Wonderland

by Zoje Stage

  That book led to another, a collection of short stories that was smuggled out of the country. It was in one of the stories that Orla learned there was a punishment for openly crying in public. Such displays of angst were considered proof of someone’s antiestablishment tendencies; no North Korean who truly loved their country would ever have any reason to cry. Any reason, ever. Losing control of one’s emotions could mean banishment. Or execution.

  As Orla spent the entire next week inside with her children, she learned how much harder it was to suppress emotions than physical pain—every day, all day, not just for a performance of an hour or two. Especially challenging were the emotions that might make a person cry or scream or rant or hyperventilate. For her, she feared the unknown consequences if the being caught her thinking the wrong things. Banishment, execution. She forced herself to maintain an optimistic front for Eleanor Queen and Tycho while her insides roiled; she worried that expressing her emotions would finally unravel her, over and beyond the being’s retaliatory punishment. The yarn would pull away, tangle on things, and in the center would be nothing.

  The nothing scared her. The nothing would be her rocking in the corner, eyes unfocused, while Eleanor Queen set her shirt on fire in an attempt to light the woodstove, while Tycho bloodied his hand trying to open the last can of SpaghettiOs.

  To keep the nothing away, she locked up the terror, the sorrow, the anxiety, the regret. She praised her children every day for keeping busy, for not complaining. Tycho was finally too scared to even suggest playing outside, and Orla pretended this was a victory—no more cooped-up tantrums, like he was a big boy, growing up under normal conditions. They made up a lot of games, often involving hitting various targets with a rolled-up pair of socks. Orla dragged a couple of empty boxes up from the basement and they made a cardboard canoe. Pretending to row the canoe across a mysterious ocean full of friendly aquatic life made them all forget about their confinement. The living room—now the size of their three conjoined imaginations—no longer felt small. They could go anywhere, as long as it didn’t actually exist.

  The peanut butter was gone and so was the bread. Honey on crackers was the newest treat. They’d acclimated to having water on their cereal, though there was only half a box left. Orla could ration out a bag of frozen vegetables so it lasted three days. She’d serve it alongside a heated-up can of chicken noodle soup divided into three bowls. Tycho didn’t complain about the lima beans, which had once been a food he preferred to play with rather than eat. Orla didn’t even think to strip the bedding and haul everything downstairs to the washer. Water wasn’t a pressing concern and the electricity was on, but such was their mentality that the essentials of their former life felt luxurious and unnecessary. Though Orla continued to check both cell phones for a signal many times a day.

  They all but abandoned the second floor. The bathroom was an imperative, but none of them wanted to be alone in a room with its prison-cell door. Orla lugged her mattress down the stairs. During the day, it leaned against the front door—it wasn’t as if they were going anywhere. And then at night she dragged it to the middle of the room and dropped it. Tycho and Eleanor Queen carried over armfuls of blankets and pillows, and they slept like puppies, nuzzled against whatever body part was closest.

  Often, after Tycho fell asleep, Orla and Eleanor Queen retreated quietly to the kitchen to discuss whatever Eleanor Queen might have sensed during the day. Orla made herself the official interpreter when her daughter had only colors or a perception of movement or a feeling to report. Over the days, they’d assembled a working theory. And on the solstice—the longest night of the year, and one of the most ancient holy days—they planned to have a ceremony during which they hoped to put the restless spirit at ease once and for all.

  Eleanor Queen continued to describe a palpable cloud of fear. Orla still didn’t fully understand the nature of the entity—was It one with the tree? The ancient pine and some manifestation of Its spirit? Or were they separate creatures? She’d kept her eye on Iceland over the years, an interest that began in the nineties with her discovery of the Sugarcubes (and her love of Björk had only increased since then), and she followed a couple of Icelandic bloggers. She recalled that people there—and in Ireland too—used to believe (and maybe a few still did) that certain rocks on their land were homes to spirits. Children weren’t allowed to clamber on such rocks, and no one sought to remove the boulders from their yards. They respected the sprites who dwelled alongside them and tried not to disrupt them.

  One blogger had posted a piece that read like fiction about a construction foreman who dreamed about a spirit on the grounds where a new airport was being built. In the dream, the land wight asked for a delay on the construction so the family of wights could find a new home. It was a crazy thing to happen in the modern world, but construction did not resume until after the foreman dreamed that the land wights had safely moved on. And weren’t there people in Ireland who still left little offerings of food for the pixies? Such stories sounded cute and harmless, but maybe something similar was happening on their land with an especially disgruntled and needy spirit.

  The longer Orla thought about it, the more plausible it became, if for no other reason than she possessed the knowledge that other people out there believed in such things. And if the winter solstice held great significance for pagans and Wiccans—in spite of the Romans taking over the festival to make it about Christ’s birthday—all the better. Orla wasn’t certain of a pagan connection, but once a sick girl had come here with a pentagram for solace. It couldn’t hurt to use every tool in their arsenal.

  They agreed the tree was dying, so did that mean the entity was too? Was that what It wanted from the family, someone to bear witness? It was easy to anthropomorphize the fear of dying alone, so that became the cause and effect of their predicament, and the solution. Orla envisioned their ceremony as a handholding of sorts, a sitting by the bedside of a dying loved one. Eleanor Queen didn’t disagree with her interpretation, so on the solstice eve they finalized their plans. They couldn’t actually sit with the tree throughout the entire long night—they were in the midst of a cold spell, and hypothermia or frostbite would become a real risk after too long a period of exposure. Still, the symbolism was important, and Orla felt they were being sufficiently understanding and generous even to venture out in the dark, given how much It had terrorized them. Taken from them. Was It lashing out because of a fear of the unknown, eternal sleep? Could they soothe a powerful, sentient being into Its final slumber?

  Orla planned a vigil of an hour or so; she’d wake the kids at eleven and be in the tree’s company during the crucial midnight hour, the bridge between the conclusion of the year’s longest night and the gradual reemergence of the life-bearing sun. Eleanor Queen itemized everything they would bring in her spiral notebook.

  “Sound good?” Orla asked.

  Her daughter nodded. They smiled at each other, sharing the same thought. The victory of a plan. It was almost finished. They’d pay their respects and then…Orla winked at her, knowing Eleanor Queen was smart enough to hide the rest of her thoughts: Then we’ll flee. There were things they had agreed not to talk about, not to think about, so the tree wouldn’t feel betrayed. Truly, they had no desire to betray It or deceive It or harm It in any way. They simply wanted—needed—to get away.

  She sent Eleanor Queen to bed to get a couple hours of sleep. Orla sat in the ugly plaid chair, sipping watery tea made with tea bags she’d used multiple times, watching over her babies on the mattress at her feet. During the day, which she hadn’t allowed herself to think of as their last day (lest the plan be ruined), she’d helped her children make paper crowns large enough to wear over their hats. After they finished decorating them, she’d cut strips of different-colored construction paper and Tycho and Eleanor Queen glued them into a long chain.

  “It has to be really, really, really long,” Eleanor Queen had said, “or it won’t fit all the way around.”

  �
��Is it our Christmas tree?” Tycho asked.

  “Sort of,” said Orla. “The tradition of having a tree at Christmas, an evergreen, symbolizes the eternity of life. Especially during winter, when things aren’t growing.”

  A historian or theologian might take issue with the accuracy of her explanation, but it fit the ceremony they were planning. If It was listening, she wanted It to find comfort in a theory of everlasting life. She heard Shaw’s voice in her head throughout the day and night, amused that she was now the one anthropomorphizing the forest.

  “We can’t put a star on top,” Tycho said.

  Orla and Eleanor Queen laughed.

  “Unless we learn to fly,” Orla said.

  “There will be stars in the sky. The whole universe can help decorate the tree,” said Eleanor Queen. “Even Papa.”

  Tycho beamed above his gluey fingers. “It’ll like that.”

  It better like that. Orla still struggled to understand why Shaw had had to die when the being had so many other tricks at Its disposal. Was it the unfortunate confluence of the It and their fucking firearms? Maybe It had not known they possessed such weapons. Or, if the thing had understood Shaw’s darkest impulse, his desire to end his life, it might have been wish fulfillment. Or, for all she knew, the being had intended something entirely different and harmless—the meeting of two bears, where they would wrestle in the snow and argue and reach some sort of conclusion. But what conclusion would that have been? Leave? Stay? Fear me? Love me?

  Her tea had gone lukewarm. But she stayed in the chair and kept the images in her head of Tycho and Eleanor Queen preparing for a party, a celebration. My children love you. We’re coming to help. She hoped It appreciated her earnest, generous children and all they’d sacrificed.

  Eleanor Queen awakened with the gentlest prodding, as if she’d never reached a deep slumber. Orla roused Tycho next, and he whined a bit in protest. His hair stuck up every which way and she realized it had been a few days since she’d given him a bath, washed his hair. He sat slouched on the mattress, rubbing his eyes, while Orla dressed him in all his warm gear. The cold air would wake him soon enough. Before leaving the house, she placed their crowns atop their hats.

  “Are we going to the party?” Tycho asked, finally coming to life.

  “Yes, it’s time—our very special party. For a very special tree. And we have all of our special things.” She looked to Eleanor Queen, who half turned to show her she was ready, backpack on.

  Tycho whimpered as they stepped outside into the frigid air. He pressed his face into his mother’s coat. Orla turned on the flashlight, then scooped him onto her hip. They set out toward the tree.

  Orla had never been outside in the snow so late at night in such a remote place. The moon helped light their way, burnishing the landscape—silvered snow, tree trunks like carved shafts of lead. During the day, sometimes a plane crossed the sky high above them, or they might hear a rumble from a truck on a distant road. But now the world slumbered as they walked into the pillowed dark. Even the birds were sleeping, silent save for the occasional call of a cautious owl. The air carried a faint perfume of burning wood; somewhere out there was a neighbor with logs on the fire. Her heart beat faster as they neared the tree line. She dreaded going into the wooded shroud and stood for a moment with her face upturned.

  “Look,” she said. Such a clear night. This was the sky Shaw had wanted her—all of them—to marvel over. In the city, lit windows replaced the stars. They’d sought bridges and skyscrapers from which to view the city from afar and above, its unnatural constellations a wonder of human occupation. Looking upward was to witness the depths of infinity, impossible distances where galaxy upon galaxy spun out their mysteries. Their planet was a speck among many, their sun a pinprick of light.

  “We look this small to someone else,” she said. And maybe there was someone far away with a similar view and similar longings, someone with an aching heart in need of a way out.

  “Are there people up there, Mama?” Tycho asked. “On other planets?”

  “Maybe. Maybe so far away we haven’t found them yet.”

  “Can we go visit them?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Oh, what’s that?” Eleanor Queen asked, pointing skyward, more excited than she’d sounded in a very long time. “Look, it’s moving!”

  Orla found the traveling mote of light. “It must be a satellite.”

  “A satellite!” Tycho was wide awake now.

  “There are lots of satellites up there, for communication, and weather.” Orla took a moment to absorb her children’s faces, full of wonder.

  A cry fractured their tranquillity. An almost-human-sounding wail of pain.

  Tycho stiffened in her arms and clutched her neck. Eleanor Queen huddled against her side.

  “Mama?” she asked.

  The creature bayed again, and this time Orla was certain it was an animal, not a person. She’d watched videos on YouTube with Shaw to familiarize herself with the local fauna. Animals, she’d learned, could make very unexpected vocalizations. Deer barked. Even squirrels could sound vicious.

  “A fox, maybe?” she said aloud. Though in the video, when the cute rambunctious ball of fur filled the screen, its cry had sounded adorable, not tortured. The snowy fox-hare hybrid wanted her to retrieve it from her hiding place, hold it up for further inspection, but she kicked more snow in front of its door, burying it a bit deeper. It didn’t matter what was out there. They had to go.

  She took Eleanor Queen’s hand and hurried them into the dark forest, lest one or more of them should voice a preference to run back home.

  32

  Tycho held one end of the long paper chain as Eleanor Queen walked the rest of it around the tree. Orla kept the flashlight angled toward the snow at the base of the giant pine. She held her breath when the trunk’s girth made a disappearing act of her daughter; it was frighteningly easy to imagine her being swallowed up in the dark: Tycho would stand there waiting for his sister to come around to attach her end to his, and grow impatient when she didn’t appear. And Orla, desperate, would follow her tracks behind the tree and find they stopped midway. The construction-paper chain would be a pool of ringlets left in the snow.

  But Eleanor Queen came around and solemnly took the end her brother had squashed in his mitten. Orla took off her gloves to squeeze out a half-frozen glob of glue onto a final strip of paper, and Eleanor Queen made the final loop and joined the ends of the chain together.

  “Perfect fit,” she said and looked up at the tree with a pleased expression. “Like we made it just for you.”

  Orla let Tycho hold the flashlight while she and Eleanor Queen tamped down the snow with their boots, making a flat area at the base of the tree. He shone the light up the endless trunk and across the endless woods and in her face and anywhere that wasn’t helpful to the task at hand. But they didn’t complain. She and Eleanor Queen didn’t need much light to dig the thick candles out of the pack. They pressed them into the altar of flattened snow.

  Eleanor Queen handed her mother the big box of wooden matches. As Orla struck one into life, the flare momentarily consumed her vision. The candlewicks caught easily and she imagined the tree as an eager child watching the bloom of light on a birthday cake. She registered a warmth, a do-gooder’s sense of accomplishment, certain the tree was happy for their company, happy for the effort they were making. She could almost feel its faraway branches bending over to get a closer look.

  “Is It aware of us?” she asked her daughter.

  “Yes, it’s listening, it’s…curious.”

  The piece of plastic sheeting—something she’d found in the basement—wasn’t very wide, but Orla laid it on the snow so it faced the candles. As planned, Eleanor Queen unfolded a bath towel and placed it on top.

  “I think we’re all set,” Orla said to Tycho, ready to take the flashlight from him. “Oh. Maybe one last…”

  She outlined a circle in the snow with a gloved fing
er. And inside it she drew a star. A dying girl had found comfort in this symbol; maybe a dying entity within a tree would too. Nature. It was a symbol for nature, and as unnatural as everything felt, somehow it was still rooted in the living world around them.

  “A pentagram?” Eleanor Queen asked.

  “Might help. Can’t hurt.” Orla sat cross-legged on one side of the towel, and Eleanor Queen sat on the other. Tycho sat in his mother’s lap.

  With the flashlight off, they sat there for a moment, gazing at the half a dozen flaming wicks. They each danced to their own music, and their movement, their teasing warmth, lulled them into an easy peace.

  In unison, they took a sharp intake of breath as above them something like fireflies appeared, dancing in the frigid night air. Between the branches, gleaming droplets of fire flitted to and fro, on and off.

  “Lighting bugs!” said Tycho.

  Orla reached up. When a speck of light touched her glove, the glow extinguished.

  “Magic.” Eleanor Queen was full of awe.

  Orla thought she knew what was happening: The being recognized them and had finally communicated something she understood. Gratitude. They had brought light—love—and It thanked them, mirroring their display of candlelight with Its own form of enchantment. She sensed a surge of confidence within her daughter as she sat up a little straighter; they were doing it right this time. They’d learned enough to converse.

  Eleanor Queen’s soprano voice rose like a wisp of smoke, sweet and organic. “Si-i-lent night. Ho-o-ly night…”

  Orla held Tycho more tightly and began to sway slowly as she joined her daughter in song. “All is calm. All is bright…”

  The brilliance of the candlelight narrowed her field of vision to only the broad base of the tree and the specks in the boughs above them. In her shadowy imagination, animal ears twitched and gleaming eyes popped out of the darkness.

  “Slee-ee-p in heavenly peace.”