Dancing Silhouettes

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The moonlight stretched the shadows from trees bordering east of the village. Great Oaks and Redwoods towered like watchmen to the townsfolk. In the witching hours of the night, restless adolescents peeked pale faced through windows towards silhouettes emerging from the forest. Dancing shadows, fleeting between the trees, flailing their limbs to a rhythm the colonials couldn’t quite hear, but fear until the night waned away.

The following morning, the sun just emerging from the horizon. The villagers gathered beneath the governor’s balcony. The orator, a tall and gruff man, made his way onto stage. A story below the crowd murmured begrudgingly. Dressed in great coats for the autumn cold, their volume grew as rumors circulated.

His eyes, silver like a freshly sharpened axe, fell on the audience beneath. Their embittered eyes altering between him and their own selfish conversations. As the sun rose, bled the horizon a tinge of purple and crimson. The orator found his thoughts lost in this vivid red reality…

Kneeling beneath a windowpane, ruddier light illuminating the gentle grooves beneath his eyes and at the apex of his smile. An elder counted blessings in silence. Isolated in his worship. His age seemed uniform with the dusty wooden tiles of the church, stagnant pews and ashen hue of the altar. Light emerged from twelve windows, six on either wall paralleled, but served only to illuminate doleful shades where disciples never dwelled.

At the far reaches of the room, exalted by a platform ascending stairs on either side, was the pulpit. In his prostration, he worshipped beneath it.  His eyes swept the floor, then the ceiling, a heavy burden grappling him to prostration. Having finished his reflection, he rose and exited the church.

“We will need volunteers again.” The orator’s words echoed. Their volume grew again but like a gavel his voice thundered down, silencing the throng.

“This is not a matter of choice.” He paused. “Who will sacrifice their child for the sake of the village?”

Their eyes scrambled amongst each other; then a small hand amongst the thrall sprung up. A smooth faced youth, with a head too large for his torso walked to the front of the crowd. The orator’s eyes fell on the swain. Big brown eyes, his face was as broad and innocent as a cabbage.

“Three more!”

A cool sleek fellow with dark ebony hair and a tobacco pipe loosed between his fingers answered. “I will accompany the boy.” The crowd shrieked and in unison fled from his position. No adult had dare venture beyond the forest.

 The orator grimaced. “I cannot comprehend your decision.”

Slim with the tilted brim, the fellow smiled beneath the shade of his hat. “Comprehension is not required for cooperation.” He grinned at the irony. The crowd murmured selfishly in their corners. Two more are needed.

The orator concentrated on what was before him. He’d wanted to see this man perish. Do you want your child to go? He watched their eyes alter between him and their own selfish conversations, forming accusations and inquiries. My boy is only twelve. Yours will be 16 with the winter. However, efficiency forbid the sacrifice of an adult. Observe the Commandments. But he knew groups to be more immoral than individuals, and as before, they’d become heretics to retain their individual lives. Jesus, he’s already volunteered himself!

“Then begone! Gather your party and depart at dawn. Today’s gathering is adjourned.”

The crowd dispersed to their routines. Weaving textiles, tending acres or farm animals. Fathers toiling till dusk; Mothers holding tears back like rain clouds. Hovering over bleak gardens; the children thinking they’d turn to water if they could. Nourishing the barren furrows until spring came, but they didn’t and autumn blew cold as ever, wilting their ashen faces.

The orator returned to his books. He recorded studiously the numbers of the crops and livestock. He accounted for this year’s drought, the incoming supplies and even medicinal needs. He arranged preparations for the boys’ and the man’s funeral. He accounted for everyone. It was better this way. And as they toiled beneath the autumn sun they assuaged. For it is by efficiency we have been saved.

Lonely at the center of the lot, the fellow and the boy stood. One seemingly exhaling smoke from orifices impossible of humans. The other savoy and innocent. Big brown eyes deep like a lake, drinking the fellow in. A second child approached the duo. With his hands in his pockets, he positioned himself next to the boy. “I’ll go with you,” his storm grey eyes eddied on the savoy, “I’m Amias.” He proffered his hand.

“I’m Eli.”  He shook it. “Who will be the last of us?” Eli questioned.

“Leave that to me.” Amias assured. “You should go home.” Eli understood, nodded with a more serious expression and hurried home.

“We’ll depart at dawn. Don’t be late.” The fellow said as Eli distanced.

Amias turned to the fellow. “The last person. Do you have someone in mind?”

He grinned, “Oh, I know a boy who owes me quite a bit.”

Eli’s pace sauntered as he came in view of home. Approaching the oak wood cottage, he traced the image of its pallid square face and overhanging eaves. The thought of culled vegetables warm over a licking fire nourished his senses. When he entered his mother swaddled him. Her body light like air but all her hugs heavy, with no room for time.  He nestled warm in her embrace. Then he explained his decision.

“The cemetery is the only thing still growing here.”   He said. He wondered where the pastor went. Why no one reads now except the orator. And this gauntlet of trees, his peers whispered of a shore.

She was smoldering. Eyes watering like rain tinging off a window.  “It’s called wanderlust.” Seemingly, she kneeled to his height. “You’ll sacrifice things for that desire.” Eli couldn’t understand. Taps on the oak wood broke their delicate silence. Through the window, a girl beckoned Eli. His mother gestured him to join her.

Eli hurried outside. His mother’s eyes tracing his image. She returned to work, altering between preparing his supplies and supper. Outside the youth played. Eli chasing her around barns, passed gates and over fences. As he pursued, he traced the faces of onlookers. Wives weaving textiles; fathers toiling till dusk. Huge eyes half-dead; yet brimmed with tears following always some hazy possibility; Eli thinking there had to be fates worse than death. 

His pace sauntered as his mark slipped beneath the shadows. An alleyway, formed by a gabled roof and an abutting fence dividing the backyards. Eli sleuthed into the shade and after a moment he emerged again in sunlight. She sitting on a bench with her face opposite to him. Expression crestfallen as the red sun loomed before them. He approached with her with a measured step and as he neared, he remarked a faint humming sound.

“Melody, the sound you make. It’s enchanting, heavenly even.”

She faced him and smiled. “Years ago when it rained they would sing hymns in praise.” She suggested, “I’ve never sung for anyone before.”

“Yeah, this is the first time I’ve ever heard you sing.”

Her eyes lulled on the savoy. “So you’re leaving tomorrow…”

“Yeah listen…” Eli moved closer.

Raising her face, she kissed him. Ruddier light illuminating their expressions. And after a moment too short, she pushed him away. Caressed her tongue over her lips. Eli petrified like a gargoyle; then seeing the setting sun he motioned, “The night is nearing.” She embraced him. Their shadows melding beneath the sunset. Eli assuaged. “Until next time.”