Auguries of Innocence

Night had fallen in the woods but for the campfire that shone intermittently on the iron cots and the sleeping figures of the four adolescent girls. Their faces were pointed skyward, the large sleeves of their white nightshirts spread atop the wool blankets like wings so that from above they looked like forgotten angels. Emelia awoke as her hand was almost singed by the iron rail of her cot facing the flames. She rolled away from the rail and onto her side, looking around the fire to the other girls from her group, then the cabin frame behind them looming in and out of the flickering light, and lastly, she looked to their attendant, Fowler, who was still awake and gazing at the orange-blue belly of the flames. Emelia was offended by the man’s face, which was at once cherub-like and wizened, his chubby cheeks and small nose persistently shining red even in the day, his thin wispy strings of hair like shadows or hanging smoke on his balding crown. Though Emelia and the other girls had been looking forward to this camping trip, they were upset to find that it was Fowler who had volunteered to take them, instead of any of their other group home workers. Emelia shifted away from his visage and decided to study Asma’s face, turned in her cot unwittingly toward her. Asma’s jutting chin and underbite, which lent her a mischievous look, as if she were hiding a key or coin in her mouth.

In the dream Emelia was in an unfamiliar room, suspended from the ceiling by rope around her feet, her hands tied behind her back. In her mouth she clenched a lit torch, the flame somehow inverted, burning toward Asma below, who lay in a four-post bed of ornately carved oak. Asma seemed consumed with fever, her eyes closed, moaning under a veil of beaded sweat. Emelia wanted to speak but if she opened her mouth both would surely be rendered. Soon she realized her teeth were melting like snow.

When Emelia woke again the fire was down, but it was still night, and Fowler was finally snoring away in his cot. She was surprised that she could still see everyone’s face relatively clearly in the moonlight: Fowler, Asma, Sharon, and Maggie, all showered in a creamy blue light that softened their features with a serene dullness. Emelia looked up at the tree branches and the blue moonlight that shone through, then to the portal-like edges of the woods. She rose from her cot, at peace with the cold now, and gently roused Asma with a finger to her lips. She took her friend’s hand and they moved quietly away from the group, stepping only during their inhalations, as if the sounds of breath that filled their ears would mute the crunching dirt for the others. They walked toward the river, and when they reached it they saw how it shimmered in sapphire under the strong moonlight. Along the pebble beach and on the small cliff face across the water, the girls could see their faint shadows and the swaying shadows of the trees. Above it all they swore they could see distinct details of the moon’s surface, tundra-blue lines like once-frozen rivers, the water now bursting from the crust and filling space, falling to fill their sky, falling to fill the river that lay before them. The girls looked each other over with curiosity; they might have looked like twins standing there, their bodies washed in indigo, their features blurred. Emelia, overwhelmed as she stared into Asma’s eyes, began to cry. Asma embraced her and tried to cry with her. Then she took Emelia’s hand and led her back into the forest, back towards their cots, groping forward into the shadows of the tall ferns. It looked as if Asma’s hand were blackened and withering away from that light.

Just after dawn Fowler started the fire up in its ashes, boiled water in a charred pot and poured it into wooden bowls of quick oats. The girls drizzled on thin corn syrup and ate, ignoring the occasional hint of ash that dissolved into their slop. Emelia looked at the other girls’ faces with perennial interest: Maggie’s soft, doughy features laden with long tendrils of curly brown hair that seemed to oppose her often morose expression. Sharon’s gray, almost colorless eyes rested behind scratched glasses, her blonde hair in a simple bowl-cut. There wasn’t much talk around the fire, as Fowler demanded silence at mealtimes. After breakfast the girls followed his directions, shaking out their blankets and dragging their cots back into the one-room cabin. They had begged Fowler to let them sleep outdoors by the fire, as they’d never been camping before. Curiously, the usually strict man had acquiesced. While doing the dishes, Emelia wondered if they would be sleeping in the cabin or out of doors for the rest of the trip.

The girls changed into their matching red bathing suits and lined up outside, where Fowler entrusted Emelia with the towels and led them to the river. The day was already warm. Dogwood flourished on the riverbanks, the red bark brilliant beneath the dark-green leaves and tiny dull white flowers. The river itself was shallow and slow, the current seemed to flow in both directions at once as a wind picked up. The girls waited while Fowler walked along the riverbank tying pink plastic ribbons to certain bushes or trees, signifying the points they weren’t allowed to pass. Asma didn’t know how to swim, so he tied a length of rope around her waist and secured it to a nearby birch tree. He wandered up the bank and sat, opening a book, shooing the girls away to play. The book was a guide to local flora and fauna, and Emelia wondered if he was looking for something unique to show the girls. They had giggled at his expense the night before, when he couldn’t name as many constellations as Emelia. The three girls entered the water, and it was surprisingly warm and pleasant where they waded. Emelia looked back to the shore where Asma now sat on a grassy ledge overlooking the water. She was smiling, fascinated with the shimmering light reflecting on the river's surface, her head bobbing back and forth to an unheard rhythm. She sat cross-legged with a firm back, and Emelia thought of Asma as a sort of captured forest spirit meditating on the surrounding elements, unperturbed by the ropes that bound her, as she might dissolve back into the earth at any moment. Emelia turned back to the swimmers. Maggie was already tired and had perched on a large stone in the middle of the water, covering her protruding stomach with her forearms. Sharon swam in the deeper waters, more confident in her ability. She wore diving goggles over her rectangular glasses. When she saw Emelia looking her way she stopped and flashed a buck-toothed grin, waving frantically.

“It’s unfair for Asma to be tied up,” Emelia told them when she got closer. “If we keep a close eye on her, she could join us.”

Sharon stopped her waving and began wagging her index finger. “Don’t you be doing that,” she said in a high-pitched voice that was hard to understand. “Don’t you be doing that!”

“Quiet, Sharon,” Emelia scolded.

Maggie raised her eyes and spoke listlessly. “She’s tied up for a reason, so don’t go asking for my help.”

“But she would like the water too,” Emelia persisted.

“I guess if she’s worked hard enough,” Maggie pondered further. “A body’s got to relax if it wants to be productive again, after all.”

Emelia dragged her hand through the river, splashing Maggie.

“Nnngh,” Maggie groaned.

Emelia waded back to shore. There the iridescent mauve of a hovering dragonfly struck her, and she gave chase to it before it disappeared into a bush. She parted the branches but could find no trace of it. When she turned away she could sense in her peripheries the quick flapping of larger wings bursting forth from the dogwood, a quick glimpse of a red belly and feathers, but when she turned back the bird had already vanished as well, into the trees perhaps, making her wonder if her mind was playing tricks on her. She sat down on a flat stone and noticed the hazy quality of the air, her eyes burning and tearing up. She closed them, feeling the climbing heat. When she opened her eyes, she regarded the tips of her auburn hair. Her mind drifted to her mother’s hair. Emelia had to stop herself from letting other memories of her rise to the surface, and she felt an uneasy fear mix with the beauty that surrounded her. These feelings coexisted in a moving, nauseating way. It felt as if her shoulder was being seared, but when she touched her old scar, it felt smooth and numb as usual. She stood and crossed the pebbles, climbing the bluff to sit beside Asma. Taking Asma’s hand in her own, Emelia joined her in gazing at the waters.

“Girls!” Fowler called. They froze. “I have to go to the bathroom. I might be a while so Emelia, you’re in charge.” He was already at the border of trees when Emelia called out her acknowledgement. She turned to Asma.

“Now’s your chance.”

She began to untie the rope, interrupted by Sharon calling after her. Emelia yelled for her to be quiet. Asma giggled and mimicked Emelia’s words under her breath. “Quiet, Sharon.”

“Do you want to play in the water with us?” Emelia asked.

“Play in the water with us,” Asma responded with a nod.

They heard watery footsteps below them and peered over the grassy ledge. Sharon was looking up at them, wagging her finger again. “You’re not allowed to do that. You’d better stop doing that . . .”        

Then she tripped and fell into the dogwood.

“What’s that awful smell?” Sharon exclaimed as she sprang to her feet. Emelia could smell it too, a strong waft of sulfur.

“Quick, a skunk!” Emelia yelled. “Back into the water!”

Sharon ran back into the water and dove in as soon as it was deep enough. Emelia led Asma down the farther side of the ledge to avoid the smell. Asma was plugging her nose.

“Skunk,” Asma coughed.

“What was it, Sharon?” Maggie bellowed. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. It smells like . . . it smells like . . . pee!”

Maggie wheezed a laugh and called out to Asma. “Is that right, Asma? Did you pee on the bushes? You dummy!”

“On the bushes you dummy!” Asma called back.

“Sharon was the one who fell after all,” Emelia said with a nod.

“No one’s dumb!” Sharon cried. “Everyone is fine!”           

“Let’s get away from them for a little while,” Emelia whispered to Asma.

They were hidden from sight by the jutting ledge and continued moving left, looking back once at the pink ribbon tied to the tree. They entered the water together and Asma smiled.

“Were your feet hot?” Emelia asked, and Asma nodded, smiling with her teeth now. Emelia dipped her hand in the water and ran it across Asma’s brow. Asma bent and snorted some of the river into her nose and blew out yellow and red mucus into her hands. She looked at the mess for a moment before kneeling to wash her hands.

“Hey!” Emelia said suddenly. “Who do you think has more hair, me or you?”

Asma smiled and twirled her thick black hair. It had been so long since either of them were allowed to wear their hair down during the daytime, and Emelia couldn’t help but appreciate its luster.

“There’s no way,” Emelia said, “You see my curls? If my hair was straightened out, you’d see.”

Then she plugged her nose and submerged herself, rising with longer hair. Asma frowned at her, and gathered her own hair to one side of her head, measuring its thickness by wrapping her thumb and forefinger around it. Then she slipped her hair out and raised the circle she had formed to show its circumference to Emelia.

“Your hair is not thicker than mine,” Emelia laughed.

Asma giggled, tapped Emelia’s shoulder, and ran upstream. Emelia rushed after her. Along the banks they discovered an abandoned purple sleeping bag held together by a square of stitched burlap. Asma poked at it with a stick but there was no movement. A metal bowl had been left behind too. Emelia threw a pebble in it and heard it ring. Asma tried a pebble as well. Then they sat at different distances, showing off their throwing skills, unaware of time passing. When they returned to the bluff Fowler was waiting for them, his presence looming like a rider on horseback, towering above the surrounding foliage.

* * *

Fowler locked the three girls in the cabin for the afternoon. The three were practically forced to watch Asma and Fowler through the window, the two of them playing card games outside like the best of friends as he spoke loudly to her of local legends, ghost towns, making a great show of it. Later, once the weather had cooled, the girls observed with envy as he made Asma a mug of hot chocolate, which he seemed to flavor further with a special second packet. Emelia turned from the window and looked at Sharon and Maggie. They had ignored her throughout their shared captivity, and Emelia was frustrated that they had turned on her so quickly. They loathed the isolation, sighed through the hours, muttered, rapped their fingers on the walls without rhythm. But this was the perfect opportunity to daydream, Emelia thought. To remember the cliff face that seemed to flow the night prior like a mane of mercurial stone, a prominent shrub like the ornament on a warhorse’s helmet, like a single mussel shell atop a wave. Emelia took a few pieces of straw-like fescue grass she had collected and began to braid it into headbands. When she offered them to Maggie and Sharon, they shooed her away. Fuming, Emelia went to the window, dissolving her anger into the scenery. The trees and fallen branches looked human. Cloaked in wood and moss, locked in the midst of their final acts: someone reaching, another kneeling, and an unsleeping king upon his throne, lichen-crowned.

“Are you ever going to apologize to us?” Maggie asked, but Emelia ignored her.

The three of them drifted to sleep as the sun began to set. Emelia tried to fight off the effects of the sleeping pills that Fowler had brought them, which seemed stronger than usual.

The next afternoon they were at the riverbank again. Sharon wished to replicate an image she had seen in a magazine of two children at the beach burying their father’s body in sand, all grinning. The girls wrapped her in a towel and began placing small flat stones and piles of pebbles on her. The portable radio that Fowler had given them played from a nearby boulder, a French pop song. Emelia quite liked the song  and danced and sang what she remembered as she searched for the right stones. Asma followed behind and mimicked her, all under the attentive eye of Fowler from his camp chair. Asma sang in a French even more broken than Emelia’s, as if what echoed out from the radio were the passing epochs of language. Sharon cried out and they ran over to where she was squirming under the rocks, a ladybug tracing the features of her face. Maggie pointed at the insect.

“Two black spots,” she said. “That means it’s two years old.”

“The spots don’t tell the age. They tell the type of ladybug,” Emelia corrected her. Maggie plucked the ladybug and squished it between her fingers, wiping its remains on a stone.

“Now it’s two years old forever,” she said.

“Two years old forever. . .” Asma repeated, fighting back tears as she rose and walked off. Emelia went after her and they climbed back up the ledge overlooking the water. Asma was trying to distract from the fact that her eyes were downcast by gesturing with her hand at nothing.

“You can tell me what’s wrong,” Emelia said.

“What’s wrong,” Asma replied before falling silent again. She drew her knees to her chin and began to rub her legs absent-mindedly. Then she kicked down with her heel on the edge, sending dirt and pale grass and torn roots down to the water. Helping the speed of erosion along, Emelia thought. She took Asma’s chin in her hand and turned it towards her, smiling so that Asma could try to mimic it, but she turned away. Emelia returned her own gaze to the water, then looked further to her right, past the tops of Maggie and Sharon’s heads, until her gaze settled on the pink plastic that hung on a dogwood branch. The wind had picked up, the sky near cloudless, and in the audible light she saw what appeared to be spider silk threaded between the branch and pink plastic ribbon, jostling in waving lines that bid the moving waters farewell. Emelia squinted and cocked her head, realizing that the thread was not shining clear-white, but black. She turned back to Asma who was playing with her hair. Emelia noticed red patches on her scalp.

“Asma, did you cross the boundary over there?” Emelia asked while pointing to the errant hair. Asma kept her eyes low. Then she kicked at the dirt again.

They packed up and left the next morning, walking west through the forest to the road, Fowler’s van waiting. In anticipation of the group home’s no-touch rule, Sharon began to hug each of them in turn, though Asma cowered from her embrace and moved away, shaking her head no. The bus ride was quiet, everyone looking out the windows at the now smoky summer light, evidence of forest fires burning somewhere in the distance, now encroaching, as if to follow them home.

Ian MacClayn’s writing has appeared in Minor Literature[s], Bellevue Literary Review, and elsewhere. He resides in Canada, Treaty 7 Territory, where he works in disability support. He is currently working on his first novel.

Published January 15 2025