by Shawn Mackey
I have a theory concerning these bizarre customs: rather than enforce the sanctity of marriage, these stipulations are meant to discourage it. If one were to birth out of wedlock, and dismiss the product of marriage, there are no external consequences, as long as one of the parents raises the child and both parents are publicly accounted for. This would prevent Bob and Sue from having Jack, and Bob and Hilary from having Jane, and Jane and Jack from having something that should be frowned upon.
It appears that key figures of the community are forced into marriage, unless they were married before their arrival, such as my parents and a few others. I suppose the pact is considered the type of virtue that should be present in authority figures.
My detachments from these customs further prove I am an outsider. Though I have grown to love these people, and I gradually adapt to their ways, I will always feel as a stranger. There are many others like me, perhaps the majority. In time, if the town retains its isolation and their traditions thrive, anything outside will become irrelevant. Thus, the community’s ultimate purpose, as proposed by Luther. According to my uncle, his friend longed to meet the island’s grandchildren. He would find his idea’s fruition in them.
With that in mind, it sounds like an experiment. Like Luther, I wish to see its fruition. What sort of people would this small society breed? I do not have the time to ponder at the present time. I hope to see it grow, and as long as the others share the same sentiment, it may prosper. Luther and the mayor were impeccable in the choice of their fellow inhabitants; the elders are admirable people. I may tease Hilda’s old age, but only out of sheer wickedness. Her keenness happened to disperse prior to my arrival. She was, and if you catch her at the right time, still is, capable of carrying conversation on many subjects. When I explained my curriculum, she may have had a correction or two, which I may have adjusted.
My generation is praised for their diligence. It is too soon to tell for the next. Knowing I have a part in their development gets me giddy. I cannot tell if it’s nerves or excitement. Compared to other outsiders, I have been given preferential treatment. This is due less to my performance and more to my uncle’s influence. He told me this to injure my pride, for which I am grateful. I must never take the town’s trust for granted.
He imparted the story of a wise wolf, whose wisdom was infinite and behavior impeccable. Its renown reached a local village and raised the beast’s status to that of a sage. One day, a young girl visited the wolf’s den for medicinal advice. After a few teachings, the girl showed a natural talent for healing. She lived in the wolf’s den, where they both aided the sick and injured, her of body and him of soul. The girl failed to honor a request to visit the town and attend a sick child. When the boy’s condition worsened and days passed, his mother went to the wolf’s den. She found the wolf with a bloody maw, in the process of burying his pupil’s bones. When asked why he had devoured the poor girl, he replied: “Your village has become too successful at hunting because of my teachings. With no prey, what was I to do?” The woman returned to the village and announced the wolf’s betrayal. They offered their sage surpluses of meat, but their supply soon diminished, and whoever did not starve was devoured.
I do not want to become that wolf. I am not meant for a solitary life. Best to keep my wickedness confined to these pages. If they are found, I will be justly punished. Until that day comes, I will veil my blackened heart with virtue.
However, the night betrays my façade. It is cold and empty, and though it provides the cover of evil, I cannot bring myself to don its shroud. I harbor the temptation of every sort of sin, yet I lack the repertoire in language and action. I see why saints lash themselves. The only way to quash this darkness is through pain.
I seem to reinforce last night’s entry: I am not meant for self-reflection. Here I am, contemplating punishment over an act that has not even reached conception! Why do I always end with such thoughts? Most likely my inclination toward the dramatic. Nothing sends the soul soaring like darkness and despair! The more bloodshed, the better—though the sight of more than a few drops makes me queasy.
Tomorrow is Father’s birthday. If my uncle has a cask of leftover beer, I may not write an entry, which means we will not speak until after my marriage. I suppose it is for the better. I am constantly plagued by these dreadful thoughts. Giving them an outlet has developed them into dreadful ideas.
There will be no entry tomorrow. If my uncle has no beer, I will find wine.
Entry 8
I have not had any privacy in the last two weeks. My life has been turned upside down since the last entry. All those worries were for naught. The wedding went smoothly, though a bit duller than I would have imagined. When Aiden clasped my hands, trembling and quivering, I nearly ruined the vows with laughter. Mother says my smile in that moment had brought her to tears. If she had only read my thoughts!
Aiden hoisted me over his shoulder with all the deference of a discarded garment. His feat roused the crowd into a loud applause and left me dizzy. The brute carried me to his den and ravaged my body like a lusty bull. At least he would like to think so. Pardon the lewd play on words, but Aiden was all pomp and no pump. However, I was satisfied by his satisfaction, and we spent the night together.
The mayor honored our request to live with our families until the home is built. Mother leaves me with no solitude, and my uncle is more talkative than usual. Even though I will be a ten minute walk away, they think I will never visit. It did not cross my mind. Perhaps I have taken their presence for granted, though I will not miss Mother’s shrill wake-up call. She was certainly a hen in her past life. The residual pecking and squawking is concrete proof of metempsychosis.
Despite her pestering, I should not compare Mother to a barn animal. Such insults prove I must leave the nest. I only hope mine is not so crowded.
I have plenty of other troubles. My uncle was correct in regards to my curriculum. The material so far will take a year to cover, judging by the endless questions of my students. I tell them the Earth revolves around the sun, as well as other planets. Before I can name them, I am interrupted by numerous inquiries. Why is it so bright? Where does it go at night? Is the moon a star? Is a star a sun? Are the constellations really animals? Are my parents in heaven? Where is heaven? Is it in the clouds? What about the mountains?
The mountains have nothing to do with the sun, I manage to reply. Are there mountains on the sun? What about the stars? The moon? I tell them it has craters. What is a crater? Does the sun have craters? Do the stars? Is the sun a star? Yes! Why are there so many suns? Is there only one moon? Is that where heaven is? Are my parents there?
I love these children. Truly and dearly, more than I love the air I breathe. It drowned my heart with sorrow to discipline their curious minds. Learning is not possible in such a chaotic environment, and unfortunately, the only way to provide order is to punish them with harsh words. My scolding brought little Phoebe to tears, though she had listened most attentively. David had a laugh at her expense, so I thrashed his knuckles till they bled. I would feel a shred of guilt over my ferocity if his parents had not done worse on a regular basis. The poor lad is already entrenched in violence. He can only be tamed through pain.
I adjusted to my new role within the week. After all, I am familiar with each student. It was a matter of asserting myself as their teacher. Witnessing the brighter minds in action, such as Phoebe and Thomas, brings me great pleasure. Like seasoned warriors, they lead the others through the more difficult material, and through their understanding and answers, simplify it for the rest. Blonde-haired Phoebe eerily resembles my younger self, by looks and action. Her perturbed brow, deep in concentration, always makes me smile. The girl is a treasure.
The day after tomorrow, we see the pond while accompanied by the mayor and two others. I am positive they will be Aiden and my uncle. Part of me wants to impress my uncle, while the other grits her teeth, knowing he will frequently interrupt my lesson to reword it in a better
way. My uncle is who I love the most, yet I cannot wait to be rid of his patronizing forever. He knows it and goes on to exasperate tenfold.
I am looking forward to the trip either way. The pond is quite a distance from the town, through a heavily wooded area which only few pass, even during the day. At night, the pond is a spectacular sight. I remember it during the first few weeks of my arrival, when Janice and I became close friends. She told me all about the town as the full moon gleamed off the water’s still surface. My reflection in those tranquil black waters was like gazing into a darkened mirror. I was unaccustomed to such beauty.
Our time together is becoming infrequent, my friend. Tomorrow night, I must plan for the coming day. This will make or break my new profession, though failure is not even a consideration. I would disgracefully return to pulling weeds and sowing fields. I shudder at the thought, no matter how implausible. No entries tomorrow, nor the day after. I must attend my first town meeting. Father told me no more than an hour ago, and I was too indifferent to question him. When all this busyness passes, we will speak again. Until then, friend!
Entry 9
Yesterday was quite a day! It would be best to start with the trip. As I predicted, my uncle and Aiden tagged along with the mayor. My uncle behaved and Aiden kept quiet, his eyes constantly fixed on his new rifle. He was waiting for a wild animal to breach the woods, no doubt, just to test his aim. The mayor claims he has the best shot among his peers by a large margin.
We spied a stag sipping from the pond. A stern grunt from my uncle was enough to keep the children from chattering. The beast’s antlers were like nothing I had ever seen, more of a masterpiece by some prehistoric artist than crude horns. The perfect symmetry left me in awe. Two wrists seemed to sprout from behind each ear, curving into two monstrous hands in desperate need to clasp. Alas, the horned fingers could not entwine because of nature’s laws. Hands held in harmony are not as fierce as jagged antlers. The stag ceased lapping water and faced us. It blinked twice before calmly turning back with an easy trot.
The mayor shook me from my trance, and with a smile, reminded me of my duty. I taught the children about frogs and tadpoles, the dangers of salt water and the importance of boiling fresh water, and the different water bodies. My uncle and the mayor told a less gruesome account of Benjamin’s death to caution the youths from traveling this far without adults. To punctuate their story, they compared Aiden and Benjamin as a gnat and a mountain. My lessons were forgotten after my uncle’s remarkable detail in describing the futility of venturing out of the town, careful to replace their wonder with fear. He did well. The thought of losing one of my pupils because of their insatiable curiosity was a horrifying possibility that is best discarded.
A few hours after class, I accompanied my uncle to the town meeting. It was strange to have more say in the community’s matters than my parents. Even stranger, I was the only woman other than Hilda, who excused herself halfway. I was initially nervous until I realized I was in familiar company: the mayor, my uncle, Paul, Gerald, Finney, and Patrick. I was on good terms with everyone, not that I had any enemies.
My presence did not seem welcomed, though not scoffed either. It was enough to keep me at ease. The mayor led the conversation, with Paul and Finney doing most of the speaking. They discussed the town’s expansion at lengths, and I figured the civility was due to discussing the topic to death. Only the mayor seemed hesitant.
The town had clearly become cramped, and to prevent the spread of disease, property should be expanded. With two new houses, mine and Janice’s, the expansion had technically begun. It was a matter of determining distance. Best not to spread too thin, I suppose. There was not much for me to add on the subject.
I brought up the idea to search underground water sources and the possibility of a reservoir, as well as other underground resources. The mayor had shook his head and said it would take too much manpower. Finney laughed heartily, and with an ounce of mockery, said they were only lacking in power. Gerald and Patrick chimed in as well, and Paul sleepily nodded in ascent.
The mayor concluded that expansion would begin shortly, since we were not taking full advantage of all the potential resources. He limited it to one task at a time, starting with a thorough investigation in the heavily wooded areas. We had maps, but they were crude and meant to be replaced long ago. Finney volunteered to lead the expedition, since he had had the most experience with the uninhabited zones since Benji’s death.
When the meeting concluded, the mayor mentioned my journal. My jaw slacked like a drooling idiot, and I found myself unable to form words. He smiled and pointed to my ink-stained thumb. It was important to keep records, he said, and to feed a growing mind. I had been invited to this meeting as a test, and though I would not be needed anytime soon, I could someday be considered an advisor in certain matters. After all, the women in town also needed a voice. This would be the far future, and for the meantime, I was to concern myself with educating our youth.
I have received too many compliments lately. Should I tell the mayor about the stolen honey? Or the shattered picture of his son? My rump would be paddled to a pulp. I should hide this journal to ensure the safety of my poor arse. I do not trust our mayor. He seems genial to the eyes of his sheep. What does he do when they look elsewhere? If I were caught recording secrets into this text, and received even a gentle punishment, I would spend the rest of my days unearthing Arthur’s darkest secrets and bringing them to light.
I feel foolish for being spotted. How did he know it was not related to my lesson plan? I should not write so close to the window with busybodies wandering around. Damn my sly uncle and damn my inky fingers. Speaking of which, my bottle has gone dry. Walter should arrive in two days with fresh supplies. What to do in the meantime? Relax, I suppose. It has been a busy month. I was married! What a laugh! I am still a little girl at heart. Heaping on responsibilities will not change that fact.
My house should be finished in a week. I have spent as much time away from Aiden as possible. We have many years to spend together. My coyness entices him, and I admit, stirs me as well. With my cruelty and his insolence, we make quite a pair.
The ink is fading. Farewell, my friend, until another day.
A sinking feeling has seized my chest, and forms a dreadful question: What if Walter does not bring my ink? It may be two weeks and two days until we speak again. In that case, I will use blood.
Entry 10
It has been thirty-five days since my last entry. Walter, that damned rogue, forgot the ink three times. I predicted the first and threw quite a fit at the second. He promised to return in a week. I bartered a pound of wheat, quite a helping from my month’s supply. On his third return, upon seeing my face, his eyes went wide, mouth agape. His shame did not relieve my fury. I tossed the wheat aboard his stinking vessel and demanded immediate compensation. In two weeks, he supplied me with a small box filled with five jars carefully packed in straw. I was happy enough to kiss his filthy whiskers, but checked myself with a polite curtsy.
So long since we last spoke, my friend! And so much has changed! I now reside in a cozy cottage with Aiden, spacious enough for a moment of solitude and room to stretch my limbs. I have used the extra time before bed to stitch a new blanket. Aiden ensconces himself on the armchair, feet at the fire place, and usually naps. He is quite a heavy sleeper.
The mayor has him working long hours. One day he cuts trees, the next he tracks signs of potential predators. Finney reported a pack of wolves not far from the outskirts. The beasts have put a dent in the deer population, and as if to spit in our faces, leave the mutilated carcasses to the flies. Aiden frequently complains, boasting that he will one day kill every meat-eater on the island.
As I write this, his latest trophy hangs above the doorway: the head of a stag, frozen in a stoical stare, horns high enough to nearly scrape the ceiling, black eyes fixed straight ahead at nothing in particular. A late housewarming gift, courtesy of the art of taxidermy, prepared
by his father. I initially found it grotesque and nightmarish, but over the past few days, have grown to appreciate the company. Besides, the dead do not know when they have been cooked in a stew. Would it rather be remembered for its rich flavor or majestic horns? Neither, I am sure. The oversized vermin merely nibbled grass patch to grass patch, expelling its bowels and running from wolves. I cannot ascribe the grandeur of thought to something incapable of speech. Whether man or canine, it would have ended up in someone’s belly. At least humans can appreciate the aesthetics of their prey. Otherwise, the world would be dominated by deer, whoring themselves to lusty wolves to direct their appetites on each other.
What a wonderful world, where beasts are blessed with reason. The most deserving, at least. I dare to dream of a world where animals take the forms of men! We would live in trees, while the monkeys throw peanuts at us from below. They would mock their hairless cousins, as we slung shit from above in endless laughter. I think laughter is unique in humans and would persist in even lesser forms. I would never stake anything in such a stupid theory, but it is a pleasant thought.
Aiden came home, and I went to greet him. He is not in good cheer. The mayor was extra bitter today. One of them discovered the faded picture of his son. Fresh arguments ensued between Finney and Arthur.
