Yes, the Kaperan said, but we will not let your destroy it, for it has been and still is the home to many lives other than yours. We cannot let you burn this place, and if you try, we will call forth a great storm to wash over your island and extinguish the flames. The waves will carry all of you out to sea and your last breath will become a bubble that bursts underneath the water, never to reach the air, never to drift up toward the sky, never to light the darkness.
But Pirro did not care. He lit staffs and branches to flame. He handed one to each of us and all of us except Laurette and the littlest ones ran through the trees setting bark to sparks and grass to blazes that cooked the jungle into a haze of smoke and fog. And the once blue skies darkened themselves to gray and the wind battered the beach into funnels of spiraling sand as sharp as glass. The Kaperan called forth the storm.
We gathered in the cemetery and Pirro told us to dig. So we dug. I scooped out mud and dirt with my hands until my arms ached with such tension that they might never bend or curl ever again.
I sealed myself up in my coffin, I heard Chipo howling and the thunder from the sky. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the stars until every breath I took filled the small wooden space around me and there was just glowing.
* * *
At the hottest point of the day, I ladle water over my skin and watch it sizzle away into small specs of salt on my skin. I feel tired and weak. I think the bodies in their coffins by now should be cooked to goop and stench by the sun, but none of this happens.
Chipo gnaws on a slender wrist, his teeth biting down on the length of it, his tail wagging back and forth. Our auntie sits up next to Little Anya in her coffin and pets Chipo down his back, part of her arm missing just below the elbow.
Does that not hurt you, I call out to our auntie. She plucks her bone from Chipo’s mouth and laughs, No, Bijou. It does not hurt me and it keeps this mutt quiet. She tosses her bone out into the water and Chipo jumps off the side of the coffin, swims, and retrieves it before being hauled back in, his fur sopping wet.
By the time the sun is low in the sky, Laurette and Omario have gorged themselves on fish. Their mamis and papis sit up in their coffins dangling their hands in the water, fingers twitching, and when the fish bite, they yank their limbs back into the boat. Fish scales cling to the lips of Laurette and Omario as they sink their teeth through silvery skin.
I crawl across the coffins over to Pirro and say, I think I have gone crazy. I see our auntie bouncing Little Anya on her knee. Chipo gnaws on her bones like they are sticks. She laughs. Laurette’s Mami fishes in the water with her bait as fingers. Bajo’s shirt blows in the wind like a sail. Tell me, Pirro, do you see these things?
Pirro sits in his coffin with his knees pulled to his chest, atop the body of our Papi. He stares into the stillness of our Papi’s face and says, Yes, I see them.
What is happening, I ask.
Pirro shrugs and beats his fist once on the chest of our Papi. I do not know.
I crawl back to my coffin and shut the lid to block out the sun. I hear the giggling of the littlest ones, the splashing of water as Chipo dives in and out. The trapped steam inside the coffin makes my eyes run in streams down my cheeks and I grasp for the bent and broken hand beneath me. The fingers wrap around my own in the heat-tinged darkness and I hear the water and churning beneath me turned to tide and current and words around me. Why do we lay holed up in this tiny box. Bijou? Why do we stay trapped inside this wretched sweltering when there is such a beautiful day outside?
I turn my head to look into the open eyes of our Mami, to feel her warm breath on my cheek. We are almost there, Sweet Bijou. You must look. You must see it.
When I open the lid of the coffin again, night has fallen and the stars run like liquid from the sky. Drops of runny dark land on my skin. There is land. The littlest ones cry for joy and Uncle Bajo blows deep breaths into this shirt that carry us closer to the sand that glows in the same pale shade of the moon.
Chipo leaps into the water first and swims to shore. Little Anya struggles after him until our auntie carries her inward, the waves gently pushing at their backs. It looks so close to home. Homero and Brigitte leap into the surf and dance. Their mamis and papis wade over to the sand and collapse on the beach where they let the water rush up underneath them. Omario and Laurette dive gloriously from the sides of their coffins and sidestroke their way to standing.
Our Mami raises herself up beside me and swings her legs over the edge, swipes her toes across the surface and says, Perfect, before jumping in. She glides through the water and calls back to me, Are you coming Bijou?
I feel the urge to follow her, but I see that Pirro’s coffin is shut, so I walk across our floating vessel and knock on his lid. The echo in the wood is dampened by the hollows of what lies inside. I pry it open and see Pirro huddled up on top of the body of our Papi.
Pirro, I say, you should look. We have found land.
Pirro clenches his eyes shut and grips the fabric of our Papi’s shirt.
I hear the others shouting to me from the shore, calling up to the sky.
Pirro, I say, and I rest one hand on his shoulder. His skin seizes and his body shakes. We are home. We have made it, but he does not move. His skin sweats and his muscles tense.
I kiss his forehead and whisper into his ear. I shut the lid to his coffin and hear his mumbling, stare at the land floating in front of me, watch the littlest ones scurry off into the trees hoisted high on Uncle Bajo’s shoulders, see Brigitte and Homero walk hand in hand to the jungle so familiar. I put one foot in the water and it really does feel perfect. I jump all the way in and feel the tide ushering me toward the sand. Our Mami waits for me and I join her on the sand. Her fingers wrap around mine and I turn to look at our vessel drifting out from the shore, the wood blistered by the sun, stripped of its shine by the constant salt. It looks close to sinking.
Pirro, I yell once more, the sound of my voice sailing over top the water, skimming the waves like a smooth stone. Pirro! I run to the water’s edge and the breeze repeats itself all around me. The hand on my back belongs to Granmi and she says, Always so stubborn, that boy. She drags one crooked toe through the sand where the water washes up, samples its warmth with the bed of her nail, and leads me away from the beach Just give him time, Bijou. He cannot wait forever.
Copyright © 2014 Matt Jones
Read Comments on this Story on the BCS Website
Matt Jones is a graduate candidate in The University of Alabama MFA program. His previous work has appeared or is forthcoming in apt, Paper Darts, The Citron Review, Whitefish Review, and more.
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COVER ART
“Ancient Threshold,” by Sam Burley
Sam Burley is a matte painter turned illustrator and is believed to currently reside on the continent of North America. Eye-witness reports describe him as a tall, stick-like, camera-wielding figure staring at the sky or driving around aimlessly with his dog named Rygel. On rare occasions he has been glimpsed careening through the air by any of several flimsy and horribly unnatural means of flight, apparently laughing. If seen, approach with caution… and preferably root beer. View more of his work online at samburleystudio.com.
Beneath Ceaseless Skies
ISSN: 1946-1076
Published by Firkin Press,
a 501(c)3 Non-Profit Literary Organization
Compilation Copyright © 2014 Firkin Press
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