Darkshine

by R. D. Vallier

  A cowbell clanged against the glass door as I entered Keith's Corner Shop. Keith stood behind the beat-up wooden counter as always, wearing a faded OSU ball cap and a Realtree jacket, a lump of tobacco behind his lip. His weathered face smiled when I entered. The smile didn't touch his eyes, though. It never did.

  "Mornin'." Keith's voice crackled from decades of cigarettes and his sentences always trailed up, as if he was in a constant state of suspicion. "How's Sam a-doin'?"

  "Good. I'm making him lasagna tonight," I replied, emphasizing my wifeliness. The star on Sam's chest had granted him instant acceptance from the community when we moved here, but I was merely an accessory on his arm like a cufflink or a watch. I had no status here or friends or roots or blood. I was not a church member; I had no children despite years of trying; and I occupied a job which could have been given to a local. Everyone was polite to my face, but I often caught people—like Keith, as I rounded an aisle corner—staring at me from the tail of their eyes. I often felt like an exotic animal, a gazelle perhaps, caught munching flowers on their grandmother's grave.

  I wish I could blame the small-town atmosphere for the glares and unease, but growing up had never been any different. All my life an inner voice whispered I was an outcast, that I somehow didn't belong. You always act as if you are hiding something, my mother used to say. Stop being so damn quiet. Yet I knew people's unspoken dislike of me was more than my muteness. It was deeper. An unseen deformity, like that puppy all the litter-mates try to kill even though the breeder finds nothing wrong with it. Most days I ignored the stares, but some days it was so painfully obvious I ducked into public restrooms to make sure nothing was stuck to my face.

  "Any plans tonight?" I asked Keith.

  Keith sniffed. "Family," he mumbled, then flipped open a hunting magazine.

  I sighed and wandered to the rear of the store. Shopping at Keith's reminded me of an archeology dig. I never knew what I would find or how long it had waited to be discovered. Metal shelving stretched across his small shop, crammed with everything from basic groceries to office supplies to children's toys to wigs to car fluids and car parts to deer gutting kits to greeting cards to tools. He also had an intimidating display of knives near the cash register, a small fridge of wilting fruits and vegetables, a small deli counter, and three floor-to-ceiling whirring refrigerators packed with bait and booze, namely Bud Ice.

  I grabbed a half gallon of milk beside a small wall of beer cubes, then headed to the middle aisle. Pasta nestled between canned soups and bags of generic cat food which had probably been accumulating dust since the Kennedy assassination.

  Cat food. That reminded me of the chickadee.

  I grabbed a box of lasagna noodles, checked the expiration date (I still had eight days left, yippee!), and headed to the counter. "Do you sell bird seed?" I asked.

  "All out."

  I should have gone to Kroger, after all. I had told the chickadee that no bloodshed today meant a treat, and even though Sam would scoff at me for making a deal with a dumb animal, I intended to keep my promise. Beside the cash register was a basket of individually wrapped carrot cake slices. Do chickadees even like carrot cake? Apparently I would find out. "I'll take one of these, too."

  Keith rang up my order. I headed out of the shop, plastic bag of groceries hanging off my wrist. The cowbell clanged as I opened the door. A brown moth fluttered inside and disappeared above the fluorescent lighting.

  Do, bee, do, bee. Do, bee, do beeee.

  "Hey, Keith?" He glowered at me, as if wondering why I didn't vanish from his town in the puff of voodoo smoke I most likely arrived in. "Do you know what species of bird makes this song? I've heard it all day."

  Keith's face softened. He came around the counter and joined me in the doorway. "Aaaaah," he said, his smile touching his eyes. Apparently Keith was a bird man. I made a mental note for future conversations. "That there's a Carolina chickadee that is."

  "Chickadee? I thought they sang their name."

  Keith nodded, keeping his ear to the outside, listening to the high, low, high, low. Do, bee, do, bee. "Ah yup, their chick-a-dee-dee-dee is how they got their name, all right. But that's just one-uh their songs. The see-me-I'm-here is the other."

  "See me I'm here?" I asked.

  "That's the trick to rememberin' it. The notes kinda sound like those words if ya use yer 'magination some."

  High, low, high, low. Do, bee, do, bee. See, me, I'm, here.

  My eyebrows jumped. Once he pointed it out I couldn't not hear it, crisp and distinct.

  See-me-I'm-here. See-me-I'm-here.

  "I once heard an old Indian story bout them chickadees," he continued. "Said they're the strongest spirits in the wood, and I believe it."

  I never would have related a tiny chickadee to strength. I turned to Keith, eyebrow raised. "Yeah? Why is that?"

  "Cuz it don't matter how bad the winters get, those lil birds don't just survive, they thrive. Most other birds fly to warmer weather. Even big, tough bears will hide and sleep 'til the snow melts. But not chickadee. He's a brave'un. Heck, when the weatherman forecasts a nasty snowstorm it's hard a-keepin' my shelves stocked cuz we humans get so scared and crazy. But chickadee braves the storm, survives as if it were his playground, and keeps on a-singin'."

  I glanced at Keith from the corner of my eye, a smile tugging at my lips. He seemed filled somehow, as if talking about birds ignited warmth beneath his Realtree jacket. I had always thought of chickadees as background noise, easily taken for granted, easily forgotten. Keith's story was like a map into a secret world. Maybe my chickadee friend was more special than I realized. Maybe it offered me a way to connect with this community, with something as simple as birding.

  "A chickadee has visited my window every day for the past three days," I said.

  "That's nice," Keith grumbled, and shuffled back to his counter. "Tell Sam hello."

  My shoulders slumped. "I will," I mumbled. The cowbell clanged. "Merry Christmas."

  I never saw Keith again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The remaining walk home was wooded, with a few houses and trailers tucked deep into the trees. My grocery bag's handle had snapped a quarter of a mile back and I now cradled the noodles, milk, and carrot cake in my arms like an infant. I had been scrutinizing my awkward interaction with Keith since I left his shop, trying to decide at which point I appeared the biggest idiot.

  A narrow creek meandered along the roadside, but it wasn't the picturesque vision the local campgrounds touted in their brochures. The water was bright orange and acidic, cutting through the landscape like a blood-poisoned vein. Even after nine years of living near the acid mine drainage my heart sank at the sight. I thought about the hibernating fish that should have been nestled in the creek's pebbles, the frogs that would never bask on its summer banks, and the eggs that would never hatch. I thought of all the life that would never happen thanks to this toxic land, a byproduct of coal mining, desperate workers risking their lives, and good old corporate greed. The locals called the polluted waters Yellow Boy, but I secretly called it Agent Orange. Everywhere that water flowed brought destruction and death.

  The poisoned creek snaked around overgrown slag piles which had merged with the forest during the past century, creating unnaturally shaped hills and valleys. I scanned the roadway, making sure I was alone, then followed the orange water into the woods. Bare branches scraped against my clothing as I pushed through a grove of paw paw trees between two slag hills and into the hidden clearing beyond.

  I had never told anyone about this secret place. And God forbid my husband finds out. Sam would sneer and gibe and roll his eyes at the decomposing log blocking the abandoned mineshaft, dusted with snow. But, to me, this recess was more inviting than feather beds or day spas or stone hearths crackling with flame. It was my sacred haven, a time-out from a mundane life.

  The mineshaft yawned from the hillside as if it had dozed off awaiting my return, waking to greet me with open ar
ms. It blew a constant fifty-five degrees, warming me on my winter rests and cooling me in summer's heat. I set my groceries beside the paw paws and sat on the log, listening to the orange creek trickle faintly past the grove. Deer prints cut across the opening and disappeared into the brush; raccoon prints ran beside them. I never found human tracks, however, except for the ones I had left from the days before. Discarded bottles or food wrappers never littered the scenery. Nor was there graffiti spray-painted on the rock or carved into the trees. My shoulders relaxed. It was always just me, and it was the one place in the world where I believed that was enough.

  See-me-I'm-here.

  I guess today it isn't just me, after all. The sweet, crisp notes greeted me from the branches overhead. A chickadee stared down from twenty feet up. I doubted it was the same bird from my windowsill—I mean, what were the odds?—but I decided it was a good opportunity to see if carrot cake was chickadee-approved.

  I fetched the carrot cake and unwrapped the cellophane, the warm scents of cinnamon and nutmeg tempting on a chilly Christmas Eve. I took a bite, moist and spicy, the frosting making my molar's cavity ache. "Do you like carrot cake, chickadee?" I asked, and threw a chunk to the ground.

  The chickadee tilted its head, bounced on the branch, then flitted down and pecked eagerly at the morsel, shaking its head to rip out the carrot pieces. As pets went, this was the closest I would ever get. I had begged Sam for years to adopt, but he refused adamantly, insisting dogs were too much responsibility, cats were too snobbish, and birds were filthy rats with wings.

  "How brave are you, spirit of the wood?" I crouched and held out the rest of the cake in my hand. The chickadee flew onto my wrist and pecked eagerly. I froze, my heart beating enthusiastically as I gaped at the wildlife at my fingertips, its tiny nails prickling my skin. The carrot cake had become a keyhole, a glimpse into a secret, untamable world. An unexplainable sense of home and belonging overwhelmed me. Tears pricked my eyes. I swallowed hard, feeling like a child again. A scared, lost child, who had finally collapsed into her father's arms after wandering aimlessly for so long. I let the tears drip off my chin, too terrified to wipe them away, too terrified any movement would scare away the chickadee, even though it seemed braver than a thousand armies armed to the teeth.

  I don't know how long I crouched there or how long the chickadee pecked. Enough for my right foot to fall asleep, but not enough for the bird to fill. A brisk wind whipped the hair off my shoulder. A tear grew frigid on my cheek. The creek trickled outside the grove, its orange water flowing through the forest like a never ending funeral procession.

  "Nature's veins are filled with poison, her flesh is rotting, and all the faeries are dead." My somber voice startled me. I hadn't intended to speak and had no idea where the words came from, or what they even meant.

  The chickadee peered up at me. "The faeries aren't dead, Miriam. They just left the area."

  My spine stiffened. The mineshaft puffed a gust of warm air. The chickadee stared at me and blinked its beady eyes.

  "Did ... did you say something?" I asked.

  The chickadee nodded. "I said the faeries aren't dead. Otherwise I would be unemployed."

  I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it. My body tingled with excitement. My chest hummed as if ready to burst from holding in all the secrets of the world. Throughout my life I had felt like a stain on a carpet, an unwanted embarrassment the world tried to ignore. But in the span of a chickadee's tiny, chirping words, everything changed. Wildlife obviously didn't talk to just anybody. I must have been special somehow. I must have been—

  The blood drained from my face. "Oh ... Oh my God." Wildlife did not talk to anybody. Chickadees didn't speak and faeries didn't exist. I was having a break with reality. I was more of a freak than anyone ever believed. I stood up slowly, every muscle tense, as if the chickadee had sprouted fangs and a rattler. "I'm going crazy."

  The chickadee tilted its head. "How do you—tweet!"

  I yanked my hand back; the chickadee tumbled into the snow. "I-I'm stressed about Sam," I muttered, "and working too much, and having to visit the in-laws tomorrow. The stress has made me snap."

  "You aren't crazy," the chickadee said, shaking snowflakes off its tail. A tiny down feather seesawed in the air. I snatched my groceries and charged through the paw paw grove, branches snapping against my coat. Eyes felt everywhere. People felt everywhere. Hidden behind trees where people had never lurked before. I could almost hear them laughing and mocking. There goes Sam's stupid wife. As crazy as she is worthless.

  The chickadee flew after me and landed on my shoulder. "You are different, Miriam."

  I hugged the groceries against my chest, as if protecting my last shred of sanity. "You're not there! La! La! La! You're not there!"

  "You must realize you are different," the chickadee continued, bobbing on my shoulder in rhythm to my stride. "Don't you feel lost? As if you can't find home?"

  I fought back tears, refusing to allow this psychosis to manipulate my emotions. I was already Sam's odd wife, which had been fine when we were two outcasts in high school. But Sam was now well respected and determined to be elected Sheriff next election. He would kill me if I damaged his reputation and ruined his dream.

  I raced past the slag piles and back onto the street. Gravel and road salt crunched beneath my sneakers. A brown mud-truck roared past us, smog billowing out the tailpipe, plastic testicles swaying beneath its hitch. The chickadee waited to speak until after it disappeared over a hill. "I am sorry I scared you, but how else was I supposed to communicate?" I pressed my lips tight and ignored the talking songbird on my shoulder. The hallucination. The chickadee sighed. "Fine. I will give you some time. But do me three favors: Avoid the moths, trust the spiders, and do not go out after dark."

  "What is all that supposed to mean?" I cut the last word short, realizing curiosity had tricked me into joining this psychotic conversation. It didn't matter. The chickadee had already disappeared into the trees.

  That was, if it had ever been there at all.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I latched the deadbolt, shoved the milk in the refrigerator, then went straight to bed. Naps made me feel guilty, as if I was behaving lazy and disrespectful since Sam worked twelve hour days, sometimes six days a week. The public appreciates hard workers, he always said. I need to prove I have what it takes if I want to be elected Sheriff. I had a ton of chores and obligations to finish before Sam got home, but I would be utterly useless if my brain snapped and he found me comatose and dribbling in the corner.

  Besides, I didn't need a nap, just a chance to rest my eyes, recollect myself, unwind. Chickadees did not speak English in the real world. That only happened in fairytales and nervous breakdowns. I was obviously sick, possibly in the early stages of schizophrenia. I remembered a talk-show which had said schizophrenia was most severe if it started in the late twenties. My psyche was prime breeding ground for the crazies.

  I froze halfway up the stairs. What if this isn't insanity? What if I'm having a stroke? I sucked in my lips. I didn't dare go to the emergency room. Sam would be humiliated if the public saw his wife raving about birds insisting she was special and relaying secret information about moths and spiders. And if my ramblings spread through the county? I cringed. The waves I'd cause would destroy his reputation. I couldn't do that to Sam, not after all the time and hard work he put into his career. Who would elect a Sheriff married to a lunatic?

  I couldn't remember if aspirin was for strokes or heart attacks, but I took two anyway, then grabbed the cordless phone from the dresser and placed it beside my pillow so if I was on the verge of dying I could call 9-1-1. I tried to sleep, but the vision of the chickadee peering up from its carrot cake, a crumb stuck to its beak, repeated relentlessly in my head.

  The faeries aren't dead, it had said.

  My stomach knotted. My hallucination had spoken about imaginary creatures existing. That had to be a new record for insanity. I pushed the memory aside an
d visualized things I knew existed. The bed's brown and white striped comforter. Sam's gray-green eyes and crooked smile. The gold cross around my mother's neck.

  When I opened my eyes I was calmer. Not rested—an enormous Brillo pad had somehow invaded my head—but the chickadee and the carrot cake seemed like a fading dream. I shuffled into the bathroom, rubbing my eyes. My heart jumped into my throat when I noticed the digital clock on the counter. I slept over two hours? Holy crap!

  I bolted down the stairs, the clomps reverberating in the farmhouse. I needed to bake the pie for tomorrow, the in-laws' presents were still unwrapped, we had no clean clothes, and downstairs resembled a natural disaster. Sam typically strode through the door around 6:20, and I had promised lasagna for dinner.

  "Okay, okay. You can do this. It's a matter of time management."

  I cranked on the oven and started the first load of laundry. The skillet clanged against the burner. I set a stock pot to boil. Several minutes later noodles plopped into rolling water, and ground beef and chopped onion sizzled in the skillet. I popped open a jar of spaghetti sauce and prepared my cheeses. Thirty minutes later the oven door slammed shut on a raw lasagna.

  Thankfully, I had made the pie crust the night before. I squinted, trying to read my mother-in-law's handwriting. Cut sugar pumpkin into chunks. Simmer, covered in an inch of water for thirty minutes...? Or does that say twenty? I had never made a pumpkin pie before, or had been allowed to help with Christmas dinner for that matter. God knew why my mother-in-law relented this year. Sam believed she was starting to trust me. I suspected it was a trap.