Embers of Discontent

Joshua was a contradiction; his ailment being the constant failure to unconditionally love his wife during her recovery from pregnancy. The 32 weeks leading up to the preterm birth of his surprisingly healthy baby, Ethan, were a long, faithless journey. Although it had been difficult to watch his wife convert into a stranger, he still hoped that this newfound uneasiness would settle like the wind lost in a valley and that the life of a loving family would truly begin.

Bethany, his wife, sat in the passenger seat of the 2002 rusted Jeep Liberty, wishing she cared about these familial connections yet unable to muster any true feelings of affection—especially not for the baby in the back seat. The not-so-happily married couple was in utter desperation, seeking any sense of normalcy in their shattering life together. Joshua's only solution was to haul his newborn baby and his detached wife across the Atlantic Ocean to spend Christmas with his family in his homeland of South Wales.

The weathered Jeep shuddered to a halt, sputtering softly as it nestled beneath the shade cast by the aged oak cabin. Ethan stirred in his car seat, no longer aided in slumber by the rocky roads.

“The plan is to quickly unpack, then meet my family for Christmas Eve dinner. We’re already late, so we should try to hurry,” Joshua said, twisting the key out of the ignition.

Bethany forced her lips to speak, only to sigh and say, “I’m tired.” Her unwavering gaze was fixated on the snow-capped trees. The forest was prepared to embrace the problematic couple, offering them the coldest day of the year, motivating them to find warmth amongst each other.".

Joshua was prepared to protest, but his wife turned her head, establishing eye contact for the first time in months.

“Please, Josh, I need to settle in…” she hesitated, her dehydrated tongue suckling the roof of her mouth, then continued, “You go visit your family. I’ll stay here. It would be a good opportunity to bond with my… son.” She had hoped to come across as sincere but knew she couldn't hide her distaste.

The darker piece of Joshua's mind reveled in the prospect of leaving his dark, moody wife behind. It was this darker side of him that trumped any debate he would otherwise have had. So, he kept his lips sealed, all while watching Bethany unload her carrier bag, the diaper bag, and then finally Ethan, who almost immediately started to wail in discomfort.

Only after Bethany slammed the front door of the oak cabin did the cloying, sweet scent of alder trees suffocate her airways, while the knotted, brown scars of the wooden walls contorted into grotesque sneers, shaming her and feeling unwelcome. She felt herself slipping into the dim, jaded room, her back pressed against the wall, unable to exhale.

Ethan's head lolled in her arms, drooping toward the floor, the blood rushing to his face and amplifying his cries. The sound jolted his mother back to reality. She blinked, breathed, and the walls controlled their tempers. Instead of soothing her baby, Bethany placed him in the bassinet in the guest room. She quietly drew the curtain over the window above his head, completely shrouding him in darkness. She closed the door to his room, muffling his cries, which soon pacified.

Time continued to pass, though the afternoon sun cast shadows along the winter home's edges, temporarily nullifying the nipping frost. It was only an hour earlier that Joshua had departed to visit his dearly loved, unblemished Welsh family, with the promise of laughter and warm memories on the other side of the winding mountain.

Bethany challenged herself to cook dinner in the cramped kitchen, mechanically preparing a simple meal. Aromas filled the air, pressing her appetite to come forth. She remained uninterested, pushing the food around her plate. The silence of the cabin seemed to amplify her sense of disconnection. Then there was a knock at the door.

The echoing sound pulled her from the depths of her stupor. She cautiously approached the entryway, unable to brush off the increasing coldness caressing her gaunt spine. She opened the door to find a group of merrymen before her. The boisterous men smiled uncannily back at Bethany, their cheeks raw from winter’s pinch. The leader of this band grabbed Bethany with swollen, dry hands. He had an aquiline nose, jagged in a way that accentuated a freakishly large grin.

“Good evening, ma’am. I am Mr. Punch. We are here to sing until you grant us entry to feast on your divine foods,” he cooed, his voice thick and sticky like black molasses.

"No, thank you," she replied, wishing her voice didn’t crack in her attempt to be firm. The merrymen broke into a tune, blatantly disobeying.

“Our wassail is made of the elderberry bough,

And so, my good neighbors, we'll drink unto thee.

Besides all on earth, you have apples in store.

Pray let us come in, for it's cold by the door.”

“I said no, thank you!” she repeated, no cracking detected in her voice this time. She slammed the door, not caring if she seemed rude.

Later, as the evening deepened, the sun ceased to provide any warmth as it cast its farewell glow. Determined to find some modicum of comfort, she stoked the fire in the living room. The flames flickering to life bathed the room in warm radiance. Instead of being comforted, Bethany felt the heaviness settle upon her. The pulsating shadows enraged the anxiety hibernating inside her belly.

Exhaustion pulled her down, her head resting on the dusted floor, her sharp cheekbones pressed harshly against the wood. She unblinkingly watched the embers cackle, eyes wide and watering. She could no longer feel the burning sensation of being so close to the flames, hearing the cabin occupancy mocking her. The rising and falling of her breathing was all that she was, all that took up space in this world.

Ethan screeched a raw, guttural cry from the guest room. At first, Bethany didn’t hear him, but his cries were increasing and persistent. The more she failed to shut him out, the harder it was to swallow her resentment. Reluctantly, she went to check on him and found he was hungry. She hurriedly held him in her arms, rocking him sporadically to soothe him while looking for his breast milk. It wasn’t in his diaper bag. It wasn’t in her carrier bag.

Ethan was the monster screaming to feast in the night. He was restless, destroying any patience his mother had for him. Grudgingly, she bared her breast for him to suckle. The frustration mounted when he refused to latch on. A surge of anger morphed inside her while she again attempted to feed her baby, to feed her flesh and blood, her parasite. Defeated, she laid him back in the crib, his wails relentless. She turned away, unable to bear the weight of his demands.

In the stillness of the night, as the fire embers grew dreary, granting darkness to ambush in, she heard faint knocking sounds arise. The rhythmic banging started quietly, distant like a squirrel in an attic. Yet, as darkness grew from the edges of her vision, the rapping intensified. The merry tune of carolers broke out from outside the cabin walls. 

They banged and begged to be let in. Some sang in their cheerful holiday tunes, while others clung to their starved hopelessness as they moaned in despair. Stifling and palpable, Bethany's motherly instincts seemed to thaw as she darted to the guest room—to her bellowing, defenseless child. 

The window perched above Ethan's small form, its cracked wooden panes vibrating with energy as the winter wind stormed in with madness. Peering through the windowsill before her baby was the bleached skull of a mare. Its taxidermy glass eye surveilled them with an unknown eagerness. Shrouded in white linens with cascading red ribbons, it let out a breath of steam through the nose bone cavity. The detached lower jaw of the mare chattered chaotically in anticipation.

Before thinking, Bethany grabbed Ethan. Her heart drummed below her breast, threatening to break free. She sprinted through unimaginable darkness towards the front door. Icy whispers caressed her bare skin and stung her sock-clad feet. The shadows lurking behind her ignited a primal fear, their elongated forms stretching across the serene landscape, pursuing her.

Bethany stumbled into a clearing, her lungs icebound and unable to take any more of the piercing air. The frozen lake sprawled before her, glimmering under the festive moon. In the midst of the ice, a massive bonfire roared, vibrating the air and sending golden remnants scattering to the constellations in the heavens. A chorus of voices danced in the air—carolers clad in Christmas garb sang and chanted rhythmically, their laughter resonating in the cold night.

She edged closer, the allure of warmth and camaraderie pulling her from the disdain of the forest's snowy chambers. As she approached, a rush of heat enveloped her, dispelling the burdens that had depressed her for months. The carolers welcomed her with open arms, their reddened cheeks contrasting against their porcelain white skin. As she drew near, a sinister realization gripped her: the carolers were celebrating over the steaming carcass of human flesh. Their laughter mingled with the deformed remnants of meat stuck to their sickly teeth. Her heart lurched, but when she recognized the familiar features, a warm peacefulness took control of her emotions—her husband was among the decayed remains. She found that she felt no remorse. Instead, a cathartic acceptance washed over her.

With a gentle tug, they began weaving bells and bright red berries into her hair, draping a rich velvet cloak over her shoulders. The carolers' melodic laughter swirled around her like an embrace; the rhythm of their joyful dance swept over her.

Mari Lwyd, the enigmatic mare adorned with garlands of mistletoe, emerged from the throng. Towering over the mother, she outstretched her arms in a beckon to take the infant. In surreal union, Bethany obeyed and gave in to the swaying of the symphony. She danced in circles around the fire, arms above her head, entranced and carefree.

The flames erupted on the crystallized lake, which grew thinner as the soirée

continued. The balls of Bethany's feet floated while she frolicked with the divine beasts. Black ice shimmered and crackled in celebration, bursting forth like a dazzling firework before yielding to the fresh water beneath.

She fell, clawing at the icy enclosure. She felt the glacial waters enter her airways as a long eel slithering down her raw throat, pushing her farther into the murky depths. Desperation tugged at her consciousness—not one soul to watch her fight for her life; to shame her if she succumbed to the lake's fate. Perhaps it would be painless; perhaps her months of suffering would finally be at ease.

She felt the fire grow in her lungs, and maybe it was that fire ignited inside her which urged her to fight. Her fists knocked on the icy doors, begging for sanctuary, starved of air but full of hope.

The frozen lake finally gave way, and she persevered through, pushing herself up until, finally, her arms broke through the surface, and she lay sprawling on the ice, gasping for breath.

The warmth of the fire was gone; the carolers faded into the hollow silence of the night.

Alone, Bethany stared blankly at the vast sky above, the moon spilling silver light onto her weary form. The echoes of joy, the bells in her hair, the warmth of the cloak—they were memories now, fading.