Selfie, Suicide

by Logo Daedalus

  It was here & it was always here, at the very same lake house each year in the woods on the banks of Lake Lear that their idylls of idleness became icons of timelessness or at least that’s how they appeared when they looked forward or back to those times as a respite from their dull lives.

  & Cairey especially looked forward to them, as it was there that he met the first Abigail of his life. She was a girl his own age whose parents had made quite similar summer pilgrimages to Lake Lear, to a different lake house, but on the same road- or at least, that’s what he’d assumed.

  One morning, when Cairey was seven years old, he had been climbing trees, imagining himself to be climbing the ramparts of a besieged city lifted from a manga he was obsessed with titled “Samurai Noname”- when he heard footfalls, snapping twigs, & rustling leaves heading in his direction. As they came nearer he heard a voice mumble-murmuring a gibberish song to the tune of:

  La-la, La-la, La-la, La-la--

  La-la, La-la, La-la--

  & this tune offended the seriousness of his noble mission enough that it broke his enchantment. He yelled down at this intruder “Shut up!” in the sober tone of chivalric boyhood chauvinism.

  This startled the girl momentarily, before she spied its source in the canopy above, & recognized that it belonged to a silly boy. So she screamed in response:

  LA LA! LA LA! LA LA! LA LA!-

  LA LA! LA LA! LA LA!-

  & she giggled when Carey replied in turn, shaking his tree by pumping its limbs with his legs, making its leaves crash into each other, screaming back “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

  This battle of wits lasted for a few volleys, before the girl recognized the loop they’d entered, & deployed a new weapon.

  “Why should I listen to you” she asked “when you’re just a stupid leaf in a stupid tree?”

  & this struck Cairey most peculiarly, as he was not a leaf, but a knight errant in a company of honorable rapscallions warring against the evil sorcerer who ruled the realms. He considered correcting her on this case of mistaken identity, but decided that it would be better not to waste his dignity on a stupid girl, so he said: “Well you’re a stupid branch on the stupid ground.” He was pleased with the cleverness of this retort.

  It had stupefied the girl, & she stood there, below him, frumpily biting into her lip with her hands on her hips, squinting up at him in a pose of sophisticated girlhood offense. He believed himself the victor of this exchange until she said: “My name is Princess Branche, & you should bow to me.”

  This was a real conundrum, as to deny the status of her nobility would entail putting away the persona he’d adopted for good. It was simply unimaginable for a knight errant to disrespect a wandering princess in disguise once her identity had been revealed to him. No longer was this a scenario in which some mere girl was interrupting his quest, this was, quite assuredly, a call to adventure.

  So he leapt from his tree & bowed before her, as he knew to be customary for knights in the presence of princesses.

  “I’m sorry Princess” he said, “I had mistaken you for a spy of the dark wizard’s.”

  Her scornful demeanor softened at this unexpected display. & so she stretched herself into the character she had invented, & responded.

  “I am not a spy. I am Princess Branche & my kingdom has been stolen from me. Maybe you can help me find it. What is your name?”

  “I have no name” Cairey replied, lifting a line of dialogue he admired from the manga, “but I will accompany you on your quest.”

  “I will call you Leaf” she said.

  & it was thus that their collaborative campaigns began. They lasted from breakfast to lunch & from lunch to dinner, paused only by the clarion calls of “Cairey” & “Abigail” which dissolved their personas, & severed them as a duo, into two only-children from two separate families, states, & townships. Of these estranged existences, they knew nothing but their secret names, yet these were irrelevant fictions compared to the real scourges that blighted the enchanted realms that surrounded Lake Lear. There was the ogre named Arodnid who dwelt in the cave, the zombies in the brambles, the boogiemen who slept beneath the docks, grabbed the ankles of children, & drowned them. There were the vampires in the fields of skunk cabbage, but worst of all, there was Tinfasel, the dark wizard who had stolen the Princess's kingdom & commanded the evil forces they fought. His only weakness was something Abigail called “The Aphorapt.”

  What this was, she could not say, but their search for it was the motivating principle of the adventures. Their quests always lead them into conflicts with the various elements of their environment. For three summers they maintained these adventures, fleshing out their world with maps they drew & pictures they sketched, which they shared when they reconvened. & it was this world, this patch of forest & lake with its unending quest for the antidote to Tinfasel, which composed the paradise of Cairey’s imagination. It was a paradise that he’d never recovered, as it was in that third summer, on the final day of his vacation, that he’d lost it forever.

  They had commandeered a canoe for themselves that the Princess had found abandoned on the public dock. They’d taken it to explore the archipelagos amidst the swampier regions of Lake Lear. & on this canoe someone had carved his name beneath the prow. Luke Mourner, was what it read, but this translated into their fantastical vocabulary as Lucremorn, by means of Abigail’s phonetic aphorism. It was she, the Princess, & rightful ruler of the realm, who had the last word on the canonicity of its elements. She named its creatures & its isles. This had not been a problem for Cairey, or rather, for the errant knight Leaf, until midway through that third summer, when he found himself becoming increasingly frustrated by her dictates.

  He had drawn a treasure map earlier that spring, in anticipation of the summer, under the influence of another manga, titled “Dragon Crusade.” On the map he’d marked an X where the Aphorapt had been hidden, which was, he claimed, on the most distant edge of Lake Lear, where a dragon lived- a dragon that he would slay.

  But when he presented this to Abigail, with the surmise that he had found it hidden, far away, on a journey he’d taken alone, she met it with skepticism. She said it was a trap of Tinfasel’s, as she explained:

  “That dragon is not an evil dragon. He is always misunderstood. I have known him for a very long time. He does not have the Aphorapt, because if he did, I would know about it. What he does have is the secret of the star that fell a long time ago, which brings people back from the dead. It only works once in a lifetime he says. It’s no use to us. Besides, he isn’t worth bothering. He’s always very sad.”

  & this, though it interested Cairey, bothered him more, as it destroyed the crusade he had, for months, envisioned & practiced for. She compromised with his ambitions by agreeing to explore those distant shores of Lake Lear, which had hitherto been inaccessible to them. It was then that she’d led him to the canoe she had found, which she claimed was a gift from that surly old dragon. With this proof, he acquiesced to her command, but not without a residual bitterness. After all, he began to wonder, couldn’t he become a Prince? Or even a King? Couldn’t their world, which was seeming more & more to be her world, become his world alone? Thus were sown his doubts of her necessity.

  These thoughts festered in his mind at night. He thought of all the freedom he would have if he were to journey on his own. He could start fires, hunt beasts, discover treasures, & be more ruthless than she’d allowed him to be. He could find the Aphorapt alone, or better, he thought, he could ignore its supposed existence entirely. He did not know what use it was to him, this mysterious artifact which he only knew by name. He wondered if it might be worthless. & this thought made him sad, but it felt true, & true in the undeniable way that pain was true. But in the morning, he pretended he had never thought these things, & for the rest of the week he played along with her digressionary episodes, knowing deep down that they’d never come any closer to her fake surmise, as they were truly chasing nothing- n
othing at all.

  Sometimes he’d sigh or snort at one of her discoveries. Sometimes he’d act like what she saw was invisible to him, as on the last afternoon of that summer, when she spoke to a pixie named Ludenia who lived beneath a rock, he saw nothing but mud & leaves. & when she stood up after listening to its secrets & informed him that Tinfasel had hired a band of satyrs to kidnap them & take them away to a labyrinth at the bottom of the lake, she said this in the affected regal tone of Princess Branche, to the person she’d presumed to be the gallant knight Leaf, but she was met with a shrug & yawn, from a mortally bored boy named Cairey Turnbull, who was scratching symbols into the dirt with the stick that had once been his sword.

  “Oh” he replied, “That’s crazy.”

  & when he looked up, she was already gone. They never said goodbye. He heard his name called for dinner, & he left, thinking nothing of it at all.

  On his return to the his house for dinner, he decided that he’d finally do it. He decided to follow the treasure map that he’d made for himself, after his parents had gone to sleep. The incompletion of the quest he’d envisioned gnawed at him over the whole vacation, & he had finally thought himself brave enough to go it alone. He felt powerful enough to slay the Dragon & become a Prince.

  So later that night, he waited beneath his covers, long after his bedtime, for the cessation of sounds which leaked from the television in his parents’ bedroom. He waited a while after that, to be safe, & partially, because he was still afraid.

  He thought he had heard a voice in the winds from beyond his window, which seemed to be saying either “No” or “Go”- but which it was, he could not tell. Deciding in favor of the latter, he quietly dressed himself in his daytime clothes, & carried his shoes with him outside, carefully closing the creaky door of the lake house, & entering into a kingdom all his own.

  The moonlight beamed in fullness through the dark woods & through the cold while a blustering wind tore through his flimsy cotton shirt as he crept, pausing with each errant sound, each snap & shuffle & animal cry. He persevered to the edge of Lake Lear, to the canoe named Lucremorn, & charted off, alone.

  He checked his map in the moonlight, but found it mostly illegible. He knew well enough where he should go- the furthest possible place, on the other end of Lake Lear. They’d only ever paddled along the shore, & never further than a quarter of its circumference in either direction. So it was with trepidation that he pressed on, through the center of the lake, where the water was deepest. It was much harder to row alone. It was very cold out. He regretted not bringing his coat. His teeth chattered, but he pressed on, & eventually he made it to the dragon’s lair, tied the canoe to a tree trunk, & ventured into the sparse forest of this remotest isle, terrified & alone.

  Here Cairey’s memory blurs with the nightmares that recurred for the rest of his life. What he knows for certain is that he’d made it back to the lake house before sunrise, & was found entirely drenched & nearly frozen through- hysterically sobbing, his skin pale & nearly blue. He was on the brink of death. A thunderstorm had rolled through that night, while he was on the dragon’s isle, & he had, somehow, made it home through the storm. He was wrapped in blankets & taken immediately to the closest emergency room where he was treated for severe hypothermia. In his delirium he had asked about Abigail, about Princess Branche, & Tinfasel, & Lucremorn- but nobody could grasp what these names referred to. They were merely the glossolalia of a half-frozen boy. His doctors hushed him & were kind enough about it, but even after he recovered he continued to ask about them, & to dream of them.

  & in his dreams he found himself confronted on that island by a shadowy figure, which he’d presumed to be the somber dragon he’d come to slay. It greeted him, but by his secret name. “Cairey Turnbull” it said “I have been waiting for you.”

  “Do not be afraid” it said “I have the treasure you have come for.” & this did little to calm him, as the cold glow of the moon cast shadows of impenetrable hues, & the nightwind shrieked across the water, & all was blistering cold.

  “Take it” the voice whispered, as a gust of wind whirled a devil of leaves toward a stone which reflected the ghostly blue of the moon. & though he was afraid, he approached this stone slowly, & saw a figure form upon it from the shadows of the looming canopies which danced in the wind. & from these shadows, a crown emerged.

  “Take it, my liege” the voice whispered, “& all your dreams will come to life, & all your pains will be relieved, & you will warm this frozen night.”

  & the crown looked so alluring, like a birds nest cast in obsidian. & it was as light as the air in his hands as he grasped it & lifted it. & as he rested it upon his head, lightning cracked through the night & the sound of rain approached across the lake. & the voice boomed: “Tinfasel!”

  This dream recurred, in more or less clarity, for years- always ending with the storm & the voice booming: “Tinfasel!” - which is when he’d wake up, sweating & feverish.

  He had another dream too. In this one, he met the somber dragon on the isle, who warned him that the Princess had been stolen by the satyrs & trapped in the labyrinth below the lake. He told him that the only way to free her from their prison was to find the star that had fallen, so long ago. The dragon told him he would be under his protection so long as he destroyed his crown. When Cairey asked it how he could find the star, he’d receive a vision of a firey cloud raining blood- which is when he’d wake up, breathless & cold.

  & very rarely, he had a different dream, or he seemed to remember dreaming this dream, a scene that may have come before or after these other scenes in his memory, if any of them had been real- they all may have only been dreams for all he knew. The contents of this dream contradicted the other dreams, as each dream contradicted the others in part, though they all existed in the same frame, the fairyland of his childhood make believe.

  It was in this dream that Cairey found himself in Lucremorn, beneath the moon, in the very middle of the lake looking down at his reflection in the water which glowed blue in the moonlight, reflecting the labyrinthine sky of stars. He watched himself take off the black crown of Tinfasel & lay it in the water. He watched it sink slowly, as into shifting sands, to the bottom of the lake. He felt an immense weight lift from him- which is when he would wake up, feeling blissful & free. This was the most beautiful of his dreams.

  There was no “Abigail” as far as his parents were concerned. They had entertained his reminiscences as one entertains any of the pretensions of youth- but the older Cairey got, the more worrisome these stories became, as he insisted on their literal veracity. Once, when asked about his “imaginary friend” Cairey became indignant & testified, in a rage, to the reality of “Abigail” who had, for all he knew, been taken away by those very satyrs she’d warned him about, & was trapped in the labyrinth at the bottom of the lake. & the conviction in his voice was not the playful tone of a child, but the doctrinaire assertiveness of a young adult clinging obstinately to his childhood.

  It became necessary to prove to him that this was not the case, as the subject had obsessed him more with every year they returned to Lake Lear without Abigail appearing in the woods. Cairey was no use in providing confirmable information, as he knew neither her surname nor the address of the cabin in which her family stayed. Even so, Mr. & Mrs. Turnbull did their best to investigate (although Cairey always suspected that they had done their best to pretend to investigate). They tracked down the guest books for many of the surrounding lake houses, & inquired with every family they could if they had a daughter named Abigail, as she had lost something her son had found, & they hoped to return it to her (a reasonable alibi). No Abigails were found, & the process was itself enough to silence Cairey’s references to this vestigial childhood silliness.

  His imagination found other means of expressing itself. His rudimentary maps & drawings became the focus of his life, replacing most of his other means of killing time in the routines of junior high. He filled dozens & dozens of notebooks
with drawings using the blue ballpoint pens he received in bags from his mother, who pilfered them from her office. He made flip books out of stacks of post-it notes. He drew thousands upon thousands of things, usually copying them from the comic books he read, but he always returned to three figures, obsessively- a princess, a knight, & a reptilian satyr wearing a black crown.

  He had decided the course of his life by then. He never considered a vocation other than chivalry until he started drawing. Then he decided to be a drawer, or “an artist” as it was called. He decided to devote himself to this pursuit entirely, which meant, he came to realize, learning how to turn his drawings into money. This development coincided with his puberty, which had unveiled to him an immense new world of desires, & with them, the parallel universe of the carnal imagination. So he found himself, naturally, stumbling into the role of the classroom peddler of amateur eroticas. He became quite infatuated with the fruits of his black market exchanges in the hallways of his school. He would spend the lunch money he’d receive frivolously on treats, & sometimes, on comic books, or notebooks, pens, & other art supplies. Later, when he entered high school, he spent it on drugs. Being an artist seemed like the greatest thing in the world, but sometimes he got caught.

  The first time he was revealed, someone ratted on him after inconspicuously admiring one of his anthropomorphically absurd caricatures of the female form in a state of undress in front of the very generously breasted teacher who it ostensibly depicted which she’d recognized by the helpful caption stating this to be the case in a handwriting she recognized, something of an amateur graphoanalyst, the characteristic close-2 shaped lowercase-a’s which belonged to none other than Cairey Turnbull, her quietest student, who sat in the back of the class & read those japanese comic books.