Foliate Oak September 2018

Fiction

The Night of the Goddess
By Sandra Arnold 

Beth was taking notes under the shade of a banana tree while Marcia explained the process of making pamonhas. As I approached the cooking area the acrid smell of pigshit wafted up from the pigsty on a wave of hot air. Marcia shooed a squawking chicken away from her feet, shoved another log under the woodstove and flicked her hand at the thick, black clot of flies crawling over the dish of boiled corn and pork fat.

“If I get an A for this it’ll be yours,” said Beth, in not-too-bad Portuguese.

Marcia grinned, showing a gap where her front teeth were missing. “Why would anyone in your country want to know how I make pamonhas?”

“It’s for Correspondence School,” said Beth. “I have to write about a local product. I went to a few shops in town that sold pamonhas, but they wouldn’t tell me how they made them.”

“They were probably scared you would use their recipe and set up shop for yourself,” laughed Marcia. “Now if you want to write about something interesting I’ll take you to the Festa de Iemanja tonight. We can easily walk to the lake from here.”

“That’d be cool, wouldn’t it mum?” said Beth, still in Portuguese.

I nodded, turning my head to hide my pleasure that she found it natural to talk in this language that she’d initially been so resistant to learning.

Marcia scooped up a spoonful of the yellow mixture to pour inside an envelope of corn leaves which she fastened up with string and threw into a pot of boiling water. Plucking a corn leaf envelope from another pan she cut it open with a pair of scissors, put it on a plate, handed it to Beth with a fork then proceeded to prepare one for me. Beth paled slightly, but she ate it without comment. Marcia wiped her hands on her faded cotton dress.  Three small girls, their bare feet stained red from the earth ran in to the kitchen and clung to her legs laughing. She gave them a pamonha each then shooed them outside along with the piglet that was following them.

“Where’s your father?” I asked Beth.

“Out with Antonio looking for snakes. They lost a calf yesterday from snake-bite,” she said. “They even took Ricardo with them so it can’t be as lethal out there as you seem to think!”

“Ricardo is used to this terrain, you’re not.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh mum! You’d have to stand on a snake before it attacked you. That’s why the calf got bitten. They don’t just come charging after you for no reason. It’d be so cool to see a snake!” She explained to Marcia that we had no snakes in New Zealand.

Marcia looked incredulous and began to tell us snake stories of her childhood.  “One day I’d been swimming naked and I ran to the toilet because I had diarrhoea. From the corner of my eye I saw lots of lines on the ground headed in the direction I was going, but I was so worried that I wasn’t going to make it to the toilet in time that I took no notice. Then I got there and opened the door and...” Her hands sprang open at the memory. “... the place was on the point of  bursting with snakes. They were hanging down from the ceiling. They covered the floor. They were even coiled around the loose planks on the walls. I forgot the diarrhoea and ran all the way back to the house hollering my head off. I wanted my mother, but the house was full of people because my uncle had just died and everybody had come to pay their respects. They stood around his coffin, staring at me with their eyes on stalks, their mouths wide open as I ran naked and screaming through the house!”

As Marcia and Beth bent double, shrieking with laughter, I shuddered, unable to extract a shred of humour from the story. When Marcia subsided a little I asked her if they kept antidotes on the farm. Wiping tears from her eyes she shook her head. “No, no, they’re too expensive.”

“But you let Ricardo go snake-hunting?”

She shrugged. "This is his life. He has to learn how to deal with it.”

Beth gazed at the row of little T-shirts drying on the length of barbed wire that stretched from the kitchen to the pigsty. “Why do you stay here, Marcia?”

“Where else should I go?” she responded. “This is my home. There is even a bus that takes Ricardo to school. I had only one year of school and my husband has never been to school.  All my children are healthy here, even though three out of the four are girls.” She glanced at me. “And Antonio and me, we’re trying to make another son. That will be my request to Iemanja tonight.” She looked at Beth and back at me again. “It’s good for a girl to have brothers.”

Before I could reply Beth jumped up from her seat.  “Look who’s here!”

I turned, grateful for the diversion to see a cloud of red dust rising above the guava trees. Two vehicles appeared on the dirt road to the farmhouse. Neber, the owner of the farm, got out of the first car with his son Fabricio. His wife, Fernanda, got out of the second with four of her nephews. They lived in another city and only came here at weekends. Antonio managed the place the rest of the week.  Fernanda said something to the boys and they all came to shake our hands. They then stood in a line and kissed Beth on both cheeks. Fernanda came over to hug me and said, “Can you believe that? I told them New Zealanders don’t greet each other with a kiss and that Beth would be embarrassed, but look at them! They’re exaggerating it!”

Beth’s face was scarlet. The boys spoke to her in English and offered to drive her in the tractor to show her the waterfall and go for a swim.

“Maybe later,” I intervened, “then we can all go together. The river down there is pretty rough.”

Beth glared at me and Fabricio reassured, “Is no problem. I swim in the river all my life. Is safe.”

He and Beth ran off towards the tractor shed.

Fernanda touched my arm. “Don’t worry. They’ll look after her. They’ll be like her brothers.”

Fabricio reappeared at the wheel of an ancient tractor to which the boys attached a rickety wooden cart. They jumped in, pulling Beth with them.

“You want to drive, Beth?” yelled Fabricio above the noise of the engine. “I show you.”

“She can’t...” I began as Beth clambered into the driver’s seat. The tractor zig-zagged across the track, belching smoke and dust. Fernanda and Marcia nodded their approval.

“She doesn’t have a licence,” I said, but no one was listening.

We got out of Fernanda’s car and stood on the hill looking at the waterfall boiling over the rocks. Two of the boys were already under it and two others were splashing in the pool further down.  Beth was watching Fabricio swinging across the river on the end of a rope. When he landed he hurled the rope back to her.  She grabbed it and launched herself across the churning white water. Fabricio caught her on the opposite bank. Their laughter bounced off the rocks. The sun slid through the thick canopy of leaves and fell in slices of green light onto the river. The empty rope dangled from its branch. I crossed my arms over my shoulders, hugging myself, shivering.

A large blue butterfly fluttered around Fernanda’s head. She smiled at me. “There, now you can see they are safe. They’re having fun. Let’s leave them alone. They’ll be back when they’re hungry.”

“The butterflies here are so beautiful,” I murmured, to divert her scrutiny of my face. “In New Zealand we have only thirteen species, although apparently we used to have forty.”

She nodded. “Every time I come here, or go to some special natural place, I feel that I am an intruder, so I ask the spirits who guard the place for their permission to be present. When a blue butterfly appears and flies around me I know permission has been given.”

After a moment’s pause I asked if she was going to the festa.

“No,” she said, “I don’t like Umbanda. I’m a Catholic.”

“But you talk about nature spirits.”

She laughed. “You would have to be Brazilian to understand.”

 
A full moon hung over the lake.  Hundreds of chanting women in hooped white lacy dresses and men in white tunics stood their lighted candles in the sand at the water’s edge. Two men lifted the statue of the black Goddess from her litter and placed her in a small boat filled with flowers and burning candles. The image was clothed in blue and white robes like the Virgin Mary, but with voluptuous breasts and opulent hair. As she was towed around the lake groups of women and girls launched little paper boats filled with flowers and cosmetics.

“If the boats sink,” explained Marcia, “it means Iemanja has accepted their gifts and will grant their requests.”
The night filled with the sound of drumming; low, throbbing, hypnotic. People began dancing to the rhythm. I looked around anxiously for Beth. Two people near me began jerking their limbs. A group of elderly women gathered around them and hung beads and flowers around their necks and guided their steps. From time to time they fell to the ground, but were helped up to continue their dance. When the music stopped they stood still, swaying from side to side. Their faces were vacant, like the faces of the dead.

I shivered and Marcia put her arm around me. “It means the saint has descended,” she explained. “That’s good. They will be filled with the energy of their saint.” She took my hand and guided me through the mass of dancers to the edge of the lake.

“Now I will make my request to Iemanja.” She bent down and sent her boat of flowers out onto the water. It bobbed on the surface for a moment until the paper became saturated, then keeled over on its side and slipped beneath the surface. Marcia clapped her hands together and laughed aloud. “That means she has agreed to send me a son to replace Lucio.”

“Lucio?”

“My firstborn. He died a year ago.”

I drew in a sharp breath. “I had no idea.”

She touched my arm. “Beth asked me not to tell you. He was bitten by a snake.”

“Couldn’t you get him to a hospital in time?”

She shook her head. “When we found him he was already dead, bleeding from his eyes.”

We stood in silence on the sand, watching garlands of flowers floating on the lake. The cool water slapped over my bare feet.  My nostrils filled with the smell of cooking fish, my ears with drumming and singing and laughter. I searched for words, but there were none.

A group of young girls approached us, so intent on their dancing they didn’t see us and one of them fell against me, knocking me off balance and pitching me forward onto the sharp pebbles at the water’s edge. A jagged pain stung my knees and the palms of my hands. The girls helped me up, the one who pushed me apologising profusely, her face stricken. She took her garland of white orchids from around her neck and thrust it into my hands. I called after her to tell her it was okay, she needn’t part with her flowers, but she was already gone. A gap appeared where she had melted into the crowd and I thought I saw Beth dancing with Fabricio. The gap closed again so quickly I wondered if I’d imagined it. I looked at the flowers I was holding and saw they were smeared with blood from my torn hands.

Marcia tut-tutted. “Those clumsy girls! Look what they’ve done!” With her hand under my elbow she led me into the lake until we were wading knee-deep. “Put your hands in the water.”

“Marcia, it doesn’t matter...” I began, looking around for Beth in the mass of dancers.

She took my hands. “This is her life. Let her live it.”

Then she bent down and cupped her own hands in the lake, letting the water trickle from them over my bleeding palms. She did this until all the blood was washed away. The garland of flowers slipped from my fingers. It drifted on the water until the flowers separated and floated out of sight.

Sandra Arnold is an award-winning writer who lives in New Zealand. Her short stories and flash fiction have been published in numerous journals. She is a 2018 Pushcart Prize and 2017 and 2018 Best Small Fictions nominee. In 2019 her novel 'Ash' will be published by Makaro Press (NZ) and her flash fiction collection 'Soul Etchings' by Retreat West Books (UK). www.sandraarnold.co.nz

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Brave Enough
By William Falo
 
​​A single bat flew overhead darting between the lighted towers of the double ferris wheel and the flag poles of the bobsled ride. I watched it disappear past the beer garden. Along with the bats other creatures came out at night.
 
I took money from all of them. It didn’t matter if they were drunk, straight, or anything in between.
 
“Hey, I hit that stack of blocks straight on and they didn’t fall off.”
 
“No stuffed animal for you then.” I took his money.
 
“My girlfriend wants one of those stuffed giraffes.” He pointed at the line of them hanging above my head.
 
“You have to win one.”
 
“Listen girl. Just because your life sucks doesn’t mean you have to be rude. I’ll give
you ten bucks for one of them”
 
“Who said my life sucks?” I clenched my fists. What did he know about me? But it hit me hard. It would be worse later.
 
“How about it?”
 
“No. You have to win one.”
 
“Fuck you.” He walked away. A girl followed him. She looked up at the giraffes while she walked by. I put my hand up and stepped on a lever under the stand.
 
I hopped over the board and picked up the ball and threw it at the blocks. It was a direct hit and all the blocks flew off their stand.
 
The guy glared at me then gave me the finger. “You’re a freak.” He pointed at me.
 
“It’s rigged.” I heard him tell the girl. “Rigged.” He yelled it louder. A few people looked at me.
 
Just because the carnival was situated across from a church and a religious festival was taking place all week didn’t mean I couldn’t make money.
 
I watched families walk by often laughing and sharing food or stories about their day. A lump formed in my stomach. I never knew that joy. I never found it. I always was part of the carnival.
 
They said my parents died when I was three years old. I was on my own most of my life.
A man walked up. He looked to be in his twenties. I should be guessing peoples weight and age, but one of the owner’s relatives does that for money and he just sits there all night without moving. I would have been better then him at it.
 
I could tell the man who approached the stand was lost and upset. I might have let him
win, but he made no effort to play.
 
“How do I get a job with the carnival?”
 
I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
 
“What’s so funny? You work for the carnival.”
 
“It wasn’t my career choice.” The laughter faded away.
 
“Are you a grifter?’
 
I stepped back. “Where did you learn that term?”
 
“I read a lot.”
 
“I don’t rip people off.” I lied.
 
A moment of silence lingered before he spoke again. The sounds I became used to filled the air.
The screams of children on the rides, the ring of the bell on the strongman game, a ticket seller from the church selling fifty-fifty tickets drowned out by the loudspeaker announcing the side show filled with oddities from all around the world. A few motorcycles revved up and readied to enter a caged dome. True daredevils.
 
“I need a job.”
 
“They aren’t hiring.”
 
“I can do anything. Who do I talk to about it?”
 
“You’re talking to the right person.” I lied again.
 
“Please, I want to join the circus.”
 
“You can’t just join like that. This isn’t the old days. Believe it or not you need to fill out an application and they do check you out.”
 
“That’s not what I heard.”
 
“You heard wrong. What are you running from?”
 
He looked around. “I have some secrets that a few guys found out about. They bully me all the time.”
 
“Parents?” Age and weight I could guess, but not secrets. They are too complicated and I was too angry at everyone most of the time.
 
He laughed.
 
I pointed at the church.
 
“Judgement.”
 
I nodded. “Damn.”
 
“Just let me leave with you tomorrow.”
 
Tomorrow was the last day. He looked so sad that a piece of me weakened.
 
“I’ll talk to the boss. What’s your name?”
 
“Cole Jenkins.”
 
“Okay. I’m Lexi. Meet me here tomorrow.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
 
“I didn’t do anything yet.”
 
He walked away looking over his shoulder while I set up another mark to lose his money.
 
That night a few other people stared at me and talked among themselves. I am not sure if my black eye shadow and dark clothes made them nervous or angry, but I glared back at them. I wanted to do more, but the thought of Cole being so scared made me think twice.
 
A girl with a young mother walked by and I saw how she stared at the stuffed giraffes.
 
“We can’t afford to play.”
 
The girl cried. I then did something that I never did before. I pulled down a giraffe and
handed it to her. The girl jumped up and down while the mother smiled at me. I nodded and walked away.
 
I later smoked a joint with the Gravitron ride operator named Jacques, better known as
Spinner. After he left, I cried and stared at the stars overhead. No family. People think I’m a freak. Sometimes it took a toll on me. The carnival kept a few dogs around and one named Toby found me. He sensed my distress and stayed by my side through the night.
          
###
 
A year later the carnival returned to the same religious festival and set up on a sweltering day that made you drip sweat. I never forgot about Cole Jenkins. His face came to me on the long drives, on the quiet nights after the carnival closed, and on the early mornings watching the sun come up over the double ferris wheel. I wanted to find out what happened to him and why he never came to the carnival again.
 
I started to ask people in the town and nobody seemed to know what happened to him. The dog Toby started following me around and I let him. I knew someone I could ask and the dog followed me into the church. Statues lined both walls and I couldn’t help myself from staring at the dollar bills stuck into buckets in front of each saint and the one of Jesus. My palms itched.
 
“No dogs allowed.” The priest yelled out from the altar.
 
“Okay.” I took Toby outside and leashed him to the stairs.
 
After going back inside the priest greeted me with a handshake.
 
“Father Joe.”
 
I didn’t give my name. “Did you know Cole Jenkins?”
“Right to the point. That’s a carnie for you.” He laughed to cover up any prejudicial undertones.
 
“We’ll?”
 
“I thought you might be here for confession or maybe you needed prayers.”
 
The man’s hair was disappearing while his stomach grew larger. I remember him from past years, but this was my first time inside the church.
 
“I gave up on them a long time ago. If you keep calling someone and they never answer you’re a fool. I’m no fool.”
 
He paused. I was sure he never heard such an abrupt response before.
 
“Cole Jenkins went missing after the last festival. Nobody has seen him since. In fact, a lot of people thought someone in the carnival might have killed him, but the police believed he committed suicide.”
 
I opened and closed my mouth like a fish out of water. The saints all stared at me waiting for a response. None came.
 
“Did you know him?”
 
I stepped back. Outside, Toby barked. The room shrank.
 
“You should have helped him.” I pointed at the priest and turned away.
 
“Wait.” Father Joe yelled, but I kept going until I was outside. I grabbed Toby’s leash
and took him back to the carnival.
 
Missing. Suicide. A pain I kept down for a long time threatened to come out. This is what
happened when you cared or got involved. I should have never asked about him.
 
The crowd grew larger and nosier. Toby slept by my feet despite the noise. The beer garden filled up as people flooded into the carnival. Opening night and closing night were always the busiest. With the crowd and the heat tensions grew and a few scuffles broke out. The police moved in quick when they were nearby.
 
Money rolled in and I didn’t let anyone win. If the church could collect all that money on phony statues I could take it in with a rigged game. Behind the back of my booth I heard a girl scream.
 
Nobody else could hear her with the music and rides going at full speed. I started to walk back, but stopped when I caught a glimpse of a familiar face.
 
Before I could see if it was Cole the crowd swallowed him up. The girl called out again. I saw two boys trying to lift up the girls dress. When they saw me they stopped.
 
“Go away.”
 
“No. Let her go.” I glared at them.
 
“We’re not keeping her here.”
 
She walked toward me. “Go to the police.”
 
The boys ran away. “Freak,” they yelled as they disappeared. The girl hugged me then left. She wasn’t going to go to the police.
 
When I got back to the game booth I saw a familiar face again. This one I didn’t want to see.
 
Father Joe stood in front of the stand. “I saw what you did back there. You’re a hero.”
 
“No, I’m not. They would have scared the marks away.”
 
He laughed.
 
“Listen, Father. I don’t have time for a sermon or prayers now.”
 
“I’m not here for that.”
 
“Why are you here then?”
 
“Are you brave enough to face the truth?”
 
“Maybe.”
 
“I looked for information on Cole Jenkins online and.”
 
I interrupted him. “I thought I saw him tonight.”
 
“Here?”
 
“Yes. No. Maybe.”
 
“I couldn’t find anything about him, but I did find something.”
 
“What?”
 
He pulled out a paper and held out to me.
I took it and stared at the picture on it. My hand began to shake. The face on the picture blurred.
 
“It can’t be.” It said Lexi was missing for over twenty years from this area.
 
“Does she look familiar?”
 
I didn’t answer him.
 
“I’m sorry to tell you that both of Lucy’s parents have since passed away. I can’t find any other family members. I don’t know if someone stole her or the parents gave.”
 
I interrupted him. “This says Lucy. I’m Lexi.”
 
“Okay. Do you know Lucy?”


“Yes.” I stared at the picture.  “I’m her.”
 
The ground beneath me vibrated. I didn’t know if it was from the roller coaster thundering across the track nearby or my legs getting weak. I sat on the ground next to Toby. He
licked my hand. My family was the carnival and all the workers. I kept staring at the picture until a tear dropped on it followed by others. The face on the picture distorted and eventually became unrecognizable. I dropped the picture and began to work the stand. Father Joe left, but I would talk to him again. The rides spun around while people yelled in glee. The roller coaster thundered on, the ground shook, the money flowed in, but something changed inside me.
 
I kept my eyes open. I looked closer. I needed to see clearly. Maybe I could find someone missing or lost before it was too late. I had to try, but I knew I was already home. The past didn’t matter. I had a family here. It wasn’t perfect, but I preferred it that way.

William Falo's stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Newfound, Cold Creek Review, Fictive Dream, Litro Magazine, and others.

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Running Towards
By Amada Matei
 
The clouds are supposed to be white and full of cotton. Instead, they are gray and heavy. I double-tie my shoe laces and readjust the bib on my tank top. I read the numbers upside down – 2532. It’s a strange number. I was twenty-five when I married my husband and thirty-two when I called the police on him for the last time.
Fat raindrops splatter against my forehead and spills down my nose. The MC sits under the red awning, wishes us all good luck, and blares Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey on his turntable. A few hundred of us make peace in our own tiny space, take selfies, stretch our hamstrings, or jog in place.

A news helicopter circles high above, getting an aerial view; I imagine we resemble a pixelated version of Monet’s Water Lilies. The chopper’s rapping takes me back to the day when I was its passenger, laying on the gurney and being life flighted to the hospital.

I remember being in and out of consciousness and feeling the nurse’s warm fingers wrapped around my hand and her muffled voice consoling my trembling body.

All the runners scooted closer to the starting line in anticipation. The MC plays the Star-Spangled Banner and we all turn to face a guy standing on the podium to the left of us, holding a flag twice his size. I lip sync the words and goose bumps crawl up my spine as the athletes around me elongate the last few syllables. “Hooooooooome of the Braaaaaaaaave.”

I do feel brave today. We clap and high-five each other.

A miniature rocket blazes towards the sky, setting off a kaleidoscope of multihued pinwheels cascading down to earth. A POP stings my ear. The blast is the unforgettable remnant of a torched gun, much like the one my husband used on me six month ago. As lead entangles my flesh and bowels protrude through my skin, he stands over me, stoic and unapologetic.

The ringing permeates through my ears and I run. The group scuttles like cattle. Our pace lags until the crowd dissipates, and each one of us find our groove and some empty space. The spectators roar and display their placards of inspiration, written in chunky black magic marker. Children are jumping up and down and a pack of dogs on leases bark at the excitement.

My breath turns heavy and my lungs fill with air just as I inhale the wet breeze. The last time I ran through a downpour, I fled to get ahead of my husband who had fire in his eyes.

I could hear him cussing behind me, his insatiable appetite to pulverize every ounce of my remaining self-worth. He was an arms-length behind me. I know that today I am among friends, but his panting breath is still in my mind’s eye.

It drives me to run faster.

A few blocks later, in the distance, volunteers hold out cups of water, waiting for the runners to accept them like batons. I jog closer to them, panting but still alive. I smell BBQ chicken as I pass a blue house. I envision the swatch of a cast iron grid scorched into my shoulder from when he shoved me into his grill after our Fourth of July guests went home.

I take deep breaths and face the sky, allowing the raindrops to bounce off my forehead. I gaze forward again and grab a cup of water, chug it down, and fling the rubbish across the road, watching it land in a heap of white cups.

I read the placards as I run: “RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!” Another says, “RUN WITH PURPOSE!” A third says, “TAKE JUST ONE MORE STEP!” I take the signs literally. My friend told me to run for my life at least a dozen times. My therapist suggested I take up running to heal my soul and run with purpose. And I tell myself everyday to take just one more step.

Beads of sweat and rain collide on every inch of exposed skin. In the near distance I see the end, a gathering crowd of supporters patting runners on their backs as they touch the magical threshold.

My thighs ache, but I decide it’s mind over matter – the pain no longer matters, so I don’t mind it. I am reinforced steel and the hurt is now on my terms.

As I cross the finish line, I raise my arms in triumph.

This is the second bravest thing I’ve done. The first is sending my husband to prison. I’ve stopped running away from fear and instead I’m running towards my life.
​
I caress my medal, enveloped in fake gold and silver, and I press it over my heart. I’ve earned a new super power – it’s the one that lets me live. 

Amada Matei lives and works in Cleveland, Ohio. By night, she supervises a child abuse hotline. By day, she is writing her first novel. She has previously published in Adelaide Literary Magazine.

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