Lac De Lune Dunes

andrea essenberg

It was early July when the second tourist disappeared and Daryl Osborn wrecked his car. The same day, in truth, a funny not-so-funny coincidence. He had been driving back to his brother’s house after a long morning of work by the water, and out of being overworked and exhausted he had forgotten to turn. There had been a tree, some profanity, and a long phone call. Once he finally got home (courtesy of his brother), he had been greeted by the local news channel announcing the second missing tourist of the season. 

“They have Coast Guard helicopters out flying over the Great Lakes,” Daryl said, holding an ice pack to his head. 

“It’s standard procedure,” Wayne, his older brother, replied. 

“It’s those dunes.” 

“Daryl-” 

“Don’t you Daryl me, Wayne,” Daryl said, meeting Wayne’s gaze with a bloodshot gaze. “You remember what Dad always used to say about those dunes.”

 “I assume you’re not talking about how Uncle Warren broke his nose driving a dune buggy?”

“The dunes eat people, Wayne Osborn.” Daryl’s tone was morbidly enthused. “You’re a decade my senior; you ought to know.” He laughed. “Twenty-nine, Wayne, and you forget the dunes.” 

“Lac De Lune Dunes State Park brings in good tourism money,” Wayne protested, jaw tightening. 

“Of course it does,” Daryl said, laughing once again. His voice was bitter. “And how many tourists does it take in turn?” 

Wayne got up and walked to the kitchen, visibly ruffled. Daryl sprawled across the whole couch, letting out a yelp of pain as he moved his muscles. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” Wayne asked, voice softer. 

“Just because your company makes huge money off the tourists,” Daryl said, raising his eyebrows and grinning, “doesn’t mean you can justify sending tourists with no survival instincts out on those horrifying things.” 

“Okay fine,” Wayne said, whipping around to look at his younger brother, “tell me how you do it at your college out in the Pacific Northwest. What dangers are out there? There’s always some hostility from nature.” Daryl was silent, and Wayne let out a drawn out breath. “Daryl, we try to educate people here about the dangers. It’s not the fault of anybody in Lac De Lune if they don’t listen. Would it be better if the tourism dried up and this town slowly died?”

“Lac De Lune is dying,” Daryl said in a hollow voice. “You know about the dunes, Wayne. As the sand blows, they move towards the forest first. They engulf the trees, then the trees rot and leave air pockets that overeager tourists fall into and suffocate in. Once the dunes pass the forest, they eat up summer homes near the lake. House by house.” He spoke more rapidly, eyes darting around the room. “Those dunes, those beloved dunes that people travel miles to visit, will first fill in the lake of Lac De Lune, and then engulf the town of Lac De Lune. We’re dying, Wayne. We’ve been dying since our ancestors first built in sight of those dunes.” 

“You are concussed.” Wayne’s voice was a soft protest. 

“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong, bro.” Daryl let out a short laugh, before rolling over on the couch. “Your great-grandchildren will have no town.” 

“Be quiet,” Wayne’s voice was still soft. 

“You put a roof over my head during the summers and feed me,” Daryl said. “I will be quiet, if not out of anything genuine on my part but for that.” 

“Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” There was a kindness behind Wayne’s voice. 

“I’m fine,” Daryl said. He pulled a blanket over himself and let himself fall asleep.

*******

It was midafternoon, a mere couple hours later, when Daryl woke up. Besides his probable concussion and sore muscles, he felt surprisingly well for a man who had just survived a decent car crash. 

He dragged himself to his feet and rubbed his head. The insurance calls had been tiring, as had the experience itself. A twinge of stubborness rose in him; he wasn’t quite ready to rest when there was a town to be explored. He left a note for Wayne, only to hear footsteps behind him. 

“What is my little hooligan of a nephew up to?” Daryl said affectionately, recognizing the footsteps. 

“Taking snacks,” the young boy said candidly. “You won’t tell my parents.” A statement, not a question. 

“Of course not,” Daryl said, smiling. “I totally don’t see you reaching for the candy shelf. Anyway, Callum, you tell your dad that I went out for a walk and that I’m okay.” 

“Where are you going, Uncle Daryl?” 

“I don’t know. Downtown. The lake. Maybe the dunes.” Daryl shrugged. “But you and Dad told me those are dangerous.” His nephew frowned with concern.

“If you know what you’re doing, they’re safe enough, kiddo.” Daryl felt himself tense at the thought of his nephew lost, injured, or dead like the tourist. “Just don’t go out on them on your own.” 

Callum nodded pensively, and Daryl relaxed a bit. His nephew looked at him. “Can I borrow your records?” Callum asked, snatching a chocolate bar. “Only if your dad says they’re okay for you to listen to,” Daryl said. “I’ll be back, okay?” 

“Okay.” Callum nodded before immediately walking up the stairs. 

Daryl felt a twinge of affection, before he turned to the door and made his way to the town. 

******* 

Eden looked apoplectic as Daryl walked into the restaurant. She pointed at him menacingly. 

“Good to see you too,” Daryl said, smiling. “Food service treating you well?” 

“First, you can stop acting so smug now that you got some nice lifeguard job and stopped working here,” Eden said, letting out a long breath. “Second, some customer has put the same song on the jukebox for the past half hour. Daryl, I like older music almost as much as you, but if I hear Don’t Stop Believin’ one more time, I might just resort to violence.”

“Eden, my dear former coworker,” Daryl said, gesturing with his hands, “it’s eighties music. You can’t beat it.” 

“Daryl,” she said, grabbing him by the shoulders across the bar and staring at him, “help me find another job.” 

“Eden,” he replied, half-sarcastic and half-affectionate, “I can find you another job the same time I find a way out of this dying town.” He let out a long sigh, sitting down at a bar stool. “I’ll be a happy man once I figure out how to do either.” 

“Talk to your brother or something,” Eden suggested. “He could solve both our problems.” 

“He could transfer you to another tourist joint or get you in touch with some of the other guys who run tourist spots in town. Wayne would help you out as soon as he got the chance.” Daryl took a sip from the glass of water Eden had set in front of him. 

“Thank you for this—” He raised the glass. “—by the way.” He let out a sigh. “Wayne can’t solve my problem though.” 

“You go to college in Washington for most of the year,” Eden said, letting out a long sigh as Don’t Stop Believin’ started playing again. “Isn’t that enough?” 

“Eden, I’ll just wind up going to med school somewhere on the East Coast to even it out. And then—” He gave a wild grin. “—I’ll get some internship at the hospital here. I’ll set up practice and stay here ‘til I retire, and by that point I’ll be too old to care about moving. I’ll be just like every generation of my family that’s lived in the US. Same cycle. Over and over and over.” 

“You’re depressing,” Eden said flatly. “And, quite frankly, you should either try to solve your problems or find better coping methods than root beer floats.” 

“Vanilla ice cream and soda, Eden,” he counter-argued. “Incredible. Fixes all my problems.” 

“Some sugar, and more sugar, will not give you a plane ticket to a random city or let you come to terms with life here.” Eden let out a long sigh. “I care about you enough to tell you that. Also, you look horrible.” 

“And here I was thinking you liked my appearance,” Daryl said wryly, knowing Eden wouldn’t mind the joke. 

“When you don’t look like you lost a bar fight.” 

“Got into a car crash. This morning actually.” 

Eden muttered under her breath. 

“I’m not dead, Eden,” he said, sipping at his water. 

“I noticed.” Eden flashed him a look that could have been frustration or affection. “Try not to die, Daryl.” 

He smiled before walking over to the jukebox and pulling the plug from the wall. He turned to her across the room, still holding the plug, and flashed her a restrained smile.

“How’s that?” Daryl asked, letting the plug fall to the floor as he made his way over. “Just blame it on me if anyone asks.” 

“Of course I will,” Eden said affectionately. 

“I’ll see you around town then.” Daryl finished his water and smiled at Eden. “Like I said, Daryl, fix your problems and—” She smiled back at him. “—don’t you dare die. You’ve been too close already.” 

Daryl nodded, before leaving out of the restaurant and into the rest of Lac De Lune. 

******* 

The tourists seemed more nervous than usual. They could be spotted instantly, with their unfamiliar faces and expressions of being both delighted and hopelessly naive. Having grown up around tourism, mostly raised under the wing of his brother, Daryl was well-familiar. Like birds, they migrated with the seasons, and it was time that they returned to their favorite summer spots. 

Daryl stopped to help a young couple looking for dune buggy rentals, being sure to warn them to stick to the approved roads. 

“You heard the news, right?” Daryl asked, jaded yet courteous. 

There was a brief nod from both of the couple, before Daryl let out a brief sigh. “You’ll be fine,” he continued, “just keep your heads on your shoulders.”

He left them, making his way down to the marina. His brother, as a result of owning several businesses and sacrificing countless hours of free time, had a boat in a dock at the marina and nearly no time to use it. What it meant was that Daryl had a spot to sit near the lake and stick his legs in the water, assuming there were no dead fish nearby and that nobody had spilled oil. Fortunately, that was the case. The water of Lac De Lune was as clean as it could be. 

He let out a sigh of relief as his strained muscles hit the cold water. He sat for a few minutes in silence, feeling the summer breeze in his hair. A newly-bought pair of sunglasses kept the sunlight from making his concussion feel worse. 

As he sat, he finally had the chance to sit back and reflect. He thought back to his job that morning, where despite Eden’s ideas of an ideal, he had to deal with an aggressively drunk beachgoer and narrowly managed to de-escalate the situation. 

“Gotta pay the tuition somehow,” he said apathetically the first time he returned to Wayne’s house after an aggressive encounter at the beach. Wayne had instantly suggested that Daryl return to his job at one of Wayne’s restaurants, but Daryl stubbornly refused, insisting that he didn’t need to tie himself to the family business more than he already was. That, and he wanted to save people. Wayne had taken this with a neutral expression and returned to making dinner. 

Daryl thought back to the present. His legs were still cool, but the water didn’t seem as cold as it did at first. He considered, briefly, leaping into the lake until he

remembered just how cold and deep it was. Even with lifeguard training and being relatively fit, he still doubted it would be a good idea, considering all of him was aching horribly. He shrugged off the urge, before returning to his thoughts. 

There was, of course, the question of why he’d come back after college. It hadn’t ever seemed like there was any option. The Osborns had, and always would, stay in Lac De Lune. He was an Osborn through and through, or at least it seemed. When he walked along the lake, it seemed to pull him in with its own gravity. Worse yet were the dunes, where the sound of sand hissing through the wind called to him. It was a familiar sound, almost a song, and there were times where, against better judgment, he would find himself roaming the dunes. He would let himself be swallowed not by the dunes but by his memories of them, of days with his father and family on the dunes, of picnics and days swimming near the dunes, of the stories and folklore he had been raised in. 

There were parts of the dunes safer than others, and it was something mostly locals knew and tourists ignored. It was those that he would roam, hands clasped together as if praying, wandering that desert land as if he was looking for some great wisdom or some answer from the world around him, perhaps the dunes themselves. It was the one place he could think of where his sarcastic, jaded nature gave way to something else. 

He smiled at the thought of those horrible dunes. He smiled, despite the ever looming threat and reality that they would consume Lac De Lune. His hometown,

engulfed in sand, a destruction more permanent than any flood or fire ever could be. One could rebuild after those. There was no rebuilding when everything was buried. There would only be curious people like him roaming on top of those ever-roaming dunes. 

Despite all his longing for the unknown and yet-to-be-discovered, there was a comfort in harsh truths and certainties. The dunes were dangerous. They would be the death of Lac De Lune, eventually. Yet, he would roam. 

******* 

It was evening, and Daryl sat on the porch of Wayne’s house on the swinging bench. The sun was setting over Lac De Lune, covering the dunes with a burning orange light like fire. From inside the house came the sound of eighties rock on Daryl’s record player; Callum had chosen well in the eyes of his uncle. 

“Music,” Wayne said, sitting down on the bench next to his brother, “I assume is another way you tolerate life in Lac De Lune.” 

“Surprisingly enough, no,” Daryl said, taking one of the two glasses of lemonade that Wayne had brought over. 

“Then what is it?” 

“Just enjoyment.” Daryl rolled his eyes. “I can enjoy things, you know.” “Do you enjoy Washington?” Wayne asked. 

“Yes.”

“Do you ever enjoy… here?” 

There was silence. 

“Okay,” Wayne said, voice almost wounded. 

“No, you got it wrong. I did too,” Daryl said, sipping his lemonade. “I don’t enjoy Lac De Lune. I enjoy parts of it. Same as I enjoy parts of Washington. It’s all mentality.” 

“Do you think you could enjoy any place?” Wayne asked softly. 

Daryl shrugged. The silence between the two spoke volumes. 

“Please, Daryl,” Wayne said, beginning to stand. He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder, an act he wouldn’t usually do. “I don’t care what you do. I don’t care where you go. Just try to find some contentment. Try to enjoy things a bit more.” 

“I’m learning, Wayne,” Daryl said softly, voice emotionless. “It’s just hard when you feel trapped in your hometown and when you feel homesick when you’re away.” 

“You miss here?” A note of surprise. 

“I miss parts of here,” Daryl answered. “Including you, for what that’s worth.” Silence. 

“Try to enjoy this, Daryl.” Wayne gave him a meaningful look before going inside. 

Daryl sipped his lemonade, watching the sunset. 

*******

It was night when Daryl moved again. The lemonade was long gone. The sun had set, and moonlight flashed over the lake. 

“Lac De Lune,” Daryl said softly. “Moon Lake.” 

He could feel it, the slight pull drawing him to the lake. He stood, letting it pull him. He wandered among the neon lights of restaurants, some his brother’s. Under the stars, he was bathed in moonlight and neon. The lake glittered like diamonds, like stars were trapped in its inky black surface. He made his way to a boat launch, where he stood, feet in water. He looked across the lake, and then it hit him. He could see the winds kicking bits of sand off the dunes, a faint sheen caught in the moonlight. Even the action driving the dunes to engulf his town was beautiful at that moment. On injured muscles, he walked to the dunes. 

******* 

Daryl was at the base of the dunes. They towered above him, up to a couple hundred feet tall. There were dunes that were tall enough that some of those who climbed them would exhaust themselves to the point of needing helicopter rescue. Fortunately, these dunes were shorter, although brutal in their own right. 

He kicked off his shoes, tied them to his belt by the laces, and began the climb. After a few minutes, his muscles began to cramp. He took the occasional break, letting himself sink back slightly in the sand, before taking a deep breath and starting again.

He had made this climb dozens of times, although never before on the same day of surviving a car crash. 

“It could be worse!” He laughed bitterly, taking a few more steps and groaning at the feeling of sinking back as he stopped. He kept climbing, dragging himself up the dune and closer to his memories of them, finally reaching the top. 

It was like another planet. Endless, as far as the eye could see, was nothing but hills upon hills of sand, interrupted with the occasional patch of dune grass or piece of litter. In the moonlight, the quartz sand glinted. 

Daryl collapsed, feeling the chill of the sand beneath him. He laid there for a few minutes, catching his breath. Despite the pain in his muscles as he dragged himself up, he stood and began to roam. 

It was then that he heard it. The sound of sand in the wind. The faint hissing, sweeter to him than anything else. He held his hands together and roamed. The moonlight shone over the lake below, which would eventually be swallowed up by the dunes he roamed on. He could see his brother’s house, and thought back on their conversations. He could see the restaurants, see the beach where he worked. The moonlight glittered on the sand. 

He roamed, lost in thought, until he tripped on a log. Daryl spat out the sand in his mouth, dragged himself to his feet against the protest of his injured body.

The moon shone on the dunes that would engulf his town. The sand hissed around him. He roamed. There was nothing to do but keep going.