Dantelle in Spring, 2016
By Jeffrey Allen Mays
Dantelle walks, almost hovers, beside a whitecapped river that chuckles and flashes in the morning light. She blesses the cantos of the doves and whippoorwills, the regular bursts of knocking from a distant woodpecker, blinks lovingly at a doe and faun nearby chewing foliage unafraid, and eyes the jumpy green anole puffing his pink dewlap at her. She has emerged from the greenwood to greet and move among the subjects of her domain. Under her delicate feet the forest has laid a mat of pine needles. Hanging loosely from her shoulders is a gown of tea green accented with silver ribbons and tulle that does more to celebrate her body than to cover it. She extends a gentle hand to the little reptile as it bounces its unsmiling head and scrolling pinhead eyes.
The morning dew is rising in mist, and hints of honey and bergamot mingle with the thick pine vapors, peat and algae. She wanders to the bank of old-man river and breathes the heady steaming ozone. With her is Austen, an Afghan Hound. He steps after her in the glen, standing to her waist, looking afield pensive like an old monarch. His gold and ivory locks drape upon jowl and flank and flutter in the breeze.
He sniffs the rising day and sends an inquiring gaze after a strange waft coming from upstream. There’s no sound yet—just the pulsing exuberance of water and wilderness, but something is approaching. All nature grows uneasy with him, and even the wood sprites appear from their liminal space and circle at her brow in warning of a strange presence coming.
She bends to cup a handful of water, raises it to her mouth, but the water is fouled. Is it the smell of a poor departed cousin fish? of decaying overgrowth? An animal carcass? No, no living matter can produce an odor of such tumult to the senses. It becomes sulfurous like bitumen, tangy like liquor. Some alchemy has tainted the river, and the carp and bluegill fidgeted near her feet. Frogs and turtles crawl out and perch on rocks or the dank river’s edge. The river naiads hiss and rustle from ripples. A small cloud obscures the sun.
Coming into view, passing around a bend in the river, a hastily-constructed raft appears, a large square platform of logs strapped together with a small crowd of human figures walking about on board. The men and women appear to have just boarded the craft and are still trying to find enough equilibrium to balance their feet. The flat platform drifts and wobbles closer and every rider stands with arms out and legs bent at the knees, trying simultaneously to guard the baggage and equipment. The rotating platform appears to be rudderless. There is only a tall mast in the center, and a brightly colored flag waving atop in place of a sail, and streamers on shorter polls at the corners.
Dantelle looks on in wonder. A clamor is heard accompanying the vessel, chatter and music, and its residents begin to open bags and take up fishing gear, one man’s hat blows into the water, women’s dresses gust up to reveal their bloomers. A merry old man with a squeezebox and corncob pipe sits under the flag tootling out patriotic tunes. His straw boater hat seems from a previous generation of hucksters and traveling salesmen. Most of the men wear the same hat style.
Behind Dantelle the forest is piqued; birds cease their songs, bees and beetles still themselves unnaturally. Austen’s eyebrows search her countenance with a sad canine furrow; he sits beside Dantelle under a pall.
As the raft comes closer she can make out some words:
“Somebody tighten that lashing. Stay in the center, folks. We need to get stabilized.”
“Slide me that box of tackle.”
“My rod is the red one. No, there by the beer chest. Grab me a cold one while you’re there.”
“I see some rocks ahead! Can we steer to the right a little?”
“Not too far.”
“Use the oar to push off from the rocks the left. That’s the best we can do.”
“There’s rapids, too. Everybody, steady yourselves now. We are going to have ourselves a great fishing party! I’m ready to eat right now. Let’s get busy! Get your lines in the water.”
Intrigued, Dantelle steps into the water up to her ankles. Austen murmurs and sits vigilant and anxious at the water’s edge. The gaily-festooned water carnival soon has fishermen casting lines in every direction, frantically reeling in, then explosively casting the line again. They give the appearance of enthusiasm and summer fun, but joy is elusive.
“We’ll have a nice juicy fish to eat, won’t we boys!”
“We’re not all boys here, Quentin.”
“Ah, come on! Don’t get like that, Brenda. Boys in the generic sense.”
“I think I got something!” says Troy.
“What is it! Is it a bass? I love a big bass!”
“Or a catfish! Fry ‘em up!”
“Please, just not a salamander, Troy. I don’t want a salamander.”
“Oh heavens, no.”
“If it’s a salamander, you turn it loose, Troy.”
“I don’t even want to hear the word!”
“Relax everyone, it’s not a salamander. It’s a…it’s a…an old shoe.”
“Ah, shucks.”
“Try again, Troy.”
“How’s your hook, Owen? Hewlett?”
“Nothing yet. Dang! Nobody’s caught nothing.”
“Not nothing. We did catch something.”
“What are you talking about? A shoe?”
“I mean, I’m not saying it’s a feast. But in an emergency…”
“I’m not eating a dang shoe, Glen! We gotta catch us a real live fish. Here, give me one of those rods.”
“I’m not saying it’s great…”
“Come on, it ain’t even food.”
“We cain’t eat a shoe!”
“Seriously, Glen.”
“Better than a salamander though!”
“Oh! Not a salamander!”
“I could never eat one of them.”
“Aw, sure you could. If you had to.”
“Which is worse? Salamander or an old shoe?”
“Would you two stop yappin’ and wet a hook for Pete’s sake? We’re here to have fun and catch a fish!”
“Look! There’s a lady over there on the shore.”
“Isn’t she a pretty one!”
Everyone now turns to see Dantelle looking at them with wide eyes. Her long white hair flutters and astonishment lights her face. They shout and wave for her to come join them.
“What’s she gonna do? Swim out?”
“Great idea. Hey miss! Swim on out! We’ll pull you up!”
Dantelle glances back at Austen and says, “I’ll be back my friend.” Then the thin drape of voile falls from her shoulders and she dives under the water. Some come to the edge of the platform, setting it rocking and driving some to the far side for counterbalance. She swims with great speed like a porpoise, easily reaching to edge of the platform where she is lifted up naked onto the raft.
A middle-aged man approaches her, his face flushed with exertion and the rising heat of the day. His eyes and smile equally wide, he gives a tip of his boater hat. “We’re fishing!” he says with childlike excitement, glancing quizzically at the fact of her nudity. The crew all look at her and back at each other and shrug. They return to fishing while she observes the scene, standing at the rear of the platform, brushing water from her arms and drawing the wet hair from her eyes.
“Oh Lord, please let us catch a nice big bass,” someone says. “Last time all we caught was a flounder and we went hungry. Give us a big bass or a fat perch. But no salamanders, Lord, please!”
“It’s sure getting warm out.”
“We’re running low on beer already.”
“Who is the new gal?”
“Arnold, can you give her your shirt?”
“My shirt? What am I supposed to wear?”
“We can’t have a naked woman on the platform.”
“Missy, what’s your name? Where’s your clothes? What are you doing here?”
“I am called Dantelle and…I was invited here by your crew.”
“That’s fine. This is my wife, Clarice. I’m Arnold. Pleased to meet you. Er, can you cover up a little? Did you bring anything to wear?”
“Do you dislike my appearance? Do you want to cover me?”
“No it’s not that. You’re exposed, can’t you see that? Naked. Nude. And there’s young people about.”
With the incomprehension of sinless Eve in the garden, Dantelle sits down at the rear of the raft and watches the river flow behind. Arnold shakes his head and returns to his fishing rod.
The rest fling their lines into the water again and again. The sun rises high overhead. One claims to have a nibble, another says he is bringing one in. A third is watching his line jerk left and right. Two more announce that they have caught a real fish when suddenly an enormous salamander with yellow spots and an orange head, as big as a man, crawled up the front end of the platform. Shrieks of alarm rise from the women and some of the men. It moves toward the middle and stands by the mast looking around at the people. Not only is it a salamander, but it stands on its hind legs. It is as tall as any man on the boat and very fat.
“Don’t knock salamanders,” he says with a gesture of both hands. “No need to be so critical. Salamanders are great. You should be begging for salamanders. Look at me. I could feed you all for a long time. I’m way better than those other fish down there. Look at them. They’re stupid. They hardly know how to swim. Most of them cannot swim at all. Most of them stink too. You don’t want them.”
“You don’t smell so good yourself.”
“Well that’s what you think. I think I smell wonderful. And I do. Everybody says so.”
“And you don’t really swim either. You sort of waddle.”
“Are you some expert on swimming?” The people stare at the talking salamander. “Look at you, up here on this boat. You’re not swimming. Can you even swim? No, look at him. He can’t swim. Likes boats but he can’t swim. Do you people want a guy who can’t swim on the boat? Do you? He doesn’t belong here. He should be thrown off the boat. Honestly. Somebody should just throw him off the boat.”
There is a splash to the side. Everyone turns to look but stops and turns with wide eyes to the salamander.
“The salamander is talking.”
“And he’s standing on his hind legs.”
“Of course I can talk.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”
“Get him off the boat! Arnold, get him away. I don’t want to eat a salamander!”
“No, no. Listen to him Clarice. He’s starting to make sense.”
“Arnold is a wise man. Listen to your husband, Clarice. He knows. Salamanders are great, better than all other fish. The others are so small you can’t eat ‘em. You get one bite and you’re still hungry. Who here wants a dinner that can fill you up for a change?”
“Obviously we’re not going to eat a salamander,” says Troy with a chuckle. “They’re not edible. No way. Never. I will never eat a salamander.”
“Me neither! Never salamander!” chants Glen.
“Here now, let’s consider,” says Arnold. “How’s about we keep fishing and see what happens. If we catch something else, fine. Worst case, we go with the salamander.”
“Let’s get to fishing then,” says Quentin.
Everyone returns to casting their lines even more frantically, desperate to catch something more appetizing than a salamander. But Clarice is staring at it as it gestures with its tiny hands. She seems to be under a spell, speechless, captivated by its repulsiveness to such an extreme that her revulsion wraps around itself and subverts her mind. The revulsion becomes fascination in a strange psychological reverse. Meanwhile the fishermen urgently cast their lines.
“There’s got to be some fish in this river.”
“I got one!” cries Quentin.
“Pull him in!”
“He’s a big one!”
“Wow! A big fat perch, just like we wanted.”
“Hey, I got one too,” says another. “This one’s a catfish! Look at him!”
“Don’t fool yourselves,” says the salamander. “Even the biggest one won’t feed all of you. Look at them. They’re tiny compared to me.”
“At least they don’t stink.”
“I got another one!” and a three-foot-long spotted bass flops on the platform.
Several big fish are all pulled up and lay gasping for air on the platform, their eyes astonished and confused. They stink too, from their own fishy smell and also from the foul water. The salamander shrugs his shoulders and points at them.
“They’re pathetic. Look at them. You know it. It’s obvious. I’m here, I’m what you want, and I’m the only one who can feed everyone.”
“He’s making a lot of sense,” says Clarice.
“I’m done fishing,” says Arnold. “I say we eat the salamander.”
“Are you out of your mind?” says Troy.
“You know what, Troy? Trippin’ Troy? He’s wasted, see? Look at him. His kind have no idea what seafood is.” The salamander stands over Troy and scans his eyes across the crew. “Look at those drooping ears! They’re not from around here, those ears. You know what I’m talking about. Comes from eating a lotta figs. A lot of ‘em. They don’t eat too many fish where he comes from. Just the figs. He’s a fig-eater.”
The others laugh at the salamander’s joke. “Ha! A fig-eater!”
“What do you mean?” says Troy. “I love fish.”
They all draw closer to the center. The salamander seems to be getting more tasty before their eyes. Each one contemplates eating the salamander, what it would be like, how it would feel going down their throats, how full their stomachs would be. They are glancing at each other. They each start to feel that the sensation of a full belly would compensate for whatever unpleasantness would accompany the actual eating. In their minds they each decide that they would hold their noses and eat the salamander, except for Troy. Meanwhile the healthier, more natural fish on the platform gasp and the light slowly dies out of their eyes.
The salamander continues to talk, boasting of his great size, insisting that he really did taste delicious—they all would see—and that only he could satisfy their hunger, and further belittling Troy for knowing nothing about either boats, fishing, water, or anything except figs and large flapping ears.
“Does anyone here like figs? No, they’re disgusting. Only savages eat figs.”
The people have a new light in their eyes, and together they take hold of the salamander and begin to eat it, laying their teeth into it, biting raw mouths-full while gore and sludge run down their chests. Except for Troy. Their teeth rip and chew. More and more bites, gouts of meat, almost before they have chewed it at all, slide easily down their throats, splashing into their stomachs. The smell is rank and some struggle to suppress vomiting, but the promise of full bellies drives them on. Some hold their noses to swallow and cover up the stench, but other’s senses have changed. A kind of spell overcomes them. It is not foul or rank after all, merely a complex taste, an acquired taste. They suddenly see the fetid offal as a great delicacy, its flavor now savory and invigorating.
All the crew, except Troy, devolve into savages, eating raw meat. Awash in blood, they stuff clots of flesh down their throats until they cannot take another bite. They recline on the platform sated and euphoric.
“I don’t believe it! We ate the salamander!”
“Oh, thank the Lord! I am so full!”
“A meal like they used to be! Like my grandma used to make.”
Troy watches from the rear of the raft with Dantelle who stands with her hand over her mouth in horror. The crew tries to sit up, gore painting their faces and bile between their fingers and toes. Troy and Dantelle watch in amazement as the crew are transformed. They wriggle on their bellies on the platform, their legs and arms shortened, their skin now slippery and dark, their mouths growing wider and wider, reptilian jaws opening as if on a hinge. Standing up they all allow their clothing to slide off their shoulders and collapse on the platform. Their lithe bodies look just like the salamander. They stand on their little legs and nod their heads in approval. Then they turn their eyes on Troy.
“Hey old droopy ears over there!”
“What’s he still doing here?”
“Yeah, look at those ears! Want a fig Troy? Can I get you a fig, you fig-eater?”
“You don’t belong here Troy. Get off the raft.”
“Get off the raft, Troy. Trippin’ Troy!”
“Off the raft! Off the raft!” they begin to chant.
“Before we throw you off!”
“Hey! What are you guys talking about? I was on this raft before any of you. I helped build this raft!”
“You were never one of us. You don’t even like seafood.”
“That’s not true!”
“Get off the raft, fig-eater.”
The crew of salamanders take Troy in their little salamander hands and with great effort throw him into the water. He grasps a boulder and pulls himself out of the water, watching the raft jostle and pitch down the stream. A cheer goes up from the crew and they shake hands and continue to denounce all waggly-eared fig-eaters from foreign lands.
Dantelle slips off the rear of the raft into the water and swims back to the shore. The salamander crew glimpses her just as she disappears into the water, a vision of beauty and innocence among them all this time. They’d forgotten she was there. Their sense of loss lingers for a moment.
“Hey, don’t go!”
“Aw shucks. She could have stayed. She could have been one of us.”
“She was one of us.”
“Better yet, we are one of her kind, brave and righteous. And beautiful.”
The platform floats away, still rudderless and slowly spinning around, with a crew of salamanders cheering themselves.
On the shore Dantelle once again wipes the befouled water from herself and again squeezes out her hair. Austen appears cantering regally down the shore toward her, her tea-green gown waving from his gentle mouth. He looks at her with disapproving canine eyes.
“Hello my friend. Come, let us find a freshwater spring or rivulet somewhere. I need a proper bath.”
