a bill for the Ford they never get back, and eventually, someone just as turned around as I am will find my decomposing dumb-ass face on the blacktop—

Breathe. Steady.

The vignette expands, feathering until I can barely see the road beneath me.

Then, I hear voices coming from within the forest. There’s laughing, and this sound of joy brings me back. I migrate toward the laughter, a gasping, dizzy argonaut looking for companionship.

Branches pull on my jacket and grab at my hair. Spiderwebs cling to my cheeks—I swipe my hand across my face, anticipating the bulbous body of a confused arachnid. Thankfully, there is none.

When I come through the trees, I’m astonished to see so many people in the middle of nowhere. There are logs hewn into benches, laid row upon row from the foot of a pinewood stage with pale boards, all the way back to where I’m standing. At each end of the stage, thick, cream-colored curtains are tied back to reveal a crudely painted forest backdrop. In the center of the stage stands a man with antlers fastened to his head with twine. A dozen children watch him, snickering and fidgeting.

“Out came Cort,” says the man wearing antlers, pretending his hands are hooves. “And he was angry! Why do you think Cort was angry? Anyone?”

A child shouts, “Because Danel killed his mother!”

“Yes! Very good, Peter. It was because Danel killed Cort’s mother, Lusana. How many of you would have felt angry? Yes, everyone here. And that’s okay—emotions help us navigate the world, right?”

The kids agree. An older girl says, “If I were Cort, I would have killed Danel.”

The man straightens his posture, no longer pretending to be a deer. “And that, Marisa, is a natural thought to have. But let’s examine why we feel such emotions.”

I shift my weight, and a stick snaps beneath my boot.

The children turn their heads and look over their shoulders at me, their mouths slack, eyes like moons. On stage, the man wearing antlers is paralyzed, but not with fear—on his face, and the faces of the children, is excitement. I feel like a long-lost family member walking in on a reunion.

I hold up my hand. “Sorry.”

“May we help you?” says the man with the antlers.

I step forward. “I heard voices and, well, I locked my keys in my car a few miles south.” This confession brings up familiar feelings: I’m twelve again, crying, telling Dad that my bike was stolen from outside of Fern Plaza. I recall Dad’s cold, indifferent eyes peering over the top of his paper. “Ian,” he’d said, “it’s just a bike. Get a job and buy a new one.” But this man with antlers, his eyes are warm, and curious.

The man hops down from the stage and jogs to me. He’s not a large man, but he’s stocky, an SUV of a human. “There isn’t much out this way. How did you lock your keys in your car?” He runs his hand down the length of his bushy brown beard.

“Pulled over to use the restroom,” I say. “I must have inadvertently hit the lock button. It’s a rental, so I’m not used to it.” The gaze of so many people looking at me makes me nervous. I sputter, “My wife went into labor a full month early. I’m on the way to be with her now—I would have flown, but a thunderstorm grounded all the flights out of Seattle.”

The man nods. “Well, there isn’t a much worse place to lock yourself out of your car.”

“Why is that?”

“Not much out this way. Well, nothing besides Chapel Post. We don’t have many visitors. It’s a good thing you stumbled upon us, friend.”

A boy stands and walks through the trees. The man wearing antlers doesn’t say anything, watches him go.

“Is this Chapel Post?” I say, looking around at the amphitheater. “Or is there a town nearby?”

“Chapel Post is a self-sufficient community.” The man unfastens the antlers from his head. A few children stand, but the man waves them back down, saying, “It’ll just be a moment, kids. We’ve got a stranger here, and what do we do when we have a stranger visit Chapel Post?”

“We give them grace,” the children say back in monotone.

“Right! What’s your name, son?”

“Ian,” I say and put my hand out.

“Samuel. It’s a pleasure to meet you, friend.”

There are calluses on Samuel’s palm and an unexpected strength in his grip. His teeth are thick, but his smile is welcoming.

“Do you have a phone I can use, Samuel? Or maybe if someone could give me a lift to a gas station—”

“No cars here,” Samuel says. Then, looking at the trees from where I entered asks, “So it’s just you?”

“Just me. Well, if I could use your phone—”

“We don’t have phones here, either. Our mail carrier, Clancy, comes once a week. As a matter of fact, mail day is tomorrow.”

I laugh, thinking this is a joke.

Samuel looks at me quizzically, then chuckles. “I suppose that does sound strange to an outsider. See, the people in our community don’t need phones or cars—they don’t need help from the outside world. We take care of ourselves. We take care of each other.”

“You’re serious?”

“I am.”

The children watch us. I smile at them. They smile back. Looking at the boys, I can’t help but wonder what George will be like at five years old. At ten. Fifteen.

“How far is the walk to a town?” I say.

“Not walkable, Ian. It would take you at least eight hours, and it’ll be dark in three.”

Before I can reply, the boy who’d left earlier returns, holding the hand of a woman with long gray hair and pink cheeks. She’s wearing a dress covered in sunflowers; the contrast between the bright yellow flowers and the earth tones of the forest makes my eyes feel sore.

“Children,” says the woman. “Jubilee will be starting soon. You just sit tight. You’re in for a real treat this year! Della has been chosen to play the part of Lusana!”

“Yes, Aunt Mary,” the children say.

Samual claps my shoulder. “Ian here locked his keys in his car a few miles up the road.”

Aunt Mary makes a “tsk tsk” sound. “Not the best place to do that. He could hitch a ride with Clancy tomorrow—”

“I need to get back tonight. I’ll just break the window. I was hoping to avoid that, but what can you do?” I turn to go.

“Now, hold up, Ian,” says Samual. “I’ve got a hammer and a broom. If you really want to do this, let’s be safe about it.”

“I couldn’t bother you like that—it’s miles away.”

Aunt Mary shakes her head. “Samual doesn’t mind. His joy in life is walking. I don’t know where he gets his energy from, but if I could have even an ounce…”

“Well, I appreciate that, Samual,” I say. “You all are too kind.”

The glass on the blacktop glints. I shield my eyes and look down the road for any sign of the maroon rental car.

“Maybe a tow truck came by?” Samuel shrugs.

“Well, shit. Now what am I supposed to do?”

“I know it’s not ideal, but we have a bed, good food—heck, we even have Jubilee happening tonight after our performance. You’ll have a great time. What do you say?” Samuel holds his hammer at his side with one hand and the broom over his shoulder like a rifle with the other.

“I guess I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“Well, you can take your chance out here, but that seems silly to me when you have everything you need just down the road.”

I look down the gray lane in the direction I came from, then toward Chapel Post. “What’s Jubilee?”

The audience for the pre-Jubilee performance, which Samuel says is better experienced than explained, is made up of boisterous children of all ages. The youngest kids run down the aisles playing tag while the older children huddle in snickering packs. But when the play starts, they all quiet down, returning to their seats.

I sit next to Aunt Mary and a little girl named Susie. She tells me she’s scared. When I ask her what there is to be scared about, she says, “Shhh. It’s starting.”

Aunt Mary leans over, “We’re all in for a real treat—we’ve never had a guest for Jubilee in the forty-nine years we’ve been doing this. It’s like Danel sent you to us.”

I nod and smile, but my mind is elsewhere. Genie will be worried about me, and not only did I miss George’s birth, I’m going to miss his entire first day of life. Great start, Papa.

Samuel comes through the trees wearing a fur hat and boots, holding a rifle over his shoulder. He hops onto the stage and hides behind a sapling on a wooden cross brace.

Then comes a woman with red hair dressed in a black kaftan, a silhouette of a crimson hawk printed across the front. She smiles at the children, waves, then trips over her robe, hitting her head on the side of the stage.

The children roar with laughter.

I run over and help her to her feet.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “Your forehead is bleeding.”

“I’m fine. Just a small cut—nothing to fuss over.” The woman wipes the blood from her forehead and continues to the stage.

I return to my seat, scowling at the hooting children. George will never be like these kids, I vow.

“Not a compassionate bunch, are they?” I say to Aunt Mary.

Aunt Mary holds her hand in the air, and the children quiet down. “Our guest thinks you’re being mean!”

The children scoff.

“Our children are taught to be in touch with their emotions. We believe in wearing our hearts on our sleeves, to turn a phrase. We believe in communicating hate as much as love and desire as much as repulsion. You’ll get nothing but honesty here, Ian. They’re laughing because it was funny to them. What should they do instead?

“Out there, where you live, it’s nothing but hidden words and false faces—tricky lips and sleight of hand. Out there, people lie so much they don’t even know when they’re speaking the truth or telling a story. At Chapel Post, we know the difference. Della is fine. A small cut on her forehead is all. If she were really hurt, we’d help her. We care for each other—we trust each other. Do you trust anyone out there, where you’re from, Ian?”

Aunt Mary doesn’t wait for my answer. She stands, walks to the edge of the stage, and speaks, “Danel hid in the forest, watching Lusana. He’d long suspected her to be the reason why the game had dried up, the crops withered on the vine, and why the children no longer smiled or cried. And now, here was proof.”

On stage, Della, playing the part of Lusana, unfastens her robe and lets it fall to the ground. She’s completely naked. I raise my eyebrows and look around. The children don’t snicker. All eyes are on Della. One of the older boys moves to a closer bench. A small drop of blood trickles down Della’s forehead.

“Lusana fell to her knees,” says Aunt Mary.

Della falls to her knees with a Bang. Next to me, little Susie jumps, then settles back down on the bench.

“It’s just a play,” I tell the girl, but she doesn’t acknowledge me.

Della speaks in tongues, her hands in the air, swaying side to side like a snake handler without a serpent.

Aunt Mary continues, “Danel was not a violent man, but he knew only he could save Chapel Post, so he took up his rifle.”

At the opposite end of the stage, Samuel raises his rifle. The man is transformed; if it isn’t for his thick brown beard and bushy eyebrows, I don’t know that I’d recognize him; he seems taller now, too. His warm eyes are now two hot coals.

Aunt Mary raises her voice. “He knew that so long as Lusana lived, Chapel Post would continue to be drained of life.”

From the trees comes another man, this one lanky and clean-shaven, wearing a straw hat. He skulks about at the front of the stage like a coyote eying a house cat.

“But before Danel could fire his rifle, the tanner, a man named Kindred, came upon Lusana naked in the big woods. Danel could see the lust in the tanner’s eyes.”

The man playing Kindred vaults onto the stage, runs up to Della, and pins her down. The children don’t move a muscle.

I look to Aunt Mary, a question on my face; she winks and continues.

“Danel is a good man,” says Aunt Mary. “Danel looks out for his community. But at that moment, Danel was conflicted, for the woman he was going to kill to save the town was herself in need of saving. So Danel made his decision, aimed his rifle, and shot Kindred dead.”

“BANG!” shouts Samuel.

The children jump. So do I.

The lanky man arches his back dramatically, pulling red ribbons from his pocket and throwing them from his chest. He lets out a bellow, which is quickly smothered by the surrounding trees.

Della pushes the man’s limp body off of her and stands. As Samuel approaches, Della covers herself with the discarded robe.

Aunt Mary’s face is glowing; she’s a proud mother on pageant day.

Samuel keeps his gun aimed at Della. “Witch, I know thee. It is you who’ve caused our misery. These woods once fed and clothed us. Now, not a beast is to be found. We starve, and not for just meat, for life—the children no longer sing or play! Why do you punish us, Lusana?”

The woman shakes her head, still hiding her breasts with her robe. “Danel, it is not I who have caused our woes. Here I be to save us. Please, you must believe me. Yes, it is true I speak with the spirits, but it is only in the pursuit of good. Like you, I’m here to save Chapel Post. Surely you can see that?” Della drops the robe to the ground and steps forward, holding out her hand. “You do believe me?”

“Danel was not a dull man,” says Aunt Mary, “Lusana had used her snake tongue to bewitch him. Danel lowered his weapon.”

“I will help you,” says Samuel, facing the crowd. “I will save Chapel Post.”

The children shake their heads. A small boy shouts, “It’s a lie, Danel! It’s a lie! Don’t believe her!”

“There is an evil in this forest, Danel,” Says Della. “An evil has caused our suffering. I’ve come to lure it out so that I may expel it from our lands. Will you help me?”

Samuel turns to face the audience again. “Tell me what I must do.”

Little Susie is crying. I lean in to ask if she’s okay.

“It’s a lie,” she whispers. “She’s a bad lady.”

“Put the tanner’s blood on your cheeks,” says Della, “and get to your knees. Repeat these words until the owls are hunting for mice. ‘Conconay, V’ala dola. Septo, mala. Beastil!’ Only then will the evil show itself so that we may kill it.”

Della leaves the stage and runs off through the trees.

“Danel placed his hands in the blood,” says Aunt Mary.

Samuel touches the tanner’s chest and raises his hands to his face, and when he lowers his hands, his cheeks are streaked in vermilion paint.

I chuckle; it’s a nice touch with the fake blood, but maybe a bit much for young children. At least it doesn’t look very real, I think. I start to get hungry, and wonder if this Jubilee will have refreshments.

“Conconay, V’ala dola,” says Samuel.

Aunt Mary smiles. “Septo, mala.”

“Septo, mala.” Samuel raises his hands.

“Beastil!” Aunt Mary shouts.

“Beastil!” shouts Samuel.

Two men wearing sashes come crashing through the trees, Della following closely behind.

“There!” says Della, pointing to the stage.

“You, stop!” one of the men shouts. “It’s just as Lusana said. You’ve murdered the tanner.”

Two teenage boys from the audience walk to ends of the stage and unfasten the ropes tying back the curtain. The heavy cream-colored sheets close.

Through a space in the seam, I see the man playing Kindred gather up his red ribbon and walk off the rear of the stage.

“Are you cold, Ian?” asks Aunt Mary. “I can have one of the children fetch a blanket for you.”

“No, thank you.” I look behind me at the children: they’re not the same happy kids I saw when I’d first arrived. They’re speaking to each other in hushed tones, their eyes red and stern. “Where are their parents?”

“They’re working, of course. Preparing for their entrance!” After a few moments, Aunt Mary signals the two boys who come back to the stage and pull open the curtains.

On one side of the stage is a cage made of branches. Samuel is inside, gripping the bars, moving side to side like a anxious gorilla. Outside the cage stands Della, the two men wearing sashes, and a fourth man who is wearing glasses and holding a Bible.

“Danel of Chapel Post,” says one of the sashed men. “You are accused of murdering the tanner, Kindred Brennen. What say you?”

Samuel speaks to the audience, “I am not guilty of this crime. I was protecting Lusana.” He points to Della. “She was being attacked by the tanner.”

“Is this true, Lusana?” asks the sashed man.

Della steps forward, turns to the audience, and says, “I was there in the big woods and saw Danel shoot the tanner, but it was not to save me. No. It was because Kindred tried to stop Danel from forcing himself on me. Danel is a murderer! Danel is a murderer!” Della points a finger in Samuel’s face. “Murderer!”

All of the children boo and cry and scream. I’m up out of my seat, trying to calm the kids down. “It’s only a story! Everything is okay. Settle down!”

Aunt Mary grabs my hand and pulls me close. She smells of lavender and pepper. “This is not just a story, Ian. And I told you, we let our children feel their emotions—please don’t interrupt that.”

“What do you mean ‘it’s not just a story?’”

“Just what I said. Now please, sit down or we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

Aunt Mary glares at me. I’d leave right now if it wasn’t already so late in the day, but the last thing I want to do is walk all night down a road through the wilderness in the dark. I sit down. The yelling has stopped, but the kids are still in distress, I can see it in their faces. What would I do if George were here? What would my dad have done? He would tell me to grow up, open his paper, and recede into the drab interior of our family home—our prized decoration: a man made of stone.

“Keep going!” yells a boy.

All of the actors, besides Samuel and the young man with the bible, have left the stage. After watching me for several moments without blinking, Aunt Mary continues, “Danel was found guilty of murdering the tanner, and he was believed to be the cause of all of Chapel Post’s misery. They’d found him worshiping the Devil, after all. But the night before his execution, while the Headsman sharpened his axe, Lusana’s son, Cort, came to visit Danel in his cell.”

“Danel of the big woods, I know you did not murder the tanner. Not in the way my mother has accused you. For she told me her plan to lure Kindred into the woods. She knew you’d be there with your rifle, waiting for her.”

“Why do you tell me these things, Cort?”

“I’m not a good man, not a brave man, Danel. But I can’t let an innocent man be put to his death.”

“And what of our community? What about our collective survival? Your mother is a witch and the reason why we suffer. But you already know this, don’t you, Cort? If you’re here to condemn me or,” Samuel points to the Bible in Cort’s hands, “or to offer me salvation from your Christian God, then I’ll take the condemnation.”

The actor playing Cort opens his Bible, slides a key from its pages, and unlocks the cage.

“Cort,” says Samuel. “Why does your mother punish us? Of what gain is it to her?”

“She was not always this way,” says the man playing Cort, turning to face the children. “There was a time when she loved Chapel Post deeply. But then came a man from the hills and corrupted her. He sold her lies and she paid in full.” He’s looking at me as he says this. I look around, the children’s eyes are wide. They’re scared. And angry.

“Go now and live, Danel.”

“Danel escaped to the forest,” says Aunt Mary, “and being more familiar with the big woods than anyone, he disappeared into the night.”

Samuel runs off the stage and through the trees.

The two boys close the curtains again.

Aunt Mary clears her throat. “For years Lusana played dark games in the big forest with the stranger from the hills, and Chapel Post suffered. Some died of starvation, others, the ones that did not die, lived without passion. They did not laugh or cry!”

“Boo!” the children shout.

“They did not make love or fight.”

“Boo!”

The boys reopen the curtains; Lusana is lying at center of the stage.

“They were nothing,” says Aunt Mary. “Then, one day, Cort went to find his mother, who had not returned home after her daily trip to the big forest.” Aunt Mary picks up a rock and places it on the stage.

The man playing Cort comes up onto the stage and stands over Della. “Mother!” he cries.

“She was dead,” says Aunt Mary.

“Good!” shouts little Susie. The children cheer, and one of them picks up a rock, hurling it onto the stage, hitting Della in the back. She cries out in pain, but the children only laugh.

“Hey!” I stand and shout. “Are you serious?” I turn to Aunt Mary. “This has to stop! Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Aunt Mary shakes her head and continues, “Cort was shocked to see Danel come through the trees, but what’s more, he was no longer just a man.”

Samuel comes out from the trees and onto the stage. He’s wearing the antlers I saw tied to the top of his head when I’d first arrived at Chapel Post, but now the tips of the horns are covered in the vermilion paint.

“Danel, is that you?” The man playing Cort picks up the rock that Aunt Mary has placed on the stage.

Samuel steps forward. “It is I, but not as you remember me. I have become the moss on the rocks and the bark of the tree. I have become the bounding deer and the lumbering bear. The chipmunk that skitters through dry leaves. I am the hammer and the balm—the lamb, wolf, and rat. I am laughter and tears. Save that rock for another. Bring me the man from the hills and let us thrive again, together.”

“Where is he?” says the actor playing Cort. “Tell me his name so that we may live again!”

The actors turn to face me and the children. Their eyes are like raging forest fires.

“His name is Ian.” says Samuel, pointing at me.

“What the fuck?” I whisper.

Aunt Mary clasps her hands together. “With Lusana dead, the deer had returned to the forest. But Cort knew what he must do to prevent anything like this from happening again. He returned to Chapel Post and gathered all the men, women and children, and told them the story of Danel.

“Together, the community gathered rocks and sticks and went to the woods to find the man responsible for their years of misery. Before long, they found the man from the hills, Ian, and tied him to a tree. With sticks and rocks from their land, they made things right. They were once again filled with life.” All the children cheer. “They returned to Chapel Post and had a wonderful feast. It was the first of many Jubilees.”

One by one, the children’s parents come from the trees. All of them naked. All of them wearing antlers, horns, or papier-mâché masks of rabbits and foxes. Some of the adults have painted faces, with twigs and leaves in their hair. A man with a thick orange mop of hair on top of his head is wearing the snout of a hog—his belly giggles with each playful grunt.

Little Susie turns to me. “You’re supposed to run now.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not part of this.” But I know that I am part of this story—I can see it in their eyes. Their wild, forest fire eyes.

Aunt Mary takes my hand and gets me to my feet. “You should listen to Susie. We can do it here, but it’s more powerful if we need to catch you first, Ian. Let’s make this a special Jubilee, hun.”

So I run.

They are behind me, I hear their howling and hooting. Would Dad cry in a situation like this? Or would he stop and accept his fate?

I rub my index fingernail on my thumbnail and think of George—is he crying right now? Has he even made it out of Genie’s womb yet? I cry and scream—I call out for Dad.

My boot catches on a root and I fall on my face. Before I can get to my feet, I’m surrounded by the animalistic posse.

The children come next, going beneath their parents legs, squeezing through cracks in the crowd. They kick dirt in my eyes. Spit on me. Little Susie is giggling. “Please don’t do this,” I say. “I’m not the man from the hills!”

Two large men, their hairy testicles swinging like a metronome, tie me to a tree while singing a song. “Danel of Chapel Post, save us from impassivity, we bring you gifts of life, join us at the Jubilee.”

They laugh and cry and scream and grunt and sing in my face. I close my eyes and think of George—are his eyes open yet? I pray they’re my eyes.

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