Ritual Night

In the market, everyone knew Dora, but she didn’t know any of them. Vendors waved at her from their stalls. Other last-minute pre-festival shoppers asked if they could buy her anything for the ritual. The little spirits watched her pass, pausing as they played in the green paper lanterns overhead, darted between footfalls, flitted around ears, or just ambled along beside regular humans, chittering in their language all the locals seemed constantly confused Dora couldn’t understand.

“Mom, I want noodles!” Chester panted beside her.

“You had a chewy in the car,” Dora mumbled, rereading the list of ritual-requirements for the hundredth time, hoping it would finally make sense:

–Warm broth

–The wisdom of ages

–Art

–True love

The list had been sitting on the kitchen table of the pink, one-room house she’d been given as part of this job. Right next to the list had been keys to a little pink Jacuro Busybee—also loaned as part of the job—and a fat stack of what looked almost like Monopoly money but was apparently the Island’s currency. Dora never traveled much, but she was sure she’d never heard of a car called a Jacuro Busybee, and most times when someone gave you change for your money, they didn’t do it by ripping a bill in half then handing back coins that fell out.

Unless you were here on the Island.

“But I can I have noodles too?” Chester begged, tail waggling like a snake after too many espresso martinis. That was also new. Not the tail—Chester’s tail had been dangerously flip-flopping around since he was a puppy. But the talking. It started their second day on the Island and was one of two big reasons Dora hadn’t left yet. “Please, Mom? Please. I love noodles so much. Please! Please! I’m so hungry and noodles are good for a growing dog!”

“Later, maybe. If we have time after, uh, this.” Chester got nervous when she got nervous, so she did her best to hide any hint of mounting panic.

The second reason she hadn’t left, was leaving meant quitting her job, which meant being flat broke, which meant moving in with her mom again.

“Dora! Hey! Hey, Dora! Hey!” a boy’s squeaky voice cut through the racket. Wallace peaked over a wooden folding table, steam billowing behind him from three massive metal vats. Dora ’scuse me, pardon me, sorry, sorry-ed her way through the crowd while Chester charged ahead of her, almost knocking over several people.

“Hi Wallace,” Dora said, “just the man I was looking for.”

The little boy frowned up at her. “Are you crying?”

“No, no, just, uh, the steam in my eyes.” She inhaled again, the thick chicken-broth aroma like her mom’s kitchen on Friday nights.

“That happens to me too. The first time my mom let me help make Redstew I dumped in way, way, way lots of pauxuada powder way too fast and it got in my eyes and my nose and really hurt and I started crying too. Hi, Chester.” Clambering under the folding table, Wallace threw his arms around the dog.

“Hi, Wallace,” said the dog in between licking Wallace’s face. “You smell like soup. I love soup. Guess what?”

“What?” Wallace asked, face buried in Chester’s neck.

“Mom’s gonna get me noodles!”

“No fair, I want noodles.”

“I bet Mom would get you noodles!”

“Nah, my Mom isn’t fun like Lady Dora! She says I gotta wait ’til Lady Dora finishes the ritual, then everyone’s gotta eat stupid lunales. I hate lunales! They taste like corn.”

“Well I’m sure the lunales don’t like you much either,” said Missus Wailladoare, smiling as she stepped from the blinding wall of steam. “Hello, Dora dear.”

“Hi, Missus Wailladoare. Smells great.” Dora tried to smile back.

“Please, dear, call me Mia.” Missus Wailladoare was squat, with wideset brown eyes and a soft face. She wore what looked like a traditional dress, though Dora couldn’t say what tradition. She’d have been hard pressed guessing what ethnicity anyone from the Island was. Not any sort of white, and she didn’t think it was Polynesian, Asian, or African; it probably wasn’t her own muddled Jewish-Mexican. But also, it could have been any of those.

Dora held up her list. “Um, it-it says I need …”

Missus Wailladoare’s smile took on a distinctly momish tilt. She reached across the table, took Dora’s free hand in hers, and squeezed three times. “Fifty-some years performing the ritual, you’d think Benoit could leave a list that isn’t useless.” Missus Wailladoare rolled her eyes. “Well, we can help with the first of these. Wallace, get Dora here … Wallace?”

Both boy and dog had vanished.

“I’m sorry. I think Chester convinced him to get noodles,” Dora apologized.

Missus Wailladoare pursed her lips. “Wallace knows he’s not supposed to eat until the ritual is done. Well, no helping it now. Let’s get you the broth, then I can point out where to get the rest.” She vanished back into the steam and reappeared with a Tupperware of warm broth. Three little spirits clung to the lid. They looked like a cross between raccoons and when the waiter finally walks up with your food. Missus Wailladoare gently plucked them off, placing them on the folding table and whispering what sounded like a prayer.

“Old Quizzshow can help with the wisdom of ages, dear, and the artists are a few rows east.” Missus Wailladoare held out the Tupperware. Dora tried to take it, but the other woman did not let go. “Dora dear, are you ready for tonight? No one will blame you if you aren’t. Things will hold for another year if you need more time. Goodness, Benoit really couldn’t have prepared you less.”

“I’m fine,” Dora lied, “Really. All prepped! Everything’s right here.” She waved the list, showing off the instructions—boy was that word stretching—scribbled on the other side, then shoved it away before Missus Wailladoare tried reading it.

“Alright, dear. I know your parents aren’t here, so I’ll say it for them: we’re all very proud of you.”

Something in Dora’s chest clenched. The one confusing video call she’d had with her predecessor, Benoit, hadn’t mentioned any ritual. Heck, she’d only filled out the scammy, nineteen-ninety-nine-looking online job application because nowhere else had been hiring a bachelor’s degree in almost graduating college, and living with her mom meant every dinner starting with, “Diosito, por favor deja que Dora encuentre un buen trabajo.”

She’d barely even left her house since getting off the ferry a couple weeks before. Missus Wailladoare was the only person she might consider a friend on the Island, and that was because she and Wallace had showed up at Dora’s house one day with about a thousand kanjunut butter and grape jelly sandwiches, and Dora had felt obligated to invite them in.

“Thank you, Missus, um, Mia. I appreciate it. I’ll see you later tonight for a lunale!” Whatever that is. Putting the broth into her tote bag, Dora wended back into the market, following Missus Wailladoare’s directions to Old Quizzshow. On the outside, his book stall was the size and shape of an outhouse. Inside, shelves and displays and loose piles of books stretched far past where the back should have been. Relaxing in a wooden rocking chair near his stall, fat cigar clenched between his teeth, was Old Quizzshow. Beside him, faces buried in bowls of noodles, were Chester and Wallace.

“If it isn’t our new Shaman!” cried Old Quizzshow as Dora approached. “Dora Goldstein, nascent champion of this paradisical asylum. Might I hazard you have come for something to do with a rather important ritual to be performed this very night?” Old Quizzshow waggled bushy white eyebrows.

“Right on the first guess,” she said.

Chester looked up from his bowl. “Hi Mom! We got noodles!”

“I see, Chess. I’m jealous,” said Dora.

Old Quizzshow laughed, reaching to pat Chester’s side. The old man had a nice laugh, deep and gruff and warm like an old guy’s laugh should sound. A spirit alighted on his shoulder, and he gave it a warm smile. It looked like a pigeon, except its feathers were silver, and it had the eyes of a cat.

“Well, Lady Goldstein, the shop is open.”

“Thanks Mister, um …”

“Call me Quizzshow, or Quizz if you like. Everyone does.”

“Thanks, Mister Quizzshow. Any recommendations?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” In a burst of athleticism, he leapt up from his chair, pocketed the still smoldering cigar, raised a meaty finger, and marched into his stall. Dora gave Chester and Wallace a quick look, then followed.

Inside, books were jammed together on shelves, stacked on the floor in leaning towers, dangling on fishing wire from the ceiling, flapping through the air like bibliographic birds. Every page looked well-read and even better loved.

“Now, if you’re looking for a good history of ice in the medi-evil anglophilic countries, you can’t do better than Belladonna Tickshaw,” Old Quizzshow said, pulling books off shelves and tossing them back at Dora. She managed to catch one. Another struck her shoulder, two more flew wide, one nearly broke her nose. She caught that last one as it fell—An Exactist History of French Toast. Old Quizzshow went on talking. “I think he’s a bit of a hack, but Fred Tengu-Mashram’s, From Fence to Refrigerator, has gotten good reviews.”

“Wow, yeah, that all sounds, sounds great. Um, what do you think would be best for tonight?” asked Dora.

Old Quizzshow froze midway through pulling out an impossibly long book whose cover depicted frogs in tutus. He raised a bushy eyebrow. “Lady Goldstein, my job is to recommend good books. What do you think would be good for tonight? You are, after all, the one hired to do the job.”

Dora tried to smile. “Yeah, but, I mean, anyone could do it, right?”

Old Quizzshow’s face hardened. “Lady Goldstein, am I to understand your predecessor did not explain why you were chosen for this job?”

Dora felt something cold in her stomach. “No, I, yeah, yeah, um, yes, Benoit, he …” She looked away, fumbling out her list and rereading the second bullet point. “Okay. Actually, what’s the oldest book you have?”

Quizzshow looked at her for another long moment, then exhaled, and waved a hand. “You don’t want that book. Instruction manual was out of date the second the little grey buggers got back on the ship for Maffei. But I got others that might fit this particular mallard’s bill.” They traversed further back to a dust-covered glass case protecting a sparse shelf. Overhead, a neon yellow sign read, GOLDEN OLDIES!

Dora inspected the books. One had an ancient, warped leather binding missing several swatches, making it look disturbingly like a screaming human face. Another was a worn journal with the letters W.S. stamped into the cover. One wasn’t a book at all, but a ragged hunk of black stone carved with hundreds of lines first in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, then something she couldn’t identify, and finally Greek.

Terrified of asking for more advice, Dora pointed at a random book. “How much for that one?”

“Excellent choice! For you, Lady Goldstein, she of the hoodoo voodoo only you do, we’ll call it free.” Quizzshow produced a key, unlocked the glass case, and withdrew the threadbare grey book.

“Are you sure? I have money.”

But Quizzshow waved the money away. “The thing ain’t selling. It’s just taking up space.”

“If you’re sure.” Dora put the book in her bag without opening it.

Quizzshow lead them back through the bookstore. Out front, Chester had fallen asleep in his now-empty noodle bowl. Wallace was nowhere in sight.

Dora bent, scooping up the dog. “Thanks, Quizzshow.”

“Anytime, Lady Goldstein,” he said, pulling out his still smoldering cigar and replacing it between his teeth. Another of the cat-eyed bird spirits landed on his head. “Say, I hope you don’t take offense, but are you feeling alright?”

“I think so. Why?”

Quizzshow glanced around, as though trying to see if anyone was eavesdropping. The bird-spirit mimicked him. “I knew Benoit for years. I loved him, he was a great ritualist, but he was also an all-time jerk. If you are feeling under the weather, maybe a case of not-tonight-itis, nobody’ll blame you. It’ll hold another year.”

For what felt like the hundredth time that night, Dora forced a smile. “Thank you, Mister Quizzshow, but I’m just nervous.”

“Yeah, but if you are sick …”

She pulled the smile a little wider, holding her hands up. “Sana sana, colita de rana.”

It was Quizzshow’s turn to look confused. “Pardon?”

 “Just something my mom used to say. It was a joke. I-I’ll see you after. For a lunale.” She adjusted her grip on Chester. He really needed to cut back on the snackies.

Chester shifted in her arms as they walked. His wet nose tickled her cheek. “Mom, I ate so many noodles. They were so good. Can we get more noodles?” He burped.

She giggled. “Later, Chess. We’ll split a lunale later.”

“I love lunales.”

“When did you try a lunale?”

“Never, but I know I love them.” He was too big for her to carry, and the way he curled in on himself couldn’t have been comfortable, but she carried him until she couldn’t anymore. Back on the ground, Chester whined, puked up his noodles, tried to eat them, put his ears back and tail down when Dora said, “No! Bad Chester! We don’t eat puke!” then padded along beside her, tongue lolling.

Several people who all knew her name nicely directed her towards the artists’ section. Unlike the rest of the market, there were no paper lanterns strung overhead here. Instead, each artist had made their own lamps and hung them on, in, over, around, and in one case under, their stalls. Here the neat rows broke down in higgledy-piggledy zigzags that dead-ended at one tent or led to cul-de-sacs of art or somehow deposited one back in the regular market without seeing a single painting.

People saw her, and the yelling began.

“Lady Goldstein, I’ll give you a great price on this painting.”

“Please Lady Goldstein, it would be an honor for my vase to be used in the ritual.”

“Benoit used my art and it never failed him!”

“Benoit never used your art! He always used his own needlepoint.”

“Shut up, Maurice.”

“You shut up, you old hack!”

“Both of you shut up.”

Dora kept her head down, doing her best to smile, and be complimentary, and examine each art piece without lingering too long anywhere. Her insides churned. What if she picked the wrong kind of art? That stall with the landscape photographs had tons of spirits. Did that mean it was good? Dora wasn’t a big fan of landscape photography but she supposed it was good. Except those paintings in that tent over there were huge and definitely impressive. But the details on these trees made of gold wire … that was art, right?

So many eyes on her grew too heavy, and she ducked into a yellow tent selling little painted figurines. Dora gave a quiet, “Hello,” to the bored-looking vendor in a folding chair in one corner. He grunted, not looking up from his book.

Chester padded along beside her, sniffing the air but too short to see over the tables.

Dora stopped at a blue owl the size of her hand. Squiggles and swirls in pinks and green danced across it. Something about its yellow eyes, one squinting, one wide, and the hectic angle of its carved feathers made it look ruffled. Like the little bird was about to ask, “Huh?”

Dora felt her first real smile of the night.

“How much for this one?”

The man in the chair mumbled, “Thirty. Thirty-five if you want it gift-wrapped.” Dora produced her wad of money and counted out three yellow bills. The man took them, still not looking up from his book.

“It’s really beautiful,” she said. Beside her, Chester turned a circle, then lay down with his head on her foot.

“Thanks,” replied the man.

“There was an owl that lived in our backyard when I was little. It looked just like this.”

“Okay.”

“Uh, okay. Thank you.”

“Yep.”

“Okay. Come on Chester.”

“What’s an owl?” asked the dog as they exited the tent.

“A bird,” Dora said absently. Oh, God, had she made the wrong choice? The owl had made her think of her dad, and she’d forgotten all about the ritual. But looking at it now, the figurine was tiny, and more interpretive than avian. There weren’t even any spirits in the tent. Was it good enough to be considered art?

Even as she thought this, calls started going up through the market. Bells rang out. Vendors rolled down open tent flaps. Burners were turned off and potlids replaced. People started filing back the way Dora had come, towards the big red arch at the market’s start.

She and Chester were swept up in the current.

“Good luck, Dora!”

“We’re all counting on you.”

“You alright, Lady Goldstein? You look sick.”

Dora smiled and nodded and told everyone she was alright. Except the list still said she needed true love. How was she supposed to get that? Well, she loved things. Hopefully that would be enough.

While everyone headed back into town to start the festivities, she and Chester hiked the opposite direction, away from the light and noise and all the people who knew her but she didn’t know, until she got to the spot where she’d parked the pink Jacuro Busybee. Chester hopped into the driver’s seat, and she pushed him to the passenger’s side where he pawed at the window crank until Dora leaned over and rolled down the window. What kind of car still had a hand crank?

It took several tries before the engine turned over and the compact car burbled to life. A woman’s voice sang out from the radio, “Shock you to rock you, baby, I just want you, want you, want you!” Dora didn’t know the song, but the radio only got the Island’s three radio stations.

Outside of town was all green rolling hills rising around her in the night like the humped backs of sleeping giants. Overhead, the sky glimmered with more stars than she had ever seen in one place—spills of gleaming diamonds across velvet black. She crested a rise and saw the endless constellations trailing away over the ocean several-dozen miles distant.

Turning down the radio’s volume, she fished around in her bag for her cellphone.

“Hello?” came her mother’s voice. At the sound, Chester looked back from where he was dangling half out the window, head cocking sideways.

“Hola Mami,” Dora said.

“Hola Mija! Todo bien? How is new job? Have you met any cute boys?”

“Is that Grandma? Hi Grandma!” Chester cried, pulling fully back inside the car. “Grandma! Grandma hi, it’s me, Chester!”

“Chester says hi,” Dora laughed.

“Hola Chester. Como estas baby? Mi chiquito puppy! I miss you, si. Estas siendo un buen perro?” Dora had yet to figure out if her mom heard Chester speaking and the magic of the Island made her not care, so she let her mom coo to her ‘grandson’ while she squinted at the road, trying to remember the folded map she’d spent most of that morning studying.

“We’re actually going to work right now, Mom.” Wide, purple askergew trees closed in around the car, hiding the night sky. “But we just wanted to call and say we love you.”

“I love you Grandma!” Chester barked.

“Gracias Mija. I love you too. And I’m so happy you are liking work!”

“Yep, it-it’s great.”

“I just thank God that you are happy. When you quit school, I prayed to God every day you would be alright.”

“I know, Mom. I know. But I found this job and, and it’s … magical.” Her headlights cut bright paths through the darkness. She slowed, turning off the main road onto a dirt path snaking drunkenly back and forth.

“Your dad must have put in a good word with someone up in heaven. He would be so proud of you, Mija.”

 “Mom, I have to go. Sorry. I’ll call you en la mañana.”

“Okay, si, si. Gracias, Mija, thank you for calling. Te amo.”

“I love you grandma!”

“Chester says he loves you. Bye, Mom.” She hung up, jamming the phone back in her bag. Tears blurred her vision.

The path rose sharply, then turned downhill. Steeper and steeper until Dora could feel the Jacuro Busybee fighting not to topple trunk over headlights. Trees blocked her view on all sides. Silence pressed on her. Chester whined softly, curling up tight in his seat.

“It’s okay, buddy,” she whispered, patting his flank.

He whined again, ears back.

“I know. But it’ll be really quick, then we’ll get you some more snackies. How does that sound? Huh? Hey, who’s my good boy? Who’s my good boy?”

“Me?” His tail thumped.

They reached the ritual site a few minutes later. Dora had never been here before—the instructions were clear about never coming outside of the ritual—but when the road leveled off into an old parking lot, when the trees pulled back from a vast bowl of grass, when she looked up and saw the few sparse stars whose light had reached this eldritch place, Dora, shirt soaked through with sweat, bladder busting, wishing she hadn’t hung up on her mom and that she hadn’t called in the first place, knew they had arrived.

“Stay,” she commanded Chester, reaching over and cranking the window closed.

He batted at the hand crank.

“No,” she said.

He let out another soft whine.

“It’s alright buddy. I’ll be right back, I promise.” She slung her tote over a shoulder, took a deep breath, and left the car.

The parking lot where the road ended could have been cut from a million old malls and strip centers. Faded yellow lines, two handicap spaces, and a rusted light pole whose single sodium bulb cast a flickering yellow halo across the lot.

She gave Chester one last look, waved to him, then turned towards the great expanse of grass beyond.

She went in.

The ritual began when her foot touched the grass. Wind stirred through the deep valley. It whirled across the sacred grass and tousled her hair. It smelled of clean dirt, morning grass, and green growth on old trees in strange, wild places. Chester’s muffled yip made her look back.

“It’s alright,” she called. “You’re a good boy! It’s okay!”

“WHO … ARE … YOU?” The voice rumbled across the valley, and Chester went mad, howling, scrabbling, desperate to get out and get to her as the Great Spirit emerged in the moment she turned away to comfort her best bud.

Dora turned back, and faced it.

The Great Spirit towered gargantuan. It blotted out the world, it consumed, replaced, was the night sky—heaven subsumed by the two blood moons of its red red eyes. Four reptilian legs. A tail stretching into the bleak forevermore behind it. And a maw gaping wide to bare teeth like broken mountains. Its jaw did not move, its tongue not stir, but a voice came from that deep gullet still. It was the sound of raging tectonic shifts that crumble mountains, a lonely moon grappling tsunamic tides, the first particles in void that crashed together echoing out across strange eons in this creature’s belly, echoing, echoing, echoing to reach Dora, here now, that she, chosen by some inscrutable reason to perform the rite, would hear genesis, let there be light, the sound of a big bang … bang … BANG!

It looked at her.

“YOU ARE NOT HIM. BENOIT. THE ONE WHO BRINGS THE SOUP. THE ONE WHO TEACHES. THE ONE WHO SHOWS BEAUTY AND MUST WALK AWAY.” It raised a ponderous foot, and she could hear muscles creaking, felt the earth groan as its weight shifted.

“No, he … he couldn’t come. But he picked me. I brought you soup!” She practically shrieked the last few words. Missus Wailladoare’s Tupperware of chicken broth was still hot as she held it up.

The spirit sniffed. Its head turned to the side in a movement so recognizable she almost told him to sit if he wanted the snackie.

“OPEN IT.” She fumbled at the lid. Her hands were so sweaty. She ripped the top off and felt the container slide from her grip. She yelled, tried to catch it, almost had it, then watched it fall through the air, soup flying everywhere, before it landed in the grass, spilled its last bit of broth, and rolled to a stop.

Dora stared. “I’m so sorry.”

She’d ruined it. Everyone was counting on her and she couldn’t even open a soup container and her mom was right she should have just gotten the degree because it made good money even if she hated computer science and she was such a fuckup and just wanted to go home and eat cookies and cream ice cream on the couch with Chester because she’d failed again and—

“IT IS THE GESTURE,” said the spirit. “WHAT LESSON WOULD YOU TEACH?”

Dora stared up at the spirit, sure she’d misheard. It watched her with cold red eyes. It didn’t seem mad. Maybe she only needed to get most of the ritual right?

“Right. Right. Um, I-I wasn’t sure what to bring,” she dug out the book she’d bought earlier, “so I-I bought a book and, uh, okay, okay, here.” Opening the book, she balanced it in one hand and pulled out her phone with the other, turning on its flashlight. Her heart fell as she saw the first line.

“WHAT IS WRONG?”

“Nothing, nothing! Um, okay, okay, here goes: H-hwaet we gar-dena in geardagum. P-peod … cyninga prym gefrunon.”

The spirit let out a deep rumbled. “YOU WOULD BRING FARCE?”

“No! No I swear I didn’t know—”

“YOU KNOW NOT WHAT YOU BRING? INSOLENT! UNWORTHY! WHERE IS BENOIT? WHERE IS BENOIT? I WILL CRACK THE ISLAND, DRINK THE WAVES, TEAR DOWN THE STARS AND BURN THEM IN THE LAND!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Dora tried to back up but tripped. She landed hard in the grass, book and phone flying from her hands. Chester barked inside the car, pawing at the passenger door. The Great Spirit raged, bringing one foot up and smashing it against the ground. Dora’s hands were around her head. “Sana sana colita de rana. Sana sana colita de rana.” She barely realized she was chanting the words, tears streaming down her face. “Sana sana colita de rana. Sana sana colita …”

The havoc stopped. The Great Spirit was silent. Slowly, she lowered her arms and looked up. The Spirit had paused.

“WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?” it asked.

Dora blinked. “Sana sana colita de rana? It’s a saying in Spanish, but it doesn’t…” She hesitated. It was this, or nothing. “My mom used to say it to me when I was little and sick. ‘Sana sana, colita de rana. Si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana.’”

“I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THESE WORDS.”

“It’s Spanish. It a kids’ rhyme. Something like, ‘heal heal, little frog tail. If you don’t heal today, you’ll heal tomorrow.’”

“HMMMM. SPA-NISH.” The Great Spirit seemed to taste the word. “‘SANA SANA, COLITA DE RANA. SI NO SANAS HOY, SANARÁS MAÑANA.’ DEEP WORDS. THANK YOU.”

Dora, heart still pounding, stood on shaky legs. She shot the book a sour look. It lay innocently in the grass nearby, illuminated by her phone’s flashlight. She picked up both and put them back in her bag.

“The list said I should bring some art too.” She produced the little blue owl, hands shaking, holding it up for the Great Spirit to examine.

“HMMM. WHY IS IT BEAUTIFUL?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Then, when the Spirit rumbled, quickly added, “It’s beautiful to me though! Uh, my dad, he … he died. When I was little. But, there used to be an owl that lived in our backyard. My dad liked to water the flowers early in the morning—he said sprinklers were a waste of money …” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “One time, me and my mom heard him screaming, and we ran out to see what was wrong.” A laugh burbled out of her, tears spilling down her cheeks. “He’d accidentally sprayed the owl with the hose and knocked it out of its tree, and the owl was trying to attack him, but I guess it couldn’t fly because it was so wet, so it was just hopping after him. They were running all over the yard, but he’d dropped the hose so it was spraying everywhere and, and he was soaking wet, and the owl was wet, and me and my mom couldn’t, couldn’t stop l-laughing.” Tears dripped onto the little blue owl.

She’d been ten when that happened. Her dad collapsed for the first time a few weeks later.

“THIS IS BEAUTIFUL.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. Then, not sure why, she placed the little owl on the ground, working it into the dirt until it stood upright, facing the Great Spirit.

“YOU ARE NOT BENOIT,” said the spirit.

“My name’s Dora.”

“DORA. YOU HAVE OFFERED HOT SOUP, SHARED DEEP WISDOM, AND BROUGHT ME GREAT BEAUTY. THANK YOU, DORA.”

“You’re welcome.” Was that the ritual? Had she done it?

“YOUR GIFTS TOUCH MY HEART, DORA. I YEARN FOR THE WORLD. YET I AM TIRED.”

“You should go to sleep then.”

“I WOULD LIKE TO SLEEP, VERY MUCH, DORA. YOU HAVE BROUGHT THE DEPTH OF A LIFE BEYOND THIS ISLAND, SO I WILL EAT YOU NOW, AND KNOW ALL THAT YOU DO. THEN I WILL SLEEP,  AND WAIT FOR BENOIT TO RETURN NEXT YEAR.”

“What? No. No!”

“THANK YOU, DORA.” Then the cold red eyes were growing closer, the Great Spirit’s mouth looming like the end of all things.

Dora turned to run, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. She couldn’t escape. Even if she did, would it come after her? Was that ritual? Convincing this thing to stay here, asleep, for another year?

She saw the Jacuro Busybee, saw the passenger window half open, and the wild understanding that her too-smart best boy had figured out the hand-crank blazed bright and useless in her mind. Chester streaked towards her, barking like he’d seen the mailman, eyes wild and rolling. She tried to grab him, but he was too fast. He slipped between her arms and shot towards the Great Spirit.

“Chester no!” she cried. But her dog—no no no not her dog not her dog—had his teeth bared, tail up, ears pricked, barking and barking and barking.

“You won’t hurt my mom! You won’t hurt my mom!”

“Chester!” She grabbed him around the belly, heaving him flailing upright. She had the sudden image of her dad wrestling the out-of-control hose as the soaking wet owl hobbled towards him.

“You won’t hurt my mom!” Chester slipped free, landed hard, rolled this way and that, then was upright again. “You’re mean and bad and I love her! You can’t hurt her! You can’t hurt my mom!”

The Great Spirit paused.

It looked down its long nose at Chester.

He was so small. Like a puppy again.

Deep in the cavern of its throat, the spirit made a low, questioning sound.

Chester’s ears were flat against his head, tail tucked between his legs. “Don’t worry Mom, I’ll protect you.”

She hugged her best boy tight.

“HMMM. IT IS THE GREATEST SIN TO RIP AWAY LOVE. NEXT YEAR PERHAPS. I WILL SLEEP, AND DREAM. UNTIL NEXT YEAR, DORA AND CHESTER.”

The Great Spirit retreated.

Dora and Chester sat together in the vast meadow. Both shook. Dora clutched Chester tight, and he sat, leaning into her. His tail batted against the dirt.

“Mom that was really scary,” he whispered.

“You’re a good boy,” she said, running a hand through his fur, “you’re the best boy. You’re the best boy.”

So that was the ritual. She thought of Mia and Wallace Wailladoare, Old Quizzshow, everyone in the market who had been so nice to her. She thought of her mom, worried about her, worlds away on the mainland. Her dad, running from the owl, screaming for them to stay inside.

She kissed Chester on the head and told him he was a good boy. He licked her face.

And she thought, maybe, probably, she could do this again next year.

“Mom?” said Chester.

“Yeah buddy?”

“Wallace said he’d give me his lunale if we lived.”

Dora smiled. “Come on then, Chess-press. If anyone deserves to celebrate, it’s us.” Together they walked back towards the little pink car that wasn’t a brand she’d ever heard of, and drove away from the ritual site, back towards the town waiting for her to celebrate.