I always knew something would happen to me. My childhood and adolescence were plagued with immediate anxiety, but there was always something greater just at the edge of my mind and possibility, a feeling so tangible that I could almost see it out of the corner of my eye if I turned fast enough––but perhaps feeling is the wrong word. It was more of a shadow, sometimes flitting wraith-like at the edge of my consciousness, sometimes so present that it threatened to smother me in its blank cocoon, a pale fog creeping across the face of the sun.
In November, I’d received a letter from my Aunt Kathy, who I hadn’t seen in seven years, asking if I would like to spend my Christmas break with her. When I informed my mother, she begged me not to go. She hadn’t spoken to Kathy since I was twelve for a reason she never explained to me. At first, I agreed not to go. Christmas with Aunt Kathy sounded lonely and vaguely surreal. I pictured knitting by firelight in her shadowed cottage or walking through the dank, maze-like forest that blanketed the island where she lived. But as those first cold December days dawned, the prospect of my usual Christmas in the city lost its luster. Why should I sit at the family harkness table and be interrogated by well-dressed urbanites over my ill-advised choice to major in Creative Writing? The image of my mother whenever someone asked what I was going to do with my life—her eyes frantic above a thin smile—haunted me. Anything was preferable. And besides, it would be nice to reconnect with the warm lady I remembered, her gluten-free oatmeal cookies and quaint little deli beckoning me.
I took a ferry to the island, and then a bus to the little town in its center. The deli stood between a pizza parlor and the local Subway, the only chain restaurant on the island. I stood clutching my bags in a faint drizzle on a gray sidewalk beneath a gray sky, staring at the squat building across the street. A sign in the shape of a flower hung beneath its awning and read, in large block letters, “The Yellow Deli.” The deli was indeed yellow, not misleading in that way. But, as any artist will tell you, shade is a matter of gradation.
I crossed the street and stood before the deli’s glass door. My silhouette loomed against the street’s hazy reflection. I grabbed the handle with my free hand and pulled, the chime of a bell ringing sharply above me. I stood for a moment in the open door frame, the crisp autumn air stark against the deli’s warmth. Then I stepped into the deli and the door swung shut with another tinny chime.
“Hello?” Nothing but the static hum of a refrigerator somewhere in the back. Shadowed pine paneled the floor and flared in round barrel vaults across the ceiling. Dark booths lined the walls. Atop the desk next to me, a ceramic cat waved its gold enameled paw, beckoning toward a calendar that read December 21st.
“Hello?”
And then she was there, emerging from the kitchen door, sleeves rolled to her elbows and a bread knife in her hand.
“Sebastian, is that you? My, you’ve changed,” Aunt Kathy said.
She seemed shorter than I remembered, but her long, silver hair streamed out behind her and she had an unmistakable air of strength as she strode toward me. When she reached me, she set down the knife on the desk and flicked on the lights, infusing the pine floors with a warm glow. We embraced.
“Seb, how’ve you been?” Holding me at arm’s length, she looked me up and down. Her dark blue eyes bore into mine.
“I’ve been good––er, well,” I said, startled by the intensity of her presence. “Thanks for the letter.”
“Oh, of course, hun. I tried to email you, but my computer just didn’t want to work that day. I suppose you must think we use carrier pigeons out here,” she laughed.
“Um, yeah.”
“Well, we don’t dear, rest assured.”
“No, sorry, didn’t mean that—”
“So, you’re trying to be a writer?”
“Um, yeah.”
She tapped her finger against her lip. “What would you write about, then?”
“I don’t know yet, I guess.”
She smiled, the corners of her eyes creasing. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, if you stay on this island long enough, you’ll have something to write about.”
“Um, yeah, okay.”
“Oh, hun, don’t make that face. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Want some coffee? I have a little time before we open to make you some.”
“Sure,” I said.
“And I’ll take those,” she said, gesturing at my suitcase and duffle bag. After hoisting the duffle bag onto her back, she grabbed my suitcase and stomped to the back of the deli and into a hallway to the left of the kitchen. I listened to the thud of her feet on stairs.
I sat at a booth near the window and waited for my coffee. Droplets streaked the steamed pane, a silver before the deep gray sky. Umbrella-wielding pedestrians marched through the fog, Monet’s painting “Paris in the Rain”. The speakers crackled and a lilting, Celtic melody hung in the air. I sat there for what felt like a long time, watching this pearl world slip by. Then I heard footsteps and turned to see Aunt Kathy emerging from the kitchen, clutching a steaming mug.
“Here you go, dear.” Aunt Kathy set the cup of coffee in front of me.
“Thanks.”
“I made you a latte, hope you don’t mind. And don’t thank me. I’m your aunt, remember?” She sat down opposite me, still holding the bread knife.
“Yeah, of course.”
She frowned. “Now, I know your mother and I have had our differences. I was always a little too, hmmm, how did she put it?” She stared at the misshapen foam heart in my coffee. “Idealistic, that’s it.”
“What happened?” The question sprang unbidden from my lips.
Kathy blinked. “What, dear?”
I’d said it. There was no turning back now. “Between you and my mom?”
She placed the bread knife on the table. Her gaze was cool and still. “I’d be careful if I were you. I don’t know if you can handle the truth.” She flicked the bread knife so that it spun in a silver arc. Then she laughed. “Oh hun, don’t make that face, it was a joke. We aren’t all crazy hippies out here.”
I smiled numbly.
She frowned. “You’re just like your mother. So literal.” She smiled, but there was no warmth in her eyes. “She didn’t like it when I moved to the island. Fought me tooth and nail. She’s always been very concerned with the so-called practical—earning money, living in a nice area, having the latest cellular phone or whatever, but you know this. I’m not like that. After all, what could be better than living in a loving community? When you give yourself over to something larger than yourself, the rewards are so much greater. What could be more practical?”
I didn’t know what to say. My mother had always told me there was something a bit strange about Kathy, but in truth I’d attributed that to some deep-seated sibling rivalry. Now I began to wonder. Kathy stared at me, waiting. On the table, the knife reflected the overcast light.
“Nothing, I guess,” I said.
Just then, the door chimed. A man stood on the doormat, shaking the rain from his jacket. He wore a blue plaid shirt and cuffed blue jeans. A long brown braid wound down his back, and, as his eyes met mine, I felt something twinge. He smiled.
“Ah, you must be Sebastian. Kathy’s been telling me all about you. I’m Rowan.” I watched as a raindrop slid down his cheek, leaving a glistening trail.
“Rowan helps me with the deli,” said Kathy. He grinned, flashing a row of small white teeth. The door rang again. In stepped a woman in a slick black rain jacket, folding her umbrella.
“Our first customer,” chirped Kathy. “Time to get to work, Rowan.”
I watched as people trickled in, dripping and flushed. Cold drafts stung my cheeks each time someone opened the door, its bite turning tepid in the deli’s warmth. In the booth next to me, a family dressed in matching knit caps and sweaters played a rousing game of cribbage, the wooden divider shaking each time one of the young boys lost a hand. Rowan and Kathy switched between hosting and waiting on tables, accompanied by other braided staff members that seemed to materialize from the kitchen. After I finished my coffee, Rowan brought me a stack of waffles drenched in syrup and caked in butter. I sliced along the gridlines, dividing them into neat little pieces that I forked into my mouth. As I sliced open the final waffle, the family left, the boy dawdling before grabbing a pamphlet from a shelf near the door.
Curious, I finished my waffle and walked over to the shelf. The first page of the pamphlet seemed to be a description of an organization of sorts.
The Sunrise Order welcomes you to The Yellow Deli. We bless all our food in ceremonial ritual, imbuing it with the power to heal and restore. For more information, please contact our manager Kathryn.
The Sunrise Order. I knew the island was slightly anarchic but this was the first I’d heard of factions. I flipped the pamphlet open.
New members are cordially invited to our Celebration of the Solstice, the most powerful of days, on December 21st. We will––
“Do you need to be seated?” A waitress clad in a long, embroidered dress stood behind me, the pale fabric shifting in the drafts from the door.
“No, I’m already seated, thanks. Just browsing.”
Her eyes rested on me. “Okay, if you have any questions, let us know. Would you like another waffle?”
My stomach churned. “No, thanks.”
Her mouth curled in a small smile. “Okay then. Happy Yule.”
I scanned the deli. Sprinkled amongst customers drifted employees who all wore their hair in braids, the men in checkered plaid shirts and the women in flowing dresses that scraped the floor.
“‘Scuse us.” Two pony tailed men dragged a pine tree into the deli, peering out from the branches. The one in front arched a thick eyebrow at me. I stepped to the side to let them pass. They pushed through the narrow gap between the booths and tables, then turned down the hallway to the left of the kitchen.
———
Outside, the sky had deepened to iron. Shop windows shone amber in the light dusk. A pack of crows gathered in the street, tearing at an empty wrapper. Then a sharp crack rang out. Three men were pushing a large spruce into the deli, banging the glass door against the wall.
“Hold it.” Kathy edged her way through the packed tables, apologizing to customers who pushed in their chairs to let her pass. She pointed at the ceiling as she talked to the men, who nodded. A man with a long braid tucked into his waistband stood in front of the others, his lips altered by a small frown. I strained to hear what she was saying.
“It’s just too big for the room. Only trees ten feet or under can fit in there, and anyway, we need ones on the smaller side for the celebration, besides the central tree, of course.”
The man in front’s frown deepened but he nodded at the men in back and together they edged out of the deli, their progress punctuated by the sound of the door colliding with the wall.
What did they need so many trees for? This celebration seemed to be quite a production. I looked out the window. Night amassed in the streets, the shops casting shadows that seemed to lengthen by the minute.
I looked back at the deli’s rear. I rose and walked towards it, slipping carefully between the packed tables. To this day I still couldn’t tell you why. Perhaps it was the vague, shadowy curiosity that compelled me to go to the island in the first place.
The hall opened onto a narrow staircase that spiraled upward into darkness. I checked my shoulder. Rowan was occupied with a family at the door. No other employees were in sight. I slipped into the hall and up the stairs. After a small landing I reached the top of the stairs.
Doors of knotted pine flanked a low-ceilinged hall. An unlit chandelier glinted in the half-light. Above the murmur of the deli I could just make out faint voices behind a door at the far end. I took a step forward and a creak rent the quiet, its ghost echoing through the empty hall.
The voices stopped. I edged to the nearest door and closed it behind me.
A man’s voice growled, “No one there, Zeke,” and then heavy footsteps rang out in the passage. They faded down the stairs, melding with the din below. I took a shuddering, serrated breath. I opened the door. No one was there. I padded down the hallway to the door where the voices had been.
The room bristled with branches, large evergreens stacked in piles to the ceiling. There must have been twenty to thirty trees in total, stacked in a shadowed mass across the far wall. The air was spiked with the sharp scent of pine. Across the center of the room lay logs arranged in the shape of a cross. A rope lay at its base, something glimmering in its coils. I knelt down to look closer but just then, the door opened, a beam of light condensing the darkness into shadows that quivered on the walls and ceiling. I turned. Rowan stood there, his face lit by the fraying strands of his flashlight. In his right hand he carried a club.
“Now, what might you be doing up here, Sebastian?”
I stood blinking in the beam. “I—I was looking for my aunt,” I stuttered.
He grinned, his teeth catching the light, then shook his head, still smiling. “The righteous do not lie.” The club connected with my temple and my vision erupted into whiteness.
———
I woke to the sound of singing. The melody was high and clear, and it arched and spiraled all around me, shifting in the slight breeze. Rough fabric ground against my cheek, and when I opened my eyes, all was black. They’d hooded me. I closed my eyes again and listened. The chorus swelled, the voices braiding together into a serpent that wrapped me in its warm cocoon. Hands seized my shoulders and hauled me upright. I tripped on the fabric spread across my legs. It was then that I realized that I was wearing a dress. The hands pulled me upright and I tottered in their wake. Then they fumbled at my neck and the voices flared skyward. The cloth was ripped from my head. A crowd was gathered around me. The last notes died, disintegrating in the wind. I was in a forest clearing. Tall evergreens rose in shadowed columns above us and beneath them smaller trees ringed the proceedings, candles burning amidst their boughs. The singers wreathed me in a wide circle, men, women, and children now silent and watchful. Waiting.
“Seb.” Aunt Kathy wore a long, black robe, her face shrouded in a hood. I could not see her beneath its shadow, but her voice rang out sharp against the dark. Rowan stood behind her, somber in his pale tunic. She drew back her hood to reveal a thin smile. “Don’t worry, dear, it’ll be over very quickly.”
She forced my mouth open and gagged me with a strip of cloth produced from the depths of her robe. “I imagine you’re wondering what we’re doing. You see, our order was founded on light and blood, something people today take for granted. Just as the sun’s rays course through the world, providing life with sustenance, so too does blood course through our veins. Today, most of that is lost. People flip a switch and they have light on the longest night of the year. People cast away their families, their blood, as easily as bread that’s gone stale. But the Mother placed us where we are and how we are for a reason.” She inspected my wrists, pulling my arms outward so that the cord cut into my flesh.
Rowan strode over to me and picked me up with ease.
“We will hurt you as little as possible,” continued Kathy. Her disembodied voice hung in the air, suspended beneath the stars. “We will release you once our ritual has run its course. You may speak of what you have seen here freely. No one will believe you.” Rowan pressed me up against something hard. I could feel runneled bark through the thin fabric of the dress. Looking up, my head brushed with the lower branches of a towering fir tree, candles bathing its needles in pockets of light that pricked the darkness.
“Each new year, we celebrate new life, new blood. Some members choose to join us, but others are chosen. You are one of the chosen ones. We have been searching for one of your kind for a long time. A male that is the Maiden. Tonight, you are both male and female. Tonight, you are a god,” she said.
My head still throbbed from Rowan’s bat, my thoughts churning sluggishly in the warm glow. I grasped at them, but they slipped away with a mercurial ease. I had no idea what Kathy was talking about, but one thing was certain: they would hurt me. I swiveled my head, taking in the clearing around me. People in pale dresses and tunics were arranged in a vast circle, their eyes burning in the candlelight.
“Rowan, the knife, please.” She stood before me, palm outstretched. Rowan knelt before her, offering the leather hilt of the knife. I could see the tree reflected in its blade, the candles white hot stars amid the darkness. She took it from him, balancing it in the palm of her hand.
“Now the cup.” He produced a chalice from his tunic, the crystal burning red-gold. She took it in her other hand, then bowed her head. All around me, I heard the rustling of the tribe as they joined hands.
“Mother, let the blood of the Maiden flow within the Crone once more.” The wind ruffled my dress and I shivered. “Let the sun be reborn, and us with it.” She brought the knife to my wrist. The cold steel bit into my flesh and my cry hung silhouetted in silence. Then came the steady drip of blood on crystal. When she was satisfied, she brought the cup to her lips and drank the dusky liquid. She looked at me as she drank. I’ll never forget her eyes: aflame in the candlelight and with something like laughter in them.
———
When I left the deli, it was raining. They brought me back in the morning as the first light crept across the streets. I double-checked my bags, but as I stepped through the door and heard its chime, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something important was missing, something irreplaceable was lost. Outside it was gray again, the only remnant of the night the blood-stained bandage that traced my wrist. As I crossed the street to the bus stop, I turned. The deli stood blank and silent in the downpour. Sheets of rain broke against its awning, staining the saffron an ever-deeper shade of ochre.
Excessive Issue | January 2020