Excerpt from "Promised Land"

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Why’d He like it so hot? Stifling. The dark caused no cold relief. And Pa and Ma didn’t let their children go into the river. They said where this dusty old shanty town went to cleanse itself only dirtied the water. They told us that muddied water only hid what was underneath it. The cloaks the townsfolks wore were dangerous. Caked in filth. Ma and Pa wouldn’t let us near them. Their cloaks were heavy with dirt. They were liable to pull you under with them. Never let you up.

When Pa first came to town, he and Ma settled in, and wore those heavy, scratchy cloaks. He’s cloaks. They settled in town and took their dirtiness down to the river and held their heads under the water. He says that clarity comes after the panic. They never made it past the panic. They burned their cloaks. The glowing ashes spread their filth all over town. Folk just smiled their leery smiles. Pointy and pure white. Obscuring their smut. Pa and Ma stayed in town, never being a part of it. A part of He. But the town didn’t mind. He didn’t mind. There were always their children.

I was born first. Not in town but somewhere dark. Somewhere near. I can’t picture it. I can’t see it. But I can feel it all around me. I’m there now. It’s stifling. I have no need to breathe but the heat aches my lungs. A light shines through. It’s a nuisance. Brings me no relief. How many more children did Pa and Ma have? How many more did they think they need? It doesn’t matter. Not in comparison to what He tells me. What he needs. All their children. Pa and Ma, smile and hug them. Tell them, “Stay away from the river.”

They had enough children. We all played together. Even yesterday, when I was much older, I still played. I had no need to socialize with the town. Not even when we were in it. We would run around on our property, never going to the back fence. “Don’t look through those knot holes.” There was just a house on the other side of the river. Larger than any house in town. Sharper than any of their smiles. At night I could hear He creaking all the way over here. One day, Pa caught me peeking. Tell me that was where the town wore their cloaks for He. But they always wear their cloaks. He is always here. He is everywhere.

I went walking one night. Pa didn’t know. Never will. I passed by other members of the town. They pretended to not see me. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they only see He. I still didn’t have the courage to go down to the river. I watched it from a distance. The cluttered sand shone in the moonlight. Rotten wood, splintered wide, strewn on the shore. I walked past their houses. Occasionally looking in. They wore their cloaks everywhere. Dusty old shanty town. All the folks were in their houses now. I saw them sitting in a circle. Sitting on the ground. I could only see the back of their cloaks. Filthy from the river. They were holding knives. But their knives had a clean glint, reflecting their candles. They bowed their heads and removed their hoods. They drug the knives across their eyes, above their chanting mouths.

“He.” “He.” “He.” He.”

Their voices suffocated the room and clouded all around. But they don’t need to see He. They feel He. They drug the knives across their eyes, crossing in circles. They had to be dull knives, they still glinted clean. But they dug too deep to be dull. Plunged into their eyes nearly to the hilt. But they still glint clean.

“He.” “He.” “He.” “He sees you.” “We all see you.”

I ran home. I couldn’t look back. The town did that for me.