by Shawn Mackey
Patrick, also experienced in dealing with gold, real and fake, hobbled to the joyous crowd on his crutches. He picked up one of the coins and shifted it around his palm before biting into it. The coin had been dented with by his teeth. He tossed it aside, grabbed a handful, then angrily tossed it, as well.
Patrick and Frederick got into a heated debate, ending when Frederick checked the coins again. We were stuck with nearly a ton of fake tin, and later that night, a brief and heavy rainfall dissolved the gold paint, revealing an ugly black metal. Not only was it utterly useless, Patrick confirmed, but likely toxic as well. More hours and manpower were wasted dumping the cache somewhere in the wilderness.
Is it wrong to find this all so humorous? The fool’s gold was placed there by someone, their intention clear enough. Aiden was furious, and after my bout of laughter, realized he was the butt of some joke. Rather than join in my merriment, he found the ordeal more disturbing than a troublesome prank. Who had placed it there? A clever little demon, I told him, my words not nearly as sardonic as they sounded. Aiden shook his head and wandered off. Though it was likely in dismissal rather than denial, I cannot shake a thought:
Did the men lose their wits or did the gold transform into tin on the way back home? There is a distinct difference between the two. I cannot decide which is more sinister: a control over minds or a control over material objects. Warping perception, given my devotion to truth and logic, seems the most poisonous by far, putting our entire endeavor into question. However, chemicals and brain trauma are capable of doing the same. Changing physical objects, especially in such a short period of time, is a feat reserved for the gods.
Which begs the question: what are we dealing with? I do not have the luxury of simply blaming our misfortunes on the devil. Even if it were so, what does it that mean? For what purpose does he torment us? It cannot be for the sake of enjoyment. Enjoyment is never sought for the sake of enjoyment; there must be an underlying reason. I can sit here wracking my brain until the end of time and it will reach numerous conclusions, none of which will be satisfactory. Perhaps I am correct after all. We are the prey of some entity that simply wishes to numb the drudgery of its existence. Our entertainment value may be our best chance of surviving the winter.
No more ventures into the woods. Whatever it may be, let it come to us.
Entry 47
On the way to class, an inexplicable apprehension seized my every step. A slight fog crept into air, murking the empty town with a nightmarish hue. Was it all a dream? No, for Aiden went to work as normal as any other day, remarking about the awful weather before departing. I am not privy to such realizations in dreams. Maybe the usual crowd decided to sleep in.
The children waited at the schoolhouse, and all thoughts of dreams and nightmares were dashed when I noticed Phoebe’s absence. I asked the class, but they remained tight-lipped. Rather than resort to an interrogation, I placed my worries at the back of my mind and resigned to find out after class. The lesson focused on food. Why is such and such edible and such and such not? Hailey interrupted almost an hour through the lecture to remind me that we covered this subject already. I remembered comparing bacon to shoe leather. Thomas remarked that the latter looked tasty. I went on to tell him that it was edible in small quantities, the last meal of the destitute.
I was running out of material. Correction: I was recycling my lessons poorly. The true purpose of my job never seemed so evident. It is a fault on my part. The whole affair feels like a chore because it is a chore. I have lost all motivation to convince myself otherwise. My life is a joyless enterprise in need of upheaval, preferably the violent sort.
The fog did not clear after class. On the way home, I saw the doctor carrying his handbag, walking at a brusque pace. I am never a busybody, but this moment seemed as fine as any to become one. He did not answer when I called out to him, slightly increasing his pace. He only stopped after I ran up behind him, and even then, did not respond to my queries. His wide eyes and sullen cheeks gave me quite a fright, so I grabbed him by the shirt collar and shook. He pushed me away, knocking me to the ground, though I do not harbor ill toward him, for it prompted an apology. At that point, he must have figured, he might as well take the next step and confide in me.
The doctor opened his bag, and with trembling hands, removed a round object wrapped in paper. He peeled back the paper, revealing a bitten apple in his open palms. Without word, I went to touch it, causing him to reel back with a shout. The bite mark was small, and connecting two distressful observations, I came to a disturbing realization. We did not import apples onto this island, and even more frightful, someone gave the fruit to Phoebe.
I broke down immediately, assuming the worst. As the doctor comforted me, he mumbled something about the possibility of recovery. I sprang back to life and demanded to see the girl. He went on to apologize for his earlier rudeness, which I understood after he explained. The story required confidentiality, which is why I am telling only you now.
Brown blotches of various sizes had spread throughout Phoebe’s body, ranging from a finger point to an entire palm. Her right cheek was engulfed, hardened to the point where she could no longer move her jaw. These blotches were thick like candle wax and seemed to grow denser by the minute. The doctor pricked her elbow in the beginning of his examination, and upon reexamination, could not get the needle to pierce the same spot. Penetrating these blotches did not cause her pain, though her overall condition seemed to be agonizing.
The girl’s life was near its end, he spoke frankly, and if the mayor were still around, the situation would be handled with discretion. He clearly wanted her put down like a dog—a bullet in the back of her head, followed by the utmost secrecy, as though her mother would not tell a soul. No, that woman’s entire being is brimming with the desire to announce her daughter’s suffering to the world.
The doctor asked me to find my uncle before we parted ways. I was not eager to poison his conscience before the inevitable. Before going to the cave, I stopped by Phoebe’s house. Peering through the kitchen window, I saw Phoebe’s mother sprawled out on the floor, ensconced in a blanket. At the edge of the room, I saw the back of Phoebe sitting on a chair facing the corner, her blonde head covered in a black shawl. She was utterly still. I lingered for quite a while, hoping for some kind of movement from the girl. Her poor mother let out a few snorts in her heavy sleep, hopefully dreaming about anything but the current situation.
I wandered off into the woods in a daze, running into a small group of unfamiliar men whose names I cannot recall. They knew mine and asked my business, and after some teasing, they revealed my uncle’s last location and took me to him. He was surveying one of the caves, very close to my meeting with Kantos. I quietly broke the news, reminding him of the doctor’s insistence on discretion. We headed back to the town, though he did not tell the others the reason, and when prompted by their angry shouts, harshly ordered them to get back to work.
He went straight to the doctor’s house, where they spoke for an hour. I paced in circles, mind numbed by anticipation. When my uncle finally left, he walked straight past me without word. I followed him all the way to Phoebe’s house. He walked straight in and stumbled out in under a minute, his hands clutching his stomach. He fell to his knees, wretched once or twice before noticing me, and quickly managing to get back onto his feet. As I went for the door, he roughly seized me by the arm.
I begged to see the girl before she passed. My uncle squeezed tight, curled his lips into a snarl, and forbid me from going near Phoebe. We went back to my house instead. He had to drag me halfway; at that point, a wave of exhaustion prevented me from being an ostentatious brat for the remainder. We had a short and heated discussion over the girl’s future. It was easy to convince him to spare her life, given the result of the last outbreak. My request was only met with more snarling and chest pounding, behavior more characteristic of his brother.
He reminded me of Benjamin’s grisly corpse, and though he di
d not describe Phoebe’s condition, went on to confess that Phoebe’s was far worse. I promised not to see her in such a state, though we both knew I was lying and that he could not enforce such a stipulation. Still, unless the girl somehow became capable of asking for mercy, she was going to endure the pain.
I think back to all the irritating pimples in my youth; the slightest irritation in its vicinity brought an ounce of pain. Not enough to cause alarm, but enough to garner stress. I cannot comprehend that sensation magnified a thousand fold. Perhaps pain has a limit. Once past a certain threshold, it blots out the mind.
Maybe a new threshold is formed after the body adapts to the first. I tremble at the thought and apologize for putting it to paper.
Who gave her the apple? The doctor could not communicate with Phoebe, so the information was gleaned from her mother, who would have pestered her daughter for even a brief description. What if it had been a hairy man with horns? That would curb her mother’s questioning.
Kantos would be stupid enough to share his otherworldly food with a child and neglect the consequences. When this sad situation is behind me, I will scour every inch of this island until I find him. The damned sot is as guileless as they come. I do not need to be familiar with his ilk for that conclusion. His mind is as simple as a child’s.
And mine will not cease attempting to connect him with the other strangeness, from the disease outbreak to the counterfeit coins. He is merely a part of the strangeness, I tell myself, but my mind reels at the next possible conclusion: there is no mastermind.
I have rambled enough to soothe my nerves and gather the courage to leave. It is time to see Phoebe.
I climbed through Phoebe’s kitchen window, stepped over her sleeping mother, only to pause upon approaching the corner. I heard a hoarse breathing, which I initially mistook for snoring. It resembled the gruff cough from the previous illness, now wheezy and choked. Phoebe’s strained gasps increased as I approached, though her body remained utterly still, emitting a distinct smell I cannot compare to anything—a heavy stench that is neither pleasant or unpleasant, alarming only in its salience.
Heeding my uncle’s warning, I first engaged Phoebe from my peripheral, noticing the rumples in her skin abrasions. The brief glimpse was enough to absorb a great portion of the shock. It was difficult to look at her directly. Still, I did my best to engage eye contact, staring at those two balls, which looked more like gelatinous lumps of amber with two black dots in the center.
Her lips were sealed together by a brownish tissue that was unmistakably tree bark. I gently rubbed a finger across her cheek and found the texture identical. Only parts of her forearms and calves were unsullied by the petrification, leaving Phoebe frozen in a seated position. Her nostrils still drew breath, but it seemed only a matter of time before they also sealed up.
I considered taking her away to the woods to find Kantos or some other outlandishness for a cure. Next thing I knew, Phoebe’s mother stirred in her blanket. I stood up, finding her staring at me. As I opened my mouth to apologize, she sprang across the room with a shriek. I made my way toward the door, still spewing apologizes as she beat my head with a broom. She followed me quite a ways home, calling me a witch and a monster. When those words lost their potency, she screamed all sorts of crass epithets.
My uncle is the only thing preventing these people from marching on my house with pitchforks and torches. Not even Aiden would be a match for their rustic indignation. The dawn is near, and sleep impossible. I cannot rest until Phoebe is at peace.
I may go back there and take her by force. Better to wait for my uncle to wake, but time is of the essence. That poor girl may be suffocating as I continue to write out these wretched words.
Entry 48
Every child in the town has been inflicted by an illness, their symptoms unique to each infected. Hailey’s nose has swollen large enough to engulf her entire face, morphing into a calcified substance hard as a fingernail. Tiny dots sprouted across Thomas’s entire body, stems with feathery tips protruding from the little pours. David’s arms are stuck to his abdomen, his legs also stuck and stiff, leaving him unable to balance while standing and wiggling around the floor. Another formed gills around his neck, his parents unable to pry his head from a water bucket as his skin leaks some sort of slime.
I have not been made privy to every condition. To be honest, I am lucky to be on speaking terms with my uncle. He protected me from an army of furious parents without faltering, though I had a few other adamant defenders. The whole event was really just a short burst of shouting and chest beating that probably would have amplified into violence if our community lacked rational minds and clear voices. I may be understating the real ugliness of the situation, but there is no use in reliving such an embarrassing event in greater detail.
It all amounted to spinning my discovery in Phoebe’s house to real concern rather than malevolent intentions conjured up by weaker minds. Despite their afflictions, the children came to my defense upon interrogation. They say they were each approached by an ugly man with pointy dog ears. This simmered down most parents and put false allegations aside. Gerald put it best: an outsider has been poisoning our children. Somehow that sounds like a more threatening label than monster.
Then came the matter of Phoebe’s fate. She was utterly engulfed by the brown scabs, warm air scarcely leaving those increasingly tinier nostrils. Fortunately, the doctor had eased our fears of a contagion. While they argued about ending her suffering, I picked up Phoebe, far lighter than she should have been, and carried her away from the crowd. They initially protested, but my uncle convinced them that her body was best left out in the open.
Thin and twisted branches stuck out from the bark-like scabs. By the end of the night, I had no doubt she would be sprouting leaves. I placed her in a less populated corner of the town, near the edge, just between my house and our neighbor’s. Phoebe’s toes dipped into the dirt, one last wheezy breath escaping her nostrils. As her legs visibly sunk into the ground, down to her knees, those who had accompanied me left, while I stayed to watch her transformation. It was agonizingly slow, her shoulders gradually swallowing up her head as her belly swelled down to her knees. The body came to resemble a trunk, wide yet short, though certainly increasing in height. Would she morph into a fully grown tree? I was so terribly impatient at first, but slowly realized it was a long process. Phoebe was going to outlive us all.
No one approached us. After she sprouted her first leaf, I decided to go home and find her in the morning. At home, Aiden told me about the other children’s conditions, describing David’s in grim detail. The boy had no parents; he had been living at the town hall since the quake. His condition has spooked the others, leaving Gerald and Fiona to look after him. A strange pattern has formed on David’s skin, the flesh on his arms and legs grafting together and his neck elongated and swollen. I asked if he had a forked tongue. Aiden shook his head and asked why I asked.
The reality of this whole ordeal has yet to sink in. I wish to see the extent of Phoebe’s metamorphosis, overcome by a childlike curiosity. In reality, the poor girl is dead. One may argue she lives on through that tree, but her youthful radiance has been usurped by something else. No tree will ever match a woman’s beauty. That is the greatest tragedy of all: Phoebe never had the chance to fully blossom.
In time, I will be under the delusion that she is the tree, probably after long hours of lounging in her shade. In truth, it is a tombstone.
I awoke to a bird screeching outside. Thomas is circling the tree, his feathered arms spread out like wings. He flaps and caws, and though his head looks misshapen under the moonlight, it is unmistakably Thomas. A few people are watching in the distance, one of them a weeping woman. Poor Judith.
Entry 49
I spent the morning watching Thomas and Hailey perched up on Phoebe’s tallest branch. In a single night, she has grown far larger than any oak on the island, her leaves a brilliant verdant, almost shimmering emerald in th
e sunlight. Thomas, now covered in bright blue feathers, pecked at the trunk, while Hailey, a creamy looking orange, looked down below. I watched from my window, afraid of being picked off like a worm if I wandered too close. My fears were unwarranted, though, since people passed by the tree all day without harm.
I watched Gerald and Fiona toss David’s body into the woods. It was covered in a thick white film. From time to time, I moved my glance toward the still body, waiting for it to burst from its dead flesh. I was pleasantly surprised to later find it was actually a cocoon. A gorgeous butterfly soon emerged and soared to the top of Phoebe to join his old friends.
And I finally left my home when a collie rushed up to the tree, clearly jealous of its companions’ wings. I embraced the dog, which resembled my old pet Argos so much that I started to weep. I hugged and cuddled with the spry animal, stirred by a seemingly eternal comfort. I could have melted in that spot, content with my lot.
Then my husband arrived and broke the spell. Fortunately, my new friend joined us for dinner. Right now, he is sitting at Aiden’s feet, gnawing on an animal bone.
The day has been so serene that I must doubt its authenticity. Could I be dreaming? Perhaps some days so seemingly surreal may be dreams, too vivid to the mind to be categorized as unreal. The events are not under suspect, but my happiness is. Why must this emotion feel so illusory? Unless it is accompanied by a heap of dread, all feelings of elation cause me to question their authenticity. Clearly, that makes me insane, and these pages worth less than chicken scratch, unless you are of an equally deranged state of mind.
