The isolated village didn’t appear on any maps.  It existed just below the timberline, surrounded by stands of white pine trees.  Less than four hundred people lived there and those who did had done so their entire lives.  When or how the sundown to sunrise Skeleton Day ritual became a tradition was unknown.  But it had taken place every seven years at the Winter Solstice for as long as anyone could remember.

Preparations for the observance involved every man, woman, and child in the village.  In the week leading up to Skeleton Day, the men gathered small branches, large tree limbs.  They also trimmed logs to be the main poles of the three bonfires they’d construct on the village common.  Heavy with frozen sap, the logs had to be trussed up with ropes and dragged by hand across the frozen ground.

On the common, the logs were hoisted and leaned inward until their upper sections crossed.  The upper sections were then bound together so each towering structure was free-standing.  Last, the children helped the men stack kindling up around the structure.  What was leftover was then set aside to serve as additional fuel during the ritual.

While the wood-related tasks occupied the men, the women attended to the homes.  Every inch of the floors, walls, and ceilings, all nooks, crannies, and corners had to be cleansed.  Following that, the cured meats, canned vegetables, and loaves of bread for the post ritual feast needed to be prepared.

The final task involved the chapel.  The entire village gathered lanterns, bedding, food, and other amenities to support those with infirmities and those under the age of thirteen who would remain there during the ritual.

In the wee morning hours, all was still in the main room of the house except for the tick-tock of the mantel clock measuring time.  Unable to halt his thoughts, Jonas had once again arisen from his bed and gone downstairs.  Standing amid the modest rocking chair, captain’s chair, and deacon’s bench, that he’d built by hand, he stroked his graying beard.  Outside, snowflakes were falling on the pine trees, bowing them down in humble submission.

Jonas had expected what was troubling him would resolve itself on Skeleton Day.  But with less than 24 hours to the ceremony, that belief had deserted him. Running a hand through his thick hair, he lumbered across the room, through the kitchen, and into his workshop.

In the shop, he lit a lantern.  The wooden cabinet he’d built for Grace as a wedding present was sitting on his workbench.  He’d poured a tremendous amount of tender love and care into its creation.  He could even recall the warm sensation of his fingers exploring every inch of it as he rubbed oil into its rich, smooth grain.  But the cabinet was no longer stable and strong.  The years had taken their toll and weakened where its pieces joined together.

Jonas shook his head.  His life seemed to consist of two distinct phases, before and after children.  Before, Grace had been his partner, his wife, and they were as one.  But after their second child’s birth, motherhood became her all-consuming passion.  As the years passed, its exclusivity became inextricably coupled with indifference toward him.  Melancholic, frustrated, then angry, he finally resigned himself to silent acceptance.  What had occurred wasn’t attributable to her becoming a bad wife.  Nor was it a case of jealousy on his part.  Like her, he loved their children.   It was simply grief.  He mourned what they’d lost. 

Seeing his tools scattered atop his workbench, Jonas began putting them away.  Simon, though too young to assist him, often wandered into the shop when Jonas was working.  To occupy him, Jonas usually gave him one or two safe tools to play with.  Organizing his mallets, planes, chisels, clamps, and other tools calmed Jonas’s mind.  Sighing, he extinguished the lantern and headed back to bed. 

By dusk the next evening, the prior night’s snow was turning a dull gray color.  Through a wavy glass door window speckled with seeds, Jonas watched his neighbors drift toward the common.  Distorted by the glass, they resembled featureless gray and black sprites.

From above, Grace called out, “Simon, hurry and put away your marbles.  Your father’s waiting.”

Like the rest of the house, the upstairs bedroom furnishings were spare.   Each room contained a bed, wardrobe, small table, and a painting hanging off-kilter on the wall.  As Grace moved between rooms completing final preparations and blowing out lanterns, the floorboards creaked and the door hinges groaned.

“Faith, would you please help him?”  she called out in a measured tone.

Jonas left the door and walked over to the cast iron wood stove.  He opened the door to the firebox and peered inside.  Only a few dying embers in an ocean of ash.  He closed the air intake vents, the firebox door, then went over to the foot of the stairs and called up that it was time to go.

“Simon, let your father help you,” said Grace as she ushered the children down the stairs.

At the front door, Jonas knelt down and Simon raised a leg and put a hand on his father’s shoulder.  While Jonas slipped on Simon’s snow boots, Grace attended to Faith.  Once the children were in their gray wool coats, hats on heads, and scarves wrapped around the lower half of their faces, Grace put on her long plain black coat.  Then she took hold of her long wavy brown hair and slipped it beneath her oversized floppy black hat.  As she tucked in a few stray strands and swung a white shawl around her shoulders, Jonas shrugged on his black pea coat.  Then he tugged on his trapper’s cap and snapped its ear coverings elongated tabs beneath his bearded chin.

The outside air was crisp and laden with the smell of wood smoke.  Jonas exited the house last, stopped, and took a parting look.  Like all the houses, theirs was completely dark and looked ghostly and forlorn.

As Jonas caught up to Grace and the children, Faith said, “Dad, you forgot to close the front door.” 

“The doors are as they should be,” he said in response to her scolding grammar school teacher tone.

Jonas took hold of four-year-old Simon’s hand and proceeded to lead the way.  It was a struggle for the small boy to keep up with his father’s pace and long strides.  When they reached the chapel, they stopped. 

“You sure you wouldn’t prefer to wait here with the other young’uns?” asked Jonas.  The building was aglow with light. 

Simon looked at Faith.  She was twice his age, and this was to be her first ceremony.  To mark the occasion, she’d begged Grace to style her hair in the Shirley Temple curls she sometimes wore. 

Simon shook his head.

“They can always leave and go there later if need be,” said Grace.  In the days leading up to Skeleton Day, she’d told Jonas how much Simon longed to be like him. 

Jonas shrugged.  “All right then,” he said.

Placing her hands beneath his armpits, Grace lifted Simon.  She set him on her hip with her hands clasped beneath his bottom.  Then they resumed walking, Faith clutching a seam of her mother’s coat.

Most of the villagers had already assembled on the common, and the three bonfires were ablaze.  Pops and snaps produced by the burning wood tossed sparks into a night sky heavy with the syrupy odor of pine.  Separating from his family, Jonas joined the men’s circle.  Grace led the children to the children’s circle.  There, she gave them some final instructions before going over and joining the women.  

By the time total darkness settled upon the village, the last participants had arrived.  Then the ceremony began.  First, each person turned to the neighbor on their right and nodded.  Then they did the same to the person on their left.  Each group then bowed to its firekeeper – the elder responsible for feeding their fire until sunrise.  Last, they all joined hands, forming an unbroken circle.

Upon the firekeeper’s signal, each person started softly speaking.  Those who’d committed some transgression against another member of the community prayed for forgiveness.  Others, not in need of absolution, prayed that forgiveness be granted to offenders and that the community prosper in the coming years.  As the solemn petitions left the speakers’ lips, they were drawn to the heat of the towering infernos and swept upward into the dark night.

Hours passed with the shadows of the bonfires flickering flames dancing on the villagers’ faces.  Arms and legs became weary and leaden under the oppressive heat.  Maintaining the unbroken circles became a torturous ordeal.  Enduring required each participant to steadfastly bind his or her personal will and trust with that of the others.

As sweat poured down his face, Jonas looked over at Grace.  She was staring at him, her eyes expressionless.  He could not discern what she was saying and hoped the same was true for her.   He’d often wanted to tell her how he was feeling, but hadn’t.  There were no right words, none that wouldn’t lead to a pointless disagreement that failed to produce any changes or lasting resolutions.

During the night, exhaustion had claimed the youngest children, including Simon.  Now, as daybreak approached, it began snowing once again.  The smoke-tainted snowflakes resembled ashes.  Finally, the first rays of a new day’s sun made it over the Eastern horizon, signaling an end to the ritual. 

Jonas’s family reentered their chilly house.  While she helped the children remove their outerwear, he hung his coat and hat on a hook inside the front door.  Then he loaded the wood stove and as the kindling caught, he pumped air onto the fire with a bellows. In the kitchen, Grace and the children began preparing for the meal. 

Assuming Grace and the children were in the kitchen, Jonas climbed the stairs, taking care not to make a sound.  In the frigid air upstairs, he headed directly for his and Grace’s bedroom.  At the doorway, he stopped.  Grace was standing perfectly still in front of his wardrobe, its open doors in her hands.  He watched her sigh as she slowly closed them and turned to leave.  Seeing him in the doorway appeared to startle her.  She hesitated, then quickly crossed the room and brushed past him without a word.

– J L Higgs