Julian Feeld - Fire Hides Everywhere

The pain existed in many places at once and Lea didn’t bother reaching for it. She lay on her back in the grass and wept, sky hard and blue with a single cloud etched there like a lonely wound. Christophe had promised to return, and Christophe never lied, not once, but for the moment she felt nothing but the cold thirst of the soil beneath her.

Florian had found nothing. He made his way back up the path, heart pushing sullen blood, mind hot and scrambled. The itch was worsening and he bloodied his nails on his scalp. The shade of the tree up ahead, a place to lay and rest in the dark, in front of which Florian saw Lea’s underwear caught on the barbed wire and waving in the wind like a piece of torn fur. He lifted them from the wire and pressed them to his nose. They smelled of Lea and she appeared, smiling through her stubby teeth, one of them missing, and wearing her usual blue dress.

In the boy’s fist a balled-up piece of cloth with the imprint of the girl’s excreta, some fragment of her becoming, a prize above all others. Lying in the shade beneath the trunk of the sprawling elm, Florian closed his eyes and rested until a warm blackness came over him. His fist remained rigid but Florian’s heart was soft and brimming with wordless knowledge. The sounds of the forest fed his dreams with wild colors and shapes, and his seeking ceased.

Christophe reemerged from the farmhouse carrying a black plastic box with orange latches. From it he produced a pair of scissors, kneeled over the child, and set to work. He cut the dress from hem to neckline, split the sleeves, and peeled it open. At first glance there were no serious wounds or broken bones. He removed sharp pebbles from her hip, chin, and palms. From these wounds seeped a watery blood. Christophe rinsed and dried them with a rag. Lea gritted her teeth.

Tell me if it hurts a lot.

He bent each of her joints and Lea clenched her jaw but did not complain. The girl had no broken bones. She had fallen loosely and many parts of her body had struck the ground at once. She was badly bruised and nothing more. Christophe dabbed at the new blood with a piece of cotton and applied bandages to the wounds. He lifted Lea gently from the grass and pulled the torn dress from beneath her body.

The old armoire hadn’t been touched in at least a year and it creaked and moaned as he unlocked and opened it. On the second level and gathering dust he found the folded white dress where he had left it.

The child had gathered her knees to her chest and she was sitting below the sapling when Christophe returned. Marc stood above her with his hands in his pockets, Sabine not far behind him. She murmured something to her brother and they turned to watch the old man approach. He waved them away.

Begone.

The children retreated to the dusty periphery and watched. Christophe gestured for Lea to rise. She looked at him and looked at Marc. The old man hissed at the siblings and they turned to leave. Lea watched them walk towards the pond.

The old man helped Lea to her feet and she lifted her arms. Once she was clothed Christophe walked over to the bicycle and inspected it. Lea clenched her fists and looked closely at the old man for signs of what might come next. She wanted to stay quiet but the word came anyway.

Mine.

Christophe held the bicycle and looked at Lea. She dared not approach him. Her body trembled and she stood with her bandaged palms open, fingers twitching. Christophe rolled the bicycle over to her and made her grip the handlebar. He let go of the bicycle and returned to the farmhouse. Lea was confused. She blinked and looked down at the bike and up at the farmhouse. Soon Christophe returned with a pump and a can of oil. He pumped the tires and oiled the gears. The old man lowered himself and listened to the tires. Satisfied, he stood again and spun the wheels. There were no leaks and they spun smoothly enough. He showed her how to use the breaks.

Do you understand?

She nodded. Through her tears Lea watched the old man gather all the nice things he had done for her and disappear into the farmhouse. She left her bicycle in the dirt and ran up to the window to look inside. Christophe was sitting in the rocking chair again, reading a book. He looked like a statue, bust unmoving. Only his eyes skipped back and forth on the page.

From behind Lea came the sound of footsteps in the dirt. She spun to see Marc with his cold eyes locked on her bicycle and his sister staring in that awful way. Lea hardened her face and walked past them as best she could, limping on her bruised hip. They stood and stared at her. Lea got on the bicycle and pedaled off, nearly falling again from the pain. She would have to hide the bicycle well. It belonged to her and so did the dress. She had paid for them both.

The colza field was a blinding yellow, unharvested for generations and growing increasingly wild. On its northernmost edge, among the remnants of a primitive forest, two children were busy repairing their home. Sunlight made its way through the canopy and fat brown slugs pulled along the white husks of fallen birches. Weakened by rain and hollowed by rot, the dead branches collapsed easily beneath Marc’s feet. He grunted with each kick and stood aside to let Sabine gather the splintered wood. She flung these wet piles away from the cabanne until no weakness was left in the structure and the siblings stood side by side and stared at their handiwork. It was a crude and misshapen home with a tent-shaped roof covered by clumps of turquoise moss.

The scent of necrotic wood excited Sabine, the way it mingled with her brother’s sweat and formed a sharp, sweet odor that wafted over the fossilized memories of their mutual past. Sometimes she and Marc would undress and lie against each other on the floor of the cabanne and in those moments Marc could feel what remained very plainly. He would close his eyes and picture their aches like two small fires built together in a dark forest. When one of them threatened to extinguish, a flame from the other would jump through the darkness to keep it alight.

Marc scoured their surroundings for new branches to fill the gaps. These he fastened to the structure with soiled lengths of fishing line. Every so often he turned to look at Sabine, who sought fresh patches of moss with which to repair the roof. He watched as she thrust her fingers deep into the soil, the dull sound of the snapping roots. Then she froze. There was something solid beneath the moss.

Sabine started digging around the object. She had never seen anything like it. The white wood refused to chip beneath her nails. She scoured its grooves until it was mostly clean and then pushed her fingers into the holes to dig out the dirt, wiping it on the hip of her grey tunic. She was discovering a hollow space inside the object. Marc walked over to Sabine and she handed it to him. It was a child’s skull. Large parts of the jaw were missing and most of the milk teeth were still attached. In these mud-caked gaps, a row of adult teeth had grown. Marc hung the skull above the mouth of their cabanne and the children stood side by side for a time, staring at this new addition.

Something shifted in Marc’s face and he turned away from his sister and walked towards the edge of the forest. Sabine did not seem to notice. She stood blank-faced and framed by the wet dirt, the obsidian shine of secret stones, the goosefoot in green strokes, chutes of light and their drifting must. Then, very clearly, her brother’s voice.

We are eating.

She nodded, but did not look up. Marc slipped through the bushes and beyond sight. After several more moments without action or thought, Sabine once again set out to harvest the forest floor. This time she was less selective, tearing away the moss in crude chunks. She sat near the newly formed pile and began kneading mud into patties.