Shane Jones: Crystal Eaters

Younger villagers who are against Brothers Feast, who have inherited land from the older generations, believe in selling to the city for reasons of safety. They believe the transfer of land will somehow spare their lives. The elderly have become conservative with their land, not wanting to give anything up. There have been secret discussions near The Bend with rogue mine workers willing to sell out and city politicians hungry to consume. The differences between the two cultures are absurdly obvious when a mine worker tells Sanders he has to get back to the mine to melt the yellow for the night’s electricity. Another mine worker asks what each of their counts are and Sanders says, “We’re good.”

Dad says, the only one smiling, “Was the stove left on over night? Remy, see if the refrigerator is overheating.”

Houseplants kept in shade and usually watered daily by Remy have wilted to cooked leaves of spinach because Remy is consumed with what is happening to Mom, not the heat, fuck the heat. But she knows it’s getting worse. The forks and spoons on the kitchen table burn to the touch. Remy imagines the moon as a bucket of water she kicks over, cooling the sun below. Parts of her body that never sweat like the margins of her lips, her ears, her nail beds, are now continuously covered in sweat. The day’s heat runs into the following day and the following day after that with no break, only a build-up, a layering of more. She sits at the kitchen table eating another meal prepared by Dad, taps her knee ten times while watching Mom doing nothing but staring into whatever she sees in the blank space before her. Remy thinks she hears a dog barking inside the house. She thinks about touching Mom. She worries about Dad, his decision making.

In direct correlation to Mom, Dad has lost several crystals. When he jokes in his passive-aggressive way See if the refrigerator is overheating Remy can’t look at his awkward smirk, his do-nothing ways with Mom sitting skeletal. Dad’s strategy is to let time make all decisions, but with Mom rapidly losing her count, he wonders if he’s wrong, wonders deep down if doing nothing will just end in a faster zero. But he still believes in time and nature and tradition. How Remy sees the world is something three dimensional and lit up, where Dad sees an endless and flat blackness.

Mom’s room is the coolest in the house. Disease moves faster in heat. She has a red box with a green felt top. Inside, a black crystal given to her by her son. He never explained its use and Mom keeps it a secret from Dad and Remy. Her son, not the myth of Royal Bob, is the only person to ever find the black crystals. Some of the desperate elderly, closing down, believe in what he and The Sky Father Gang were trying to accomplish but they’ve never seen something like a black crystal. Mom walks into her room.

She plays a game when the sun reaches a special height in the sky. She sits down. The sun splits the window in the shape of a triangle and from the doorway her spine is visible through her nightgown. Her body aches with no sleep nights because not only is her count well below fifty, Mom basically a cat, but the number is falling incredibly fast now and she can feel it leaving her body. The game helps.

From the box she takes out the black crystal and dips it into the sunlight. The triangle warps and skinny lines of light reflect off the crystal. Mom tilts her hand until a hologram of another black crystal appears above the one she holds.

During her best games she produces eight crystal holograms attached to the black crystal she holds by eight beams of light. The highest touches the ceiling, the lowest flickers near her ear, and once, she moved her head until half the crystal disappeared into her hair.

Last week she stretched her fingers into positions that burned her joints. Her heart skipped a beat. The illness scratched her skin, ran the slopes of her body. She stopped the game when she heard Remy and Dad arguing about Twinning.

Today she plays the game perfectly. She dominates the sun. Twin horses float above her hand. She smiles because horses are new. She’s 5’4 in height, her gown drags through hallways, but she feels like a giant creating holograms from the black crystal she holds and now, horses. Their bodies are a blue-black shine and they stomp their hooves and radiate six ribs of light across the room. For a moment, her life is a delirious and beautiful dream, something worth extending.

When she drops the black crystal from exhaustion, feeling sick, the floor seems to sink into the room below where Dad and Remy are looking up.

The baby slept in the shade of the red pencil Remy had used and the drawing took up most of the wall.

“That’s new,” Dad said and pointed at the drawing.

“Bored of blue and yellow so I drew a red, no big deal. Dad, what’s Twinning?”

“You drew a baby.”

“Just felt like it.”

“Does it mean anything?”

“Not really.”

When Dad walked into the room days before, Harvak was on a table under a blue sheet with a wreath of hair balanced on top. Walking from the room Dad had a terrible feeling, something like anger, that became sour inside him when he convinced himself not to process what he was feeling. Since he was a boy he always managed his feelings this way because it felt safer to live this way. It hurt to take the feelings, drag them up and through his body, twist and mold them into words that he had to force from his mouth. Besides, having those words interpreted by another person was dangerous. Language distorts emotions. What he did, even as a little boy, for example, standing in a dark room full of strange adults, was erase the emotions before they could exit him in words. He told Remy, without looking at her, that Twinning didn’t exist. A hard and simple no.

“You sure?”

He mentioned those who cut themselves with crystals. They believed in ascending count, and in a stunt similar to the things Brothers Feast does, marched into the city only to be imprisoned. They preached about Twinning and carried banners that read WE WILL BE REMEMBERED AND LIVE FOREVER. Dad didn’t mention his son participating because denial is holy. He stopped talking and stared blankly ahead, fighting the flickering images of his son walking toward the city, away from him, the sun nothing but a pinprick in the blue.

“Did it work?” Remy asked bouncing on the bed. “They add?”

He forced himself to look at her. “They are in jail. The point is, sorry, your hood is falling down and I can’t see your eyes. There, better. What I’m trying to say is, what is it I’m saying, yes, they went crazy with those crystals they found, trying to do what you’re talking about. Extending a life, come on now, you’re just a person and your life is special because of that.”

“Black crystal moves your insides,” said Remy. “Kids in my school say it changes your blood, and they’re still buried underground. What do you have to say about that?”

“I wouldn’t listen because who knows who their parents are. Adults get weirder and weirder as they get older. Everyone has their opinions but you’re mine, you listen to me.”

“Tell me again about the Gang,” she said, feeling embarrassed. “I like when you tell me.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

Remy knew the story about The Sky Father Gang to near memory but wanted to hear Dad talk, she wanted his words, his soft words, in the air surrounding her.

They were seven kids who dressed in identical red robes with black hoods and black belts. What they believed in was different from Brothers Feast who waste their time with stunts (the village is so accustomed to them that their last stunt, pretending to dig up the crystal mine road with comically large cardboard shovels while dressed as city residents in navy blue suits donated by Mob of Mary’s, everyone ignored). Remy remembered Brother being in The Sky Father Gang and she knew where he was now, prison. She remembered him with a duffel bag full of crystals, ready to leave forever, and she remembered how long his hair had grown down his back, and she remembered how distant he was to her, to everyone, to everything. It wasn’t him anymore.