“It’s not something most people know. Hell, I bet you don’t know it yourself.”

Clinton was a big man, with a tangle of black hair just covering the tops of his ears. He stood in the doorway of the small cabin, swallowing the space around him.

“Know what?” My focus was elsewhere, inside. The cabin was tidy, its furniture well kept. There were no signs of a struggle.

“The mountains. They’re old.” Clinton paused, scanning the area outside. “Older than the trees. Older than the animals too. Hell, the Smokies, they’re even older than the Atlantic.”

I turned and regarded him. Clinton, a Gatlinburg police officer, wore his uniform loosely. “You’d never guess it, right? Appalachia was here even before there was an ocean.”

“You’re right, I didn’t know that.” It wasn’t quite dusk yet, and I could hear the trill of a finch just outside the cabin window. I recalled a saying, something I heard once: “If you want to learn, make friends with smart people.”

Clinton snorted. “Will Rogers. And you got the quote wrong.” He looked at me levelly. “He was Cherokee, you know. Will Rogers.” I waited for him to complete his thought. “Just like Appalachia. All of this, everything here. At one time, this was all Cherokee.”

It was getting late. I wanted to secure the cabin before nightfall; the roads on the mountain can be treacherous during winter. I turned back towards the room.

“What do you make of all this?” I gestured to the sofa, the cedar ottoman. Whatever happened to Anna didn’t happen here, but I was curious to hear his thinking.

“You know exactly what happened. She planned this. She closed her bank accounts, sold everything she had. She didn’t even tell her roommate she was leaving. And Boston’s not a short drive. We haven’t been able to find a crime anywhere, much less a victim.”

Clinton breathed out, slowly.

“Sometimes people just want to disappear. It’s happened before, on occasion.”

Maybe he was right.

#

Twenty years ago, Elkmont, Tennessee was a ghost town. Even today it barely registers. Aside from a campground, (“Temporarily Closed”), and a turn-of-the-century cemetery, (“Most Haunted in the Smoky Mountains”), a traveler could make his way from Gatlinburg to Maryville and know nothing about the town or its history.

Recently however, the National Park Service had taken an interest in the area. It had been decided, by someone important, that the town, situated as it was at the base of the Smokies, would make an ideal vacation spot for well-heeled urbanites. That decision, more hopeful than sensible, explained the current and incomplete restoration of the town’s several cottages, (excepting the Wonderland Park Hotel, which collapsed in 2005), and also my lodgings in the historic district, near the bank of the Little River.

It was morning now, the next day, and I took my field notes to the Appalachian Clubhouse, a short walk from my cabin. I was greeted by a stocky woman in her early forties, wearing a checkerboard apron.

“Either you’ve got good timing or good luck.” She poured a cup of coffee and set a place for me at the table.

“What do you mean?” I felt I’d had neither recently. The past few days had been a slog. I was in law enforcement, an investigator with the National Park Service. When I was sent here, to what was essentially a ghost town, it felt like a punishment. It was almost Christmas, and I missed my family.

The woman smiled. “A small group is renting the Clubhouse tomorrow. Normally the town’s closed, but for these kinds of things I make my way from Gatlinburg to help out. It’s easy money. You want breakfast?”

I did want breakfast, actually. Something about the cold always roused my appetite. “What’s good here?”

She laughed. “Everything. I make it myself. You wait; I’ll bring you something you’ll like. My name is Daisy, by the way. You need anything, you ask for me.”

Daisy was right. The breakfast was delicious. She brought me a fried pork chop smothered in white gravy and a biscuit stuffed with pimento cheese.

I wondered, is this what Anna ate the morning she disappeared?

“Well? Was it good?” Daisy had returned and was refilling my coffee.

“Very good.” I motioned for her to sit with me. I figured she wouldn’t mind; we were, it appeared, the only people in town. “Do you know why I’m here?”

She laughed again, a short staccato. “Yes, I do, Mr. Agent. Small towns have big ears. And you can’t get much smaller than Elkmont.”

I smiled and showed her a photo of Anna. “Have you seen this girl?”

“Hard not to. A single girl, traveling alone? Traveling here? Of course I saw her.” Daisy paused a moment then, thinking. “But I’m not sure she wanted to be seen. You get a sense of people, you know? Like how I knew you wanted company the moment you walked in. This girl…” Daisy hesitated, “…she was solitary.”

“Was she with anyone?”

“No, she wasn’t.”

That was it, then. Clinton was right. I started to gather my belongings. Daisy stopped me.

“I said she wasn’t with anyone. I didn’t say she was alone.”

I looked at her, puzzled. Daisy fidgeted in her chair. She seemed self-conscious.

“I don’t know how I feel telling you this, Mr. Agent, but I think it’s something you should know.” Daisy was quiet for a moment. “You’re going to think me silly.”

I sat back in my chair. I waited.

“I’ve lived here all my life. My parents too. When I saw her, this girl, I saw someone else. Something else.

“There’s a story, an old Cherokee story, about a stone man. You know it?”

“No, I don’t.”

“He’s a monster. He looks like a man, but he’s not. He…” Daisy looked away, then. “He’s a cannibal. He hunts children. And then he eats their livers.” She turned towards me. “You can’t kill him. His skin. It’s hard, like stone.”

It might have been the look I gave her.

“I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Agent, but I don’t care. That’s what I saw, when that girl hiked to her cabin on the mountain. She was with the stone man.”

#

My investigation was complete. I looked forward to going home.

I’ll tell you a secret, something everyone in law enforcement knows. Eyewitness testimony is unreliable, notoriously so. Whatever it was that Daisy saw that day, I thought no more of it.

In truth, I wanted to see my family. This case, my time on the mountain, it was affecting me. When I thought of Anna, I thought of my daughter. I missed her terribly.

Another thought occurred to me then, a memory. It surprised me that I should think of this now, but I did. I recalled a conversation I had with my father several years ago. It was the last time we spoke.

We were alone that evening, my father and I. I was in his apartment, a sparsely decorated two-bedroom unit not far from the local middle school. He was sitting in his recliner. I was standing. Looking back now, it seems odd which details held meaning for me, that I was able to recollect same with such certain clarity. For example, that recliner; I remembered it clearly.

It was a deep burgundy, almost the color of walnut. Over the years, however, it had become faded, and compressed as well; the padding had compacted, and over time slowly had become worn. This was his chair, in the corner of his apartment, and growing up I was not permitted near it. Next to his chair was a tray table, and on a coaster on that table was his drink, a tall glass of Coke spiked with fernet. My father was wearing a wool cardigan, and somewhat incongruously, a pair of brightly colored golf pants decorated with a harlequin pattern of red and green diamonds.

I was never close to my father, but not by choice. He just seemed to recede, especially in those later years. The man kept his secrets.

This is what he told me: “Whatever it is you heard, it’s a damn lie. I was nowhere near that girl.” I remembered looking at my father without speaking. The silence was stony. “For Chrissake, my bus stop is right outside the school. How the hell else am I supposed to get to work?”

I remembered trying to control my voice, unsuccessfully. “I don’t want you anywhere near my family. Near my daughter. We’re finished.” And we were.

Two months later, I saw my father on television after his arrest. He was smiling.

#

It was evening now, and even the finches had gone quiet. Most people who come to the Smokies do so in the summer, when the lightning bugs are active, and the crickets sing to the stars. Not so in the winter; it was quiet now, and Appalachia was hibernating.

I readied myself for bed.

And then, I began to dream.

I saw myself, not as myself, but as a spectator to my own life. Looking down, past the spruce firs and pine oaks, I saw that I was sitting with Daisy on the porch of my cabin. She wasn’t stocky now, but beautiful, and I thought of my wife in a way that I hadn’t in years.

She spoke to me.

“I wasn’t completely honest with you, Mr. Agent.” Her voice wasn’t staccato now, but lyrical, and hearing it, I saw myself as a young man. “There is a way to kill the stone man, a way to banish him forever.

“I can tell you how. If you want me to…”

I was dreaming, and I wasn’t. I didn’t know what Daisy was offering, not really, but I knew that I wanted it badly, whatever it was.

“Please.” I spoke to her above the treetops, but she was looking at me on the porch, her hands in mine.

“Blood. From a woman. The stone man can’t abide it.

“This is how you kill him, the only way. When it’s their time, the women surround him on the mountain where he lives. And then the stone man is banished, and he can never return.”

I heard a rushing sound then, like a rising chorus, and I knew my dream was ending.

“Don’t forget our conversation, Mr. Agent…”

#

I didn’t forget.

It was colder now, the next morning; the winter frost had begun to settle on the ferns and evergreens outside my cabin. It was of no matter. I had come to a realization—I wasn’t investigating a disappearance. I was investigating another, older crime.

I needed to return to the mountain.

The cabin was as Clinton and I had left it. A wool blanket was neatly folded on the sofa. The cedar ottoman was set carefully atop a braided rug. I was unsure exactly what I was looking for, but I knew that once I found it, I would know.

I wondered whether Anna had a sister. I hoped not.

At first I didn’t see him.

That’s what strange about mountains; they hide the smaller things. It’s the immensity of it all, I suppose. Maybe he was there all along.

He was tall, taller than a man, and he carried a cane with a crossed wheel at the handle, and three feathers attached at the collar. His skin was a dusky gray, the color of shale. He smelled of ammonia.

He smiled at me.

I wasn’t Anna, however, nor was I a child. I knew the stone man wouldn’t touch me.

I thought about my daughter.

Gathering my courage, I approached him the only way I knew how, with my 9mm pistol held before me. I slid closer and closer, until the sharp tang of his scent almost overwhelmed me. As if in a dream then, I began to hear a rushing sound, rising in volume, while the world before me emptied. But still, I could see him there standing, the stone man.

And all he did was smile, smile, smile, smile, smile, smile, smile, smile, smile, smile.

#

I awoke the next morning in my cabin. And I knew. I found what I was looking for.

I’d seen a smile just like that, years ago.

I placed a call to the Boston Police Department. I had nothing more to offer than when I had arrived, but I had to make the report. I asked them to investigate.

At least they were polite.

I thought once more about Anna, about Daisy, about Appalachia. I remembered what Clinton told me: that the mountains were here before the trees, and would be here, I knew, even after the oceans had boiled, and the land turned to ash. And then I thought about my family.

In two hours I would be on a plane heading east.

And then, God willing, I would be home.

Jeremy Akel is an attorney. He received his Juris Doctor from the University of Florida, and his Master of Laws from George Washington University. As an undergraduate he attended Vanderbilt University. Jeremy also teaches Aikido, a Japanese martial art, and is certified by the United States Aikido Federation as Fukushidoin. His work has been published in Altered Reality Magazine, Rue Scribe, and Sundial Magazine.

The swings were removed in 1976, after the laughter dissolved, like the rice paper skin of a flying saucer, when sucked, and before Connie and Ruth realise they’d never see each other again. The swing carcass, displays its paint, peeling back like scabs from a child’s knee. Connie remembers the day the council worker unclipped the swing chains and ripped-off the last of the Police tape that coiled down the frame-legs like slithered socks.

Today the scabs have been picked off. Furrows hoed into the tarmac, by Mary-Jane sandals proclaim the narrative. Connie steadies herself as adolescence imagery collide and swirl bashing into her like school bullies. Her olive splattered hands cling to the once friendly frame. She scrunches her eyes shut, listens to the squeak, scrape, squeak, scrape…thud. Pink varnished nails pierce the peach flesh of her palms. She sways like a Weeble. Her childhood mind recuses her. Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down, reverberates in her head. She blinks, disentangles her grip and twists around, staggers to a slatted bench that links the grass to the tarmac. She’s unable to leave.

Connie plonks down, grateful the slats haven’t fractured. She sighs with relief, and as the whisper of her breath escapes her head, the squeak, scrape starts again. She gazes toward the swing frame there are two girls each on a swing. They appear as if she is peering through the crinkly orange cellophane, from a Lucozade bottle. It evokes a vision of her child-self and Ruth holding Lucozade cellophane in front of their faces, giggling, trying to make the black and white television into colour. Connie smiles, aches to have Ruth sat next to her now. The girls on the swings scream out with delight as their tummies summer-salt the higher they go. She rubs away teardrops as they prickle her cheek. She sees the girls clearly, there’s a slither of orange cellophane beneath the swing, it pirouettes with each whoosh. A tidal wave of tears water-log her perception, until soaked away by a tissue. It’s not just two girls. She’s observing herself and Ruth.

Connie and Ruth become friends on their first day at infant school. Ruth sits with her legs wrapped around the speckled painted chair limbs. Head resting upon folded arms on the tabletop, the perfume of home consoles her. Her emerald cardigan shrugs with each sob. Connie skips into the classroom, cardigan hanging off her shoulders, one sock up, one sock down, a splodge of Weetabix, like a winner’s medal on her chest. Graham Stott and Snotty Stanley are pulling Jessica Mee’s pigtails. There’s no space at their table, Connie glances to check if there’s any other children from her street. She spies an empty chair next to a girl she’s never seen before not even at the launderette. The girl is scriking, like when Connie’s Mum rattles the back of her legs, the bare bit between socks and dress. It normally happens when her Mum is at the end of her tether. Connie plonks down in the chair next to Ruth who sits up rubbing her nose on her cardigan sleeve. Connie smiles at her whispers she’ll be her friend if she wants. Ruth nods and the teacher shouts “Shush” the only sound a last snurch from Ruth.

At playtime Connie peels off the medal of Weetabix and eats it, which makes Ruth giggle. Ruth is smaller than the other children. Everyone’s small at the start, by first year junior Connie has grown, Ruth remains elf-like. Whenever Connie and Ruth are together, Ruth is safe. Connie’s’ outgoing personality builds a fortress around them.

In class, a pea sized eraser shot at the back of Ruth’s head, a foot tripped over on her way to the front of the class. A group of tittering girls, in the playground as Ruth catches up with Connie. Always just out of earshot or sight of the best friend. Danger lurks around the corner of the alley where Ruth goes left, and Connie turns right.

“On your way to the shoemakers Elfie?” Jessica Mee hollers from above Ruth’s head. Her and Snotty Stanley jump down from Jessica’s backyard wall, landing in front of Ruth. Ruth steps to the right they step to their left. They snigger, as they form a barricade. Stanley leaps behind her. She’s trapped. Jessica prods Ruth and she stumbles backwards. Stanley’s arms lock around her, pin both arms to her sides. Ruth wriggles, as she does, he squeezes her to him and his knuckles ram her tummy button. The force steals her voice and breath. She crumples over the balled grip.

“Hold her still, Snotty.”

Jessica snatches Ruth’s head back by her hair. The sting of her enemy’s palm belts out a scream.

They snigger at Ruth face down on the cobbles, hands pressed against her front were her shirt tucks into her skirt. Back on top of the wall, the racket of their snorts of triumph rebound and chase Ruth as she scurries away.

Jessica and Stanley continue to torment her throughout junior school. Ruth tells no one and never retaliates.

The end of the last year of junior school, and the summer holiday. Ruth and Connie write a fun list. They start with number one and two on the first Saturday of their six weeks together. Meet outside Miss Daisy’s sweet shop. Miss Daisy’s, is the best shop, the girls love the white chocolate mice and flying saucers. Each of these last for at least three minutes when sucked. Ruth is the best at making a flying saucer last the longest.

Miss Daisy is relieved to see Ruth and Connie when the ding of the bell alerts her. They’re not like the other children who open and shut the door repeatedly before stomping in like herds of wild animals.

“What will it be today, girls?”

“Hello Miss Daisy, five-pence worth of white mice and flying saucers please.” Ruth answers and asks how Miss Daisy is today.

“Happy to see you pair. Although I’m not sure chocolate mice are the best for today, it’s going to be a hot one, the weatherman says.”

“Shall we have a bag of crisps each, Ruth?”

Ruth nods and Miss Daisy places the jar of mice back on the shelf, next to the pink shrimps.

As they turn to leave the shop, the bell dings, bobbing above the head of Jessica as she jams her foot between the door edge and frame. The door held open; her mean stance blocks their way out.

“Hi, Connie.”

Connie smiles, Jessica steps to the side and holds the door. Ruth, follows, bites her lower lip in response to the jab between her shoulder blades.

“She’s always trying to be our friend when her little mate is not about. Come on Ruth lets run so she doesn’t see us.”

They dash off challenging one another to race, to the Pelican Crossing opposite the park.

Connie wins the race; she doesn’t notice her friend glancing over her shoulder to check Jessica isn’t in pursuit. There’s a lady pushing a buggy with bags hanging from the handles and a toddler sat chewing on a Rusk. A red Cortina stops when the Pelican chirps telling the girls its safe to cross. As the car drives on Ruth notices two faces peering from the rear window.

The swings are empty when they get to the park. There’s a group of kids from school sat on the bottom of the slide, drinking Tizer and passing a cigarette around. Ruth’s not bothered by them as they don’t take any notice of her. The roundabout turns, a long-haired boy lies with his head hanging down, intermittently pushing against the tarmac with the tips of his fingers. His hair sweeps up litter with each circle turned. They dash over to the swings, each jump like jumping jacks as their thighs catch the heat from the black seats. Skirts pulled down they hitch up back onto the swing. Tip toes push backwards, legs lifted straight, lean forward, the feet push again. Ruth glances over to Connie, they swing in tandem, higher, and higher, a wave of joy rolls in Ruth’s tummy. The joy rollercoasters to concern as she spots the red Cortina parked, and then to fear as she recognises the two that climb from the back of the car.

Ruth slows to a stop. Connie slows to a stop.

“Phew, its hot, look the tarmac is like treacle.”

Ruth raises her foot onto her knee, the soles of her Mary Jane sandals splattered with black, like squashed liquorice Nipits.

“Hi Connie, Are you going to let me, and Stanley have a go?”

“In a minute.”

Jessica grabs the chains beneath Ruth’s hands, leans in close to the side of her cheek. Ruth’s knuckles speckle pink and white with determination to hold on.

“Laugh and smile like you’re enjoying this Elfie.”

Jessica backs up releases the swing, Stanley pushes the seat of the swing from the rear.

Ruth laughs, louder and louder, she thrusts her legs backwards and forwards. Screeches “Wee, wee, wee.” Each time she soars forward, her sandals scape against the body.

Ruth glides higher and higher her screeches morph to screams of delight as she tips the bag of flying saucers. A rainbow cascades. She’s still, arms linked around the chains and tiny hands grip each other. Swing slows. The only sound squeak, scrape, squeak, scrape, until the Policewoman catches hold of Ruth’s fists. The flying saucers polka-dot Jessica’s face.

Connie plucks out a paper bag from her coat pocket. She pauses, untwists the white paper bag and peeks inside like a kid. She places a pink flying saucer onto her tongue and sucks. The rice paper case dissolves, releases the bitterness of naivety and decomposes the image of her and Ruth.

Sally Shaw has an MA Creative Writing from the University of Leicester. She writes short stories and is currently working on her novel based in 1950s Liverpool. She sometimes writes poetry. She gains inspiration from old photographs, history, her own childhood memories, and is inspired by writers Sandra Cisneros, Deborah Morgan, Liz Berry and Emily Dickinson. She has had short stories and poetry published in various online publications, including The Ink Pantry and AnotherNorth and in a ebook anthology ‘Tales from Garden Street’ (Comma Press Short Story Course book 2019). Sally lives in the countryside with her partner, dog, and bantam.

You can find more of Sally’s work here on Ink Pantry.

The year was 1520. It was a frenzied time. A decade earlier, Rafael Álvares Avila had set foot on a distant land at the edge of a dense forest and befriended members of a hunter-gatherer tribe whose existence was hitherto unknown in his part of the world. When word got around about the exploits of Avila and his band of intrepid men, every Grandee, no matter the pedigree, declared himself an explorer. Rumors of bountiful riches hidden in the dense forest and of bare-chested tribal women prompted all stripes of rascally men – marauders, privateers, freebooters – to line up for commission on expeditions announced by noble and not so noble men.

Brother Juan, already struggling with his spiritual formation, was having bouts of anxiety about what the future held for him. He wanted so much to be a part of Father Miguel’s mission to spread God’s word among the tribal folks in the newfound jungle. It had been several months since Father Miguel had sent his entreaties to the Pope seeking his blessings. The Pope, however, had not yet ordained the project. Brother Juan had learned from traders and venders that Prince Manuel da Lopez’s expedition was all but ready to leave. He liked the prince. Prince Manuel was honorable and respectable. Brother Juan wanted the church mission to be a part of Prince Manuel’s expedition. He wanted no part of expeditions in search of El Dorado, of which there were many. Parishioners had come to him with stories about a gilded king whose subjects tossed ornaments made of gold, silver, and emerald into a mythical river in the jungle to propitiate the gods. He had cautioned them against falling for concocted stories and legends. He had also heard horror stories about atrocities committed by Iberian mercenaries and sailors in the jungle. Priests who had been part of earlier expeditions had recorded instances of massacre, torture, rape, and slavery – sexual and otherwise. The conquering colonials had looted local treasures and made the enslaved indigenous people carry the loot to the waiting ships.

The friars eventually received the long-awaited benediction. Shortly thereafter, Prince Manuel’s fleet set sail amid much fanfare and solemn ceremonies.

The first night at sea, Brother Juan dreamed the decapitated head dream. This had been a recurring dream ever since he was eight. In the very first dream, his decapitated head was singing, laughing, and playing with his embodied friends. When he told his parents about the frightening dream, they took him to the parish priest who told him that bad dreams were the devil’s doing and that he should put his trust in the power of prayer. No matter how hard he prayed, the dream kept recurring. Sometimes the head was sad, sometimes happy, sometimes angry. That night on the ship, the head was bobbing in the middle of an ocean. Initially the head resembled his, but it slowly transformed into a ball of strings and the strings slowly turned into snakes. He shared his dream with Father Miguel who laughed and said maybe he was possessed by the spirit of Medusa. He then proceeded to tell him the story of Medusa.

Medusa was one of three daughters born to sea deities Keto and Phorcys. Since Phorcys happened to be Keto’s brother as well, he was Medusa’s father and uncle. Medusa had live serpents in place of locks of hair. It was not always like that. She once had rousing golden hair. The serpents were the result of a curse by Athena, the goddess of wisdom and warfare. Medusa had made the mistake of copulating with Poseidon, the protector of seafarers, in a temple dedicated to Athena. As a punishment, Athena turned Medusa’s golden locks into live serpents.

Unbeknownst to Medusa, a plot was hatched in a faraway land to murder her. Acrisius, the king of Argos, believing an oracle’s prophecy that he would be killed by his grandson, deposited his daughter, Danae, and her pre-teen son, Perseus, in a wooden chest and cast it out to the sea. Mother and child washed ashore on the island of Seriphos whose ruler Polydectus took a fancy to Danae. Perseus disliked Polydectus, so he plotted to kill him. He had heard of a Gorgon named Medusa whose gaze turned people to stone. Aware of Athena’s curse, he sought her help in finding and killing Medusa. With Athena’s assistance, he went in search of Medusa, found her, and beheaded her avoiding her gaze. He brought the decapitated head, which retained its ability to turn onlookers to stone, to Polydectus and declared, “Here is your gift, my Lord!” Polydectus looked at the gift and was turned into stone.

The references to sea, sea gods, and seafaring in the story were not lost on Brother Juan. He was shaken by parallels between his dream and the fable. Snakes in place of hair? He reflexively touched his head just to make sure. He asked Father Miguel if there was a moral to the story. Father Miguel told him that the myths were created by pagans a long time ago when polytheism was predominant. Enlightened humans like him and Brother Juan knew that there was but one God and by trusting Him, all humans would attain salvation. That explanation – more of a pronouncement – did nothing to settle Brother Juan’s feeling of unease.

After over a month at sea, the fleet commander announced that they would be making landfall in a couple of days. That night, a severe storm hit the ocean. Giant waves tossed the ships this way and that. Two of the ships sank taking the sailors down with them. The other ships managed to stay afloat despite hours of non-stop rain, turbulent waves, and whipping winds. However, the commander was unable to establish the coordinates and the sailors had no control over the direction of the ships’ drift. When the storm finally died, they found themselves in unchartered waters. The usually composed prince was tense and agitated. There was very little food left since food rations were in one of the ships that sank. After a few more days of delirious drifting, one of the sailors spotted seaweed. The commander knew land had to be nearby. The ships followed the floating seaweed and soon there were other promising signs: birds circling overhead, musty odor of mangrove swamps, and distant roar of surf. Finally, they saw land – more precisely, thick vegetation.

The prince picked a landing site and rode a canoe towards it along with five sailors. There was no sign of human or animal life where they landed. They marched inland, rifle at the ready. Once they reached the edge of the jungle, there was nowhere to go. The vegetation was so thick and the canopy so dense, it was hard to see where one was going. They drew their swords and cut an arduous path looking for anything that looked edible. They found some berries at the base of a tree. After taste-testing, they went looking for similar trees. As they got deeper into the jungle, they heard movements in the treetops. They could vaguely see the outlines of a creature that leapt from one branch to the next. They assumed they were monkeys which did not interest them. They were in search of more edible animals – a squirrel, a rabbit or even a snake. They came upon another berry tree and were inspecting the fruit when figures emerged from the shadows. They were surrounded by short men armed with spears. More men dropped from the trees and soon there were scores of them. The men talked among themselves and inspected the visitors. One of them touched a sailor and withdrew his hand quickly. Another leapt up to touch the face of a tall sailor. As the native men got bolder, the sailors were beginning to lose their nerve. When a native pinched the flesh of a sailor, the sailor shouted “cannibals!” and shot the offender. Within minutes, the prince and the other sailors had been speared to death.

The waiting sailors heard the shot and feared the worst. As the sailors stood on the deck watching the shore, one of the sailors dropped dead felled by a poisoned dart. The sailors moved the cannons on the ships in position to aim at the landing site. When the natives gathered on the beach to look at the ships, a cannon ball took out half of them. The natives made a hasty retreat. When there was no movement or activity for a long time, Brother Juan offered to go ashore and make a peace offering. He rode alone in a canoe. As soon as he reached the shore, he was set upon, dragged away from the beach and beheaded. The natives stuck Brother Juan’s head on a gold-painted pole and placed it on the beachfront as a warning to intruders. When Brother Juan did not return, Father Miguel went ashore looking for him. Blinded by the shiny pole on the beach, he rode the canoe in the general direction of the beach. As he was pulling the canoe out of the water, he saw Brother Juan’s decapitated head. The moment his eyes caught Brother Juan’s eyes; he was turned into stone. From that day on, Brother Juan’s head sitting on a golden pole kept all intruders and invaders away from that part of the world.

Balu Swami lives in the US. His works have appeared in Ink Pantry, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Flash Fiction North, Short Kid Stories, Twist and Twain, and Literary Veganism.

You can find more of Balu’s work here on Ink Pantry

He put his hand over mine and it looked so old. “No one will even want them,” I said,

“They’re dated”. He said that wasn’t the point and walked over to the white dresser by your bed.

“Let’s start with her shirts,” he said, and I told him your shirts were in the tall dresser by the window. He put a shaky hand on your bed for support, and I could hear his knees creak as he stood. The last time we were in your room together he could have carried your dresser over his shoulder.

“The top drawer?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “the third down.”

He opened the drawer and pulled out a neat pile of tiny shirts that were so colourful. When he took the shirts out of your drawer, the room changed. It wasn’t how it was the last time you were in it, and so it wasn’t really yours anymore. I started crying, and he came over to me with your shirts and sat down. He said, “We knew this wasn’t going to be easy, Elle, but you’re doing a great job.”

The shirt at the top of the pile was yellow with a little smiling duck on the front. I thought, if only this duck knew—everything in your room seemed so unexpectant of tragedy.

I could see your dad looking at me out of the corner of my eye. He had that same look when he found me with the pills in your closet. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Elle, she’s not here.” He took your shirt from me and went to put it in a black garbage bag.

“No, Christ, no,” I said, “I brought boxes, they’re downstairs.” I went to stand up, but he offered to get them. He left the room and I listened for his footsteps to reach the bottom of the stairs. I stood up and walked to the door and locked it.

On your bedside table there was a framed picture of us. I picked it up and saw from the dust that it had been moved. I heard him coming back upstairs, and then I heard him gently trying at the door handle. “Elle,” he said from behind the door, “come on, let me in.”

“So,” I said, “you have been in here.” He didn’t say anything at first, and I waited for him to deny it, but then he said,

“Once, when I was drunk, but I didn’t take anything.” Then he said, “Elle, you told me I could keep the house if I promised to keep the room just as it was, and I did, I have.”

I knew he was telling the truth because the rest of the house had gone to shambles. There were cracks up the walls, the wood floors were black and warped, a musty smell was coming up through the vents; the whole house was falling apart except for your room. This room was the same, even structurally, like the house was helping to keep his promise too.

I picked up the picture and looked at us. “Hi, sweetheart,” I said to you, “beautiful, beautiful little sweetheart. I never stopped thinking about you for one second,” I said. “I just couldn’t come back here, you know? But I never forgot, no ma’am, and when your dad said that I had moved on, baby, that wasn’t true. I didn’t move on, I just kinda’ kept on surviving. I met another man, I did, and it wasn’t your daddy, I know, but your daddy wasn’t the same after, baby. And this new man, he was as nice a man, as nice as they come. And he gave me your sisters, and all growing up they asked about their big sister, and all growing up I told them about you. Well, they’re a lot older than you are now, and have babies of their own, but you’re always their big sister watching over them, protecting them, I know”.

I put the picture back down. I heard him from behind the door again.

“Elle,” he said.

“Just one more minute,” I said.

The sun was coming through the window, which was strange, you know, because whenever I pictured your room, it was shrouded in gloom. But that’s not how it was, not with that eastern-facing window. The room was bright and laughing, and I remembered how I chose the colours for just that reason.

I opened your door to let him back in. His eyes were red and he kind of shrank away from me. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. He had the boxes folded flat under his arm and said, “It took me a while to find these, flat boxes.” He smiled a little, that crooked smile that you both have. He put the boxes down in the centre of the room and started putting them together. “All to Goodwill?” He asked.

“No,” I said, “but I’m going to mark each of them.” I was staring at the door frame where we had marked your height. I followed the notches inch by inch, and when they stopped at three and a half feet, my eyes kept climbing.

“Okay,” he said, “they’re ready”. He pulled one of the boxes next to the pile of shirts and sat back down. I joined him on the floor, and he said, “So, how far away is Tessa and…” He tried to remember my son in-law’s name. I told him that I didn’t want to talk about anything else outside of your room. He nodded and reached for your shirts, but I stopped him. “Elle,” he said. And I said,

“Can you put them back just how they were? Just for a second, then I promise we will pack everything up.” He nodded and got up and then I said, “Sit down with me after.”

He put your shirts back where they were and stepped away from the dresser. He grunted a little as he squatted down next to me. I took his hand in mine and held it. And the two of us sat there, for a while, in your unchanged room.

Sean Cahill-Lemme was born in Park Ridge, Illinois—yes, he does consider that to be Chicagoland—to a family of raconteurs, the Northside descendants of Erin. He has no problem admitting he’s not the best storyteller in his family (you wouldn’t either if you ever shared a pint with his gramps), but he does believe storytelling can be more than just entertainment after the real work is done.

He has always been hesitant to share his stories, but encouragement from an incredible culture of Chicago writers has convinced him otherwise.

When it comes to writing, Sean puts truth above all else—if readers walk away feeling something real, he will have done his job. Beyond that, he hopes that readers enjoy his stories as much as he has enjoyed writing them.

It was time to go back, time to walk again the path that I had walked so many times in my memory across the years, time to try and put the past to sleep.

I remembered that summer so well. It had been long, and sweltering, with days that seemed to go on and on. The day it happened we had all wanted to cool off down by the river. We had congregated at a wide curving stretch where the apparently slow-flow of water suddenly went at breakneck speed as it cascaded over the fifty-foot-tall waterfall.

Nestled down in a red sandstone valley, the river, and its surroundings, could have been so beautiful, if it hadn’t been for the landfill site that ran within a hundred feet alongside the bank where the waterfall smashed into the rubbish-strewn river bed and tumbled away over broken bikes and shopping trolleys. It was the warm mellow sandstone that was, in a way, to blame for what happened. We loved the fact that we could carve our names so easily in the exposed red-rock faces that rose up high above the slow-flowing river before the waterfall, but it was also that softness that let the river carve its character into the rock, a character that was cruel and vicious. The warm glow that filled the valley when the sun shone down upon the red-rocks belied the malevolence of the wicked relationship between water and stone. If they had never met, at that point on earth, or spent so many centuries enmeshed with each other, it would never have happened.

We knew the area so well as it was our playground, a playground that we had to reach by clambering over a tall chain-link fence. We then had to scramble through bramble and bindweed entangled undergrowth, crossing the freight live-line and the old passenger dead-line of the railway. Most had no fear of crossing the live-line, but I did. I was always the coward. I used to imagine the train hurtling towards us and taking us along with it as it passed, just as my parents said it would, but I never did see a train on the live-line. That fear of railways was embedded in my heart though, my parents’ warnings made sure of that. They didn’t know we crossed it regularly, they thought we heeded their warnings, but our main playground was the dead-line: the place we built our dens and fought our imaginary battles. They didn’t know we went beyond even there and played down by the river, our favourite summer place. They told no stories of the dangers of water, but instinctively I knew that the river was out to get me, and hurt me, just like the trains were.

It was a long trek to reach our favourite place and we were hot and bothered by the time we reached the river that day. There were lots of us there. Some children I knew, and some I didn’t. The girls were in their homemade floral summer shift-dresses and sandals, and the boys were in baggy shorts, t-shirts and black plimsoles. There was joy in the air, a joy that reverberated off the sandstone and swept down the river, letting everyone know how happy we were. Even the smell of sewerage and chemicals in the river didn’t deter us. Nothing was going to stop us cooling off. Nothing was going to stop the fun.

That day some of us were bold, brave and daring, diving and surfacing. Some of us were cowardly, just paddling in the shallows. I was, of course, one of the cowards. She was one of the bold, brave and daring amongst us. She was the one that first dived off the top of the waterfall. She was the one that encouraged others to join her. The joy oozed from every pore on her body and was like a rainbow aura all around her. Adding to her beauty were flowing golden locks that streamed outwards as she dived. She had the innocence of most eight-year olds that had not had fear etched into their heart: a child that knew life was for living to the full. She was the one that had the most fun. Meek, mouse-like me, envied her courage as I paddled in the shallows. ‘She’. I can’t remember her name; fear that day, carried it away.

The first we knew of anything being wrong was when her best friend suddenly noticed she wasn’t around. We thought she was acting the fool, as she did so often, but then we started to panic. “When did you last see her?” shouted one of the boys. Everyone agreed that they last saw her diving off the top of the waterfall. None of us knew what to do. We were frozen in place, fearful of running for help because we knew we shouldn’t be there. Then a man walking his dog came by and we told him that we hadn’t seen our friend since she dived off the top of the waterfall. “Stay away from the water! I’ll get help,” the man shouted to us all, “but stay away from the water!” he emphasised, and then he turned and ran.

It seemed like a lifetime before they came. There were police, firemen, and an ambulance. They couldn’t get close with vehicles and had to walk to us by skirting around the edge of the rubbish dump. When we saw them coming we were scared to stay, but we were also scared to leave. They started to question us about where she had jumped from, but all we could say was the top of the waterfall. After they had taken our details they told us to go home and to stay away. We knew we had to tell our parents. We knew we had to face their wrath. In some ways facing their wrath was worse than what had happened.

“We’ve told you again and again not to go over that railway line!” screamed my Father. He was a man we always dreaded to cross. He had a stature and hair colour that matched his temper and nature: short and black. He never missed an opportunity to lash out, and this time was no different. It was my Brother that took the brunt of it as he was closest, but we all felt the stings of his blows. “Why can you never be trusted?” he shouted. “Are you thick? Are you too stupid to understand what we say? Get out of my sight! Now you retards!” He turned to my Mother and said “I’ll teach them! I’ll make them sit down by the river and see her body brought out! That will give them a lesson they will never forget!” My Mother said nothing, just as she always said nothing when he was on one of his rants.

We weren’t the only ones back there by the river the next day. No one could stay away, not children, not parents, not nosy locals. The place was like a giant magnet drawing every bit of scrap metal to it. We all sat and watched, day after day. We sat with my Father on a bare mound of soil in an area that separated the tip from the river, not far from where the police divers scoured the area below the waterfall. I picked up a piece of rubbish and tore the paper into tiny strips to pass the time. A police officer walked past, and my Father shouted to him “You should show the body to all these kids when you bring her out! You wouldn’t catch the idiots swimming in there after that!” There was pure hatred on the officer’s face as he stared at my Father for a long moment before he turned and walked away without saying a word.

It was eight days before they found her. They said that the river had corroded the sandstone, making tunnels under the waterfall which created lethal whirlpools that had dragged her down and into a tunnel. They made us all leave when they brought her out, so my Father didn’t get his wish fulfilled. We stayed away from the river after that, and we stayed away from the railway lines. Not long afterwards we moved away from the area, but I never forgot, and I knew that one day I would go back.

I passed my driving test when I was eighteen and I started to explore the places from my childhood again. At first, I stayed away from the river, but I knew that the tip was no longer there, and that the area had been landscaped to create a country park for the local people to enjoy. One hot summer day, a day that was just like that fateful day, I decided the time had come to visit and try to put the ghosts to rest. I no longer had to clamber over fences, and through undergrowth, as a carpark now stood at the entrance to the valley where the deadline met the old railway viaduct. Willow and hawthorn lined the route up along the deadline, and birds sang and flitted from bush to bush, while crickets chirped in the long grass. Gone was the odour of rotting rubbish, replaced now by the scent of flowers and nature. Gone were the dens made of wood and corrugated iron that we had made in the undergrowth. This was no longer a wasteland of rubbish; this was an area that Mother Nature had clothed in beauty, one she could be proud of.

I walked slowly along the dead-line and appreciated every tree, every bush, every flower. Did I do that to delay my visit to the river? Was it my subconscious mind trying to keep me away from the past? I don’t know, but I know a ten-minute walk took me an hour.

The dead-line was above the river which was now hidden from view by woodland. A wide path led downwards through the trees to meet the river just by the waterfall, with another path curving off upstream, running beside the river, under the towering red-rock, where we had paddled and dived all those years ago. The long grass was dry, and crackly, just as it had been on that terrible day. I sat down amidst it and watched the slow progress of the river until it once again dashed over the waterfall. The river no longer smelt of sewerage and chemicals, and no one could ever dive from the waterfall now: they had filled the riverbed below the waterfall with huge boulders after that tragic incident. The sound of water hitting those boulders mingled with the bird song that filled the valley with beautiful music.

I sat there, for a long-time, watching swallows flying joyously back and too, low along the river, catching insects for their young. They flew close to me also, so close I felt I could reach out and touch them: the acrobats of the air putting on a special show just for me. I heard a call then, a long low whistle, the whistle of one of my favourite birds: the kingfisher. I sat stone still and watched for its approach. On the edge of the opposite bank was a willow whose branches hung over the river, and it was there that the kingfisher alighted. She watched the water with an inquisitive eye, and then dived boldly down into the river. Moments later she shot upwards back through the water surface and towards the branch, a rainbow-like aura surrounding her iridescent blue and orange feathers. Water droplets that caught the gold of the sun fell earthwards and spread sparkles across the river. She sat on the branch, upright and proud, the performer in front of her audience. It was then, in the corner of my eye, that I spotted a movement on the ground. I slowly turned my head just in time to see a frightened furtive little mouse scurry away back into the long grass.

Mother Nature had healed this place, but the joyful and the fearful still played here. Seeing life acted out in nature, I wondered if it was better to live a short life full of joy, or a long one full of fear? Would the kingfisher or the swallow swap places with the mouse, and would she have swapped places with me?

Kerry Barlow has studied creative writing with The Open University.