Saturday, September 14, 2024

Nightmares

Nightmares

 

     He knew as soon as he woke up that this would be a day like no other. Yesterday had been such a day. Tomorrow would be such a day. All his days, he expected something amazing to happen, and when he went to bed after the usual chores, pleasures, and griefs, he told himself, Well, that wasn't so bad after all! And closed his eyes, and fell into nightmares.
     Horses galloped through his dreams, along sea shores, through forests, across meadows lush with spring grass. He couldn't tell whether he was riding them or watching from the rail along the track. Was he a body in the same space as the horses, or merely a point of consciousness, floating like a speck of dust in the sun? He didn’t know, but it was not a puzzle he cared to solve.
     “Come here” she called, letting her shift part. He knew he was present now, but when she turned away, he felt his body dissolve into a mist until only his fierce hot spark of desire propelled him forward. The hill fell away below him, he floated over the valley on wings wide as the river drifting through the forest below. A red-eyed hawk soared up toward him on updrafts that took him in circles. The hawk rose above him then stooped. Silver talons flashed in the sunlight, and blood streamed from him, staining the river red.
 

     As he fell, something underneath him held him, and laid him gently on the turf. Blue eyes gazed at him, cool and distant. “He’s back,” said a voice. Something pricked his neck, warmth flooded through him. He sat up and looked around. The walls were pale cream, the people standing at the foot and side of his bed wore pale blue smocks closed tightly at the neck and wrists. He felt for the sun-warmed turf, but his hand met cloth. He was dressed like the others, but his smock was red.
     “Can you stand?” asked the voice, cool and distant as the eyes. He swung his legs off the bed, and stood.
     “Good,” said another voice. He knew it was the man with the grey close-cropped beard that had spoken. Suddenly he knew that this was a man to be feared, but he did not remember why. The man’s mouth smiled but his cold grey eyes did not. A younger man with sharp cheekbones and dark eyes stood next to him. “My name is Wendover,” said the grey-bearded man. He gestured at the woman with the blue eyes, “This is Calla, and this is Miloš. Come this way, Mr Smith, if you please.”
     So his name was Smith. But what was his given name? Hunger demanded his attention, he said, “Do you have anything to eat? I’m hungry.” A moment later: “And thirsty.”
     They led him through a door that he had not noticed into a corridor painted the same pale cream colour as the room. Looking back, he saw the number 33 on the door to his room. He could see no source of the even light; there were no shadows. They led him to a double glass door that opened into a large pale blue hall with a wall of windows down one side. The sun shone on clumps of trees, lawns, a couple of ponds, white paths.
     They sat him at a table and brought him a cup of strong black coffee. Then food, steak and potatoes and green beans, a salad with blue cheese dressing, a glass of milk. As he bit into the meat he realised that this was his favorite meal. How did they know that?
     “How did you know I would like this meal?” he asked.
     “We know a good deal about you,” said Wendover. “If you have forgotten anything, simply ask. For example, you might wish to know that you are 33 biological years old, but like the rest of us your chronological age is much greater.” For a moment he sat quite still, gazing out of the windows, his face dispassionate. He turned to Smith. “How much older, we are not able to say.”
     “What is my given name?” asked Smith. “Winston,” said Wendover. “Sadly, we have not been able to discover why your name-givers chose that name.” But I know, thought Smith. Winston was a war-leader many centuries ago. They wanted me to be one, too. But he said nothing. Wendover would not be pleased with this information.
     Wendover had been watching him. “You are surprised?” he asked. “Yes,” said Smith, the evasion gliding off his tongue, “I thought you knew everything I might wish to know.” Wendover’s mouth smiled again. “We know much, but there are limits to our knowledge,” he said. His cold eyes watched Smith, noting every flicker of expression, weighing it against what Smith said, deciding when Smith’s words seemed to match his feelings, when they perhaps revealed his knowledge and when they hid it.
     Smith chewed on the succulent meat; it really was very good. We are enemies, he thought. But am I on the good side or the bad? Or does it matter, and conflict is the only reality, struggle is the only purpose? They will not let me go, they will keep me here until they find out what they wish to know. Then they will kill me. He swallowed the cool milk, forked salad into his mouth, cut a piece of potato, and relished the spicy buttery sauce that covered it. If this was his last meal, it was damn good.
     “Come with me, please,” said Wendover, and led the way to another room with glass along one wall. Winston stared at the bay, the cliffs on either side, the foaming waves crashing on the rocks.
     “The park,” he said stupidly, “Where’s the park?”
     “There is no park, there is no sea, either,” said Wendover. “These windows are holograms.” For a moment he stood quite still. “See, here’s a river.”
     The valley was wide, forested, a river glinting among the trees. A hawk stood in the sky, then stooped towards a clearing. Winston felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. The scene changed to a desert with a mesa in the distance, boulders and cactus next to the window.
     Wendover seated himself at a round table and gestured to chair across from him. “Please.” He placed a black notebook on the table, opened it to a blank page. He picked up a pen, its shiny green barrel gleaming in the light from the desert sun outside the window.
     “I have some questions. I will not ask them directly, but will give you some words, and ask you to tell me of any memories they may trigger. I may ask some questions about your answers. OK?”
     “OK.”
     “Coffee pot.”
     “I’m in a room with my parents, Mum is pouring coffee. Dad is reading the newspaper. I put some milk in the coffee. There are biscuits on a plate, oat meal and chocolate with raisins.”
     “Pen.”
     “I’m doing homework. The exercise book has an orange cover. I’m writing a story about a bear and his friends.”
     “Describe the friends.”
     “There’s a duck and a fox and a rabbit and a weasel. Nobody likes the weasel, but he’s clever, he knows things, and he rescues the others from a cave.”
     “Why are they in the cave?”
     “They’re hiding from the bombers.”
     “Bombers?”
     “The enemy sends them to kill us.”
     “What enemy?”
     “The Reds. We’re the Blues. Reds and Blues don’t get along.”
     “Do you know why?”
     “No. It’s just the way it is.”
     “Very well, we’ll continue. Ready?”
     “Ready.”
     “Shoes.”
     “I’ve made my shoes muddy and Mum is angry. I have only one pair of shoes. They pinch, they are too small.”
     “Bananas.”
     “Marilyn has made a banana loaf.”
     Wendover made a note. For several seconds he sat quite still.
     “Who is Marilyn?”
     “Marilyn is my wife.”
     “Where do you live?”
     “We live in Denton.”
     “Where is Denton?”
     “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
     “Denton is about 35 kilometres northwest of Reading.”
     “Oh. OK. I thought it was near the coast.”
     “Why do you think that?”
     “I don’t know. Maybe because of the bombers.”
     “Are these the same bombers as the ones in your story?”
     “Yes. No. Maybe. It’s confusing.”
     “Very well.”
     Wendover made a note. For several seconds he sat quite still.
     “I will now ask you some questions. Please answer as precisely as possible.”
     “All right.”
     “How many feet are there in a mile?”
     “5,280.”
     “How many feet does a centipede have?”
     “Well, it’s not a hundred, I know that.”
     “Pardon?”
     “You know, centipede. It means a hundred feet.”
     “Ah, yes, so it does.”
     But Winston knew that Wendover had not known that. Wendover continued, “Do you know how many feet a centipede has?”
     “Not for sure, I think it depends on which species, most of them have around twenty feet. Some have over a hundred.”
     Wendover made another note. For several seconds he sat quite still.
     “Now I will ask you some personal questions,” he said. “What was the address of the first house you lived in?”
     “26 Badminton Court.”
     “And the second house?”
     “35 Brick Yard Lane.”
     “And the third?”
     “10-05 Second Street. Look, will this go on much longer?”
     “I’m afraid so, Mr. Smith. We know much about you, but there are many details to fill in. May I continue?”
     “All right.”
     “I’m going to ask you about what happened on the 23rd of September, 2443. Do you recall that day?”
     Winston felt something tighten around his chest and squeeze his throat. He opened his mouth, the words wouldn’t come. He swallowed, and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said.
     Wendover gazed at him with his gleaming grey eyes that looked like metal, and for a moment Winston thought he saw compassion in his face. “I won’t ask you to tell me again. But I need to know some details.”
     Winston nodded.
     “Good,” said Wendover. He made a note. For several seconds he sat quite still.
     “What was the colour of the sofa in the living room?”
     “It was blue,” said Winston. “It was an old sofa, and the blue had faded to a kind of grey on the arms and the back.”
     “What was the picture above the sofa?”
     “It was painting of a hawk stooping to strike a dove,” said Winston. “My Dad liked it, the rest of us didn’t. When Dad died, Mum said I should have it.”
     “How did your father die?”
     “He had a heart attack. It was at the block plant, he was cleaning out the burner. He was inside, the security camera didn’t see in there. When the meds came, it was too late, he had too much brain damage.”
     “How did you feel about your father’s death?”
     “I missed him. We used to watch the ball games together.”
     “How did you feel about the painting.”
     “I didn’t like it, but it reminded me of my Dad, so I was glad to have it.”
     “May I continue with questions about your home?”
     Winston nodded.
     “What colour were the walls?”
     “They were covered in a burnt orange wallpaper with a pattern of dark green vines and red and blue flowers.”
     “What did your wife say to you when it happened?”
     “She said she loved me. Then she disappeared.” Winston paused. “She disappeared. I didn’t remember until just now.”
     He stared at Wendover. “Why did you make me remember that? I had forgotten it, I had forgotten it all, and now I have to remember it, I don’t want to remember, I want to forget.”
     “I’m afraid that’s no longer possible,” said Wendover. He spoke to the air, “Calla, Miloš, Mr Smith is tired.”
     Calla and Miloš entered the room and helped Winston stand up. He felt something prick his neck, and a great calm began to settle over the world. They guided Winston out and back through the corridor to room 33, and helped him lie down.
     Wendover leaned over him and flashed a light in his eyes. “Good,” he said, “he’s going under.” He turned to Miloš. “Watch him for twenty minutes, if his signs are good, leave him.”
     Twenty minutes later the three of them conferred. The glass wall showed a snowy plain with a blindingly bright white sun. Wendover spoke first.
     “We now know the date we had deduced is correct. We are still uncertain what Winston means by saying people disappeared. Thoughts?”
     “He may be disguising his memory of what actually happened by using the concept of sudden disappearance,” said Calla. “Agreed,” said Miloš. “Humans don’t like to think about unpleasant details, they prefer to use generalised labels for painful events.” Wendover made a note.
     “But they are able to recall details when asked, quite trivial details,” he said.
     “Agreed,” said Calla. “But when you asked him a detail about the event itself, Smith evidently recalled many details and became agitated. He stated that he did not want to remember the details. It seems that for humans, details carry much emotion.”
     Wendover studied his notes. “Some details,” he said. “Smith was not agitated when we asked him about furniture, for example, or even when we asked him about the painting that he disliked.”
     For several long moments they sat at the table, quite still.
     They returned to Room 33.
     Wendover gazed at Smith. He turned to Calla. “He’s asleep.”


     Smith knew as soon as he woke up that this would be a day like no other. Yesterday had been such a day. Tomorrow would be such a day. All his days, he expected something amazing to happen, and when he went to bed after the usual chores, pleasures, and griefs, he told himself, Well, that wasn't so bad after all! And closed his eyes, and fell into nightmares.
     He floated over the valley on wings wide as the river drifting through the forest below. A red-eyed hawk soared up toward him on updrafts that took him in circles. The hawk rose above him then stooped. Silver talons flashed in the sunlight, and blood streamed from him, staining the river red.

2012-12-08/2014-11-11/2015-04-05/2015-05-11 © W. Kir

Thursday, August 1, 2024

KITHAIRON

You should let things lie. What’s the good of stirring things up?

The bad weather was just bad luck. Weather comes and goes, rain comes and goes, it’s not the gods that decide if it will storm or not. I know. I’ve seen lots of weather out on Kithairon, watching the flocks. You don’t have much to do out there, so you look at things and you think.

Did you know there are weeds that sheep won’t eat? They smell the poison in belladonna, they won’t eat it. They love the fresh shoots on the trees in the spring, but they won’t eat the ivy that winds round the trunks of the trees. They don’t usually eat willow either, but I’ve seen a sick ewe gnaw the twigs. I tried it myself when I had a fever, I made a brew of willow twigs, it tasted sour and bitter mixed, and it smelled worse, but it cured my fever. Years later, I told this to a Syrian physician who was selling salves and potions in the agora. He said he learned of willow bark from a Persian and used it frequently. He was interested in my story of the sick ewe, and made a note of it on his tablet.

As I said, you have time to notice things when you’re watching sheep. I could tell a storm was coming hours before the first clouds darkened over Kithairon. The birds flew close to the ground, my skin felt, I don’t know, prickly, and the air was very still and smelled of iron. But looking at the clear sky you wouldn’t think there was trouble brewing.

Some days I knew there’d be a storm next morning.

I always had time to whistle up the dogs and herd the sheep into some hollow or into one of the oak groves, and so escape the worst of the weather.

So the bad weather, when it came to the city, I thought it was just bad luck. I still think so. The people were wrong to look for a reason. The priests use our ignorance for their profit, they speak of the wrath of the gods whenever bad luck follows good. Have you ever known good luck to last? I haven’t.

I knew my good luck would run out when Oedipus arrived. I tried to outrun the bad luck he brought, and asked to go back to my old job on Kithairon. I wanted to retire, I said, and to do something easy till I died. My Lady the Queen was kind, and let me run, but I couldn’t evade the bad luck. It spilled over the city, it flooded the valleys, it washed up onto the high pasture where I hoped to hide until either Oedipus died or I did.

But Oedipus called me down from the mountain. He wanted to know who’d killed Laios. How could I tell him he was the man himself? But I had to. When the King commands, you must obey. He whistled me down from the mountain like a dog, and I had to worry the scattered bits of truth together as a dog worries the flock, until he saw the whole terrible shape of it.

Why did he stir it up? If he had never known, he’d have lived happily. The drought and the sickness would pass as they always pass in the end. I could watch the sheep on Kithairon, and 

Friday, May 10, 2024

The Cat on the Mat

 

The Cat on the Mat

A libretto

Written by WEK after being inspired by The Rage of Alvin, a tragicomedy about a chipmunk resident in Midland, Michigan, composed by Kathryn Van der Linden Kirchmeir. Since it is a fiction, its 1950s assumptions about gender roles may be seen as fantasies.

Scene One: The Living Room. The Master of the House enters. He sees the Cat leisurely disposed on the couch.


The Master recitative:  What see I here? It is as I fear, the cat has assumed a posture most clear. He acts like the Master, that may not be, the Master of this House has always been Me.
The Master hurls his slipper at the Cat, and misses.

Chorus of Cushions and Old Newspapers polyphonic barbershop quartet: The Cat acts like the Master, that cannot be, the Master of this House has always been He, Has always been He, Has always been He.

The Cat opens one eye and yawns, showing gleaming teeth.

The Cat (who for purely dramatic purposes has been given a human voice) recitative: This chair it is cosy, it warms me most kind. So I will just stay here. Hello? Do you mind? Do you mind? Do you mind?

The Cat stretches out his right front paw. Long curved talons become visible. The Master is enraged by this show of defiance, and throws the other slipper.

The Master recitative: Do you dare defy me? How can this be? A mere cat you are, skin and bone covered in fur, and yet you dare, you dare to defy. But I must contain my rage, for it's bad at my age to raise the ire. 'Tis a perilous fire that will consume me.

Chorus barbershop quartet: He must contain his rage, for at his age he may not raise his ire. 'Tis a perilous fire that will consume, Oh, consume, Oh, consume, Oh, consume him utterly.
The Cat turns towards the audience and grins. He begins daintily to groom himself, as the Master storms out and
                                           
The Curtain falls.

Scene Two: The Front Porch. It is morning. The Master prepares to Face the Elements and Bring Home the Bacon.


The Master ballad: I sally forth the foe to slay this frabjous day. I sally forth the foe to kill and turn to swill. I sally forth the foe to smash and turn to ash. I sally forth, I sally forth, I sally forth.

Chorus of Fern, Hoja, two Hibisci, and a Rubber Plant canon: He sallies forth the foe to slay, and thus begins another day. We wait all morning, noon, and eve for his return. While he is gone we yearn, we yearn.

The Master leaves the House in a flourish of trumpets and swirling coat-tails.

The Mistress recitative: I languish as I water the flowers, the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la. Oh why must the Master depart and leave me each day? Why has he not retired from the fray?

The Cat recitative: Let me leave this abode for a few hours, while I go and smell the flowers.

The Mistress opens the door for the Cat, who leaves, his crooked tail flowing in the wind. She closes the door, and disconsolately pours water on the Chorus of houseplants.

The Mistress and Chorus canon: We wait all morning, noon, and eve for his return. While he is gone we yearn, we yearn. And while he’s gone, we burn, we yearn.

The Curtain falls.

Scene Three: The Living Room. Evening. The Master is discovered sitting in the Chair reading the newspaper.

Chorus of Cushions and Old Newspapers ballad, a capella, in unison: Now is it time to rest, now is the time the best for contemplation. The Master in his Chair turns not a single hair despite the international situation. Repeat twice in close barbershop harmony, softly, while the Master rustles his newspaper in time to the music.

The Master ballad: I read of frightful crimes, and topsy-turvy climes, and other things too horrible to mention. The polls are up again, the Dow is down again, and every sport is riddled with corruption. The arts have turned to porn, the farmers lose their corn, and students get a worser education. I think it's time I had a reason to be glad, and it's surely my domestic situation.
As the Mistress brings him a drink, and the Cat jumps on his lap, the Master repeats:
Methinks it's time I had a reason to be glad, and it's surely my domestic situation.

Chorus madrigal: He reads of frightful crimes, and topsy-turvy climes, and other things too horrible to mention. The polls are up again, the Dow is down again, and every sport is riddled with corruption. The arts have turned to porn, the farmers lose their corn, and students get a worser education. He thinks it's time he had a reason to be glad, and it's surely his domestic situation. It's surely his domestic situation.
The Mistress: It's surely his domestic situation.
The Cat: It's surely my domestic situation. 

All madrigal: We read of frightful crimes, and topsy-turvy climes, and other things too horrible to mention. The polls are up again, the Dow is down again, and every sport is riddled with corruption. The arts have turned to porn, the farmers lose their corn, and students get a worser education. We think it's time we had a reason to be glad, and it's surely our domestic situation. It’s surely time we had a reason to be glad, and it's surely our domestic situation.

As the last joyous line is woven into a polyphonic madrigal canon, the percussion section of the orchestra ad-libs a complex alternative rhythm on the bongos and the celestina, and

The Curtain falls.


[If anyone wishes to set this masterpiece to Music, kindly communicate with the author at wolfmac@sympatico.ca.]



Thursday, May 2, 2024

Planes Glide Through the Air like Fish

Planes glide through the air like fish

     Before I knew why airplanes stayed up, I thought they glided through the air like fish through water. Later I found out it wasn’t like that at all, a fish can’t fall to the bottom of the lake because it has a pocket of air inside it, but a plane stays up because it moves. Sharks don’t have a pocket of air, they must keep moving or they will fall to the bottom like an airplane falling from the sky.
     We lived by a lake, whose clear water revealed the bottom six or more feet down. The fish were dark slashes against the grey green silt, or a swift gleam of silver as they turned. In the mornings and evenings, the fishers went out on the lake to set and fetch their nets.
     The fishers stood up in a long flat bottomed boat, leaning and straightening as they pumped the square-bladed oar, he tall and stooped in the stern, she short and round in the bow. They’re shovelling water, I thought, I didn’t understand how that could move the boat forward. The fishers stuck the small fish onto pine splints which they ranged in the smoke house chimney. The smoked fish tasted salt and sweet at the same time when one gnawed them off the wood.
     I watched the fishers mend nets, watched their hands and fingers move out and back with a twist as they fed and knotted the line with a flat, narrow piece of wood. I didn’t see how the line could make a knot with only one end free. The nets hung on frames made of pine poles, moving in the wind like waves on the water, bleached white and soft by the sun.
     Many years later, in another country, I learned Bernoulli’s equations and Boyle’s law, and understood how air moving over the wing made the wing lift the plane. For a few weeks I understood the equations that defined drag and turbulence, too. Now I understand only their meaning, a lovely interplay of velocity, pressure and viscosity, with which the airplane designer and pilot co-operate.
     I learned a lot of other things too, I understood the engineer’s and metal worker’s craft, their exquisite skill lavished on the bombers that glided through the sky, making death beautiful and distant.
     The bombers looked like fish against the sky, gleaming silver, but not like fish, sliding across the blue air, steady and inexorable, and making a sound you felt in your bones, a sound that struck across the sky and flowed into the earth and came up through your feet and made your teeth buzz. Then black flowers bloomed on the horizon where the railway junction was. Many years later I saw pictures of black chrysanthemums, they bloomed like smoke against a blue sky. My friend’s mother died among the roots of one of those flowers, but that was before he was my friend, before we even knew of each other’s existence.
     One day a plane came in low over our house, and fell into the lake, trailing a black and orange flag that stretched out behind it, longer and longer as the plane fell towards the water. My mother said my brother could see the pilot’s face, I must have seen it too as I stood next to my brother, but he can remember it and I can’t, I wonder if that’s why he hides his melancholy. I hide mine too, but not in the same way, he bursts out in sudden attacks of craziness, roaring like a monster, pretending to be Grendel, or the giant that ate an Englishman and ground his bones for bread. My Grandpa read us that story, I loved the bits where Jack steals the gold and the hen and the harp, and runs to the beanstalk along the winding cloudy road. The harp betrayed the thief, an early lesson on the deviousness of artists.
     I tell people I’m fine, when they ask. I ask them, too, and they tell me they are fine. We tell each other we are fine, making up a fine story about how fine the world is, and what a fine time we are having this fine afternoon, while we eat a fine meal made on a fine barbecue in a fine garden owned by a fine neighbourly neighbour.
     For several weeks, I understood the equations that explained airplanes, then we wrote a test and I forgot them. I didn’t forget what they explained. Whenever I look at a plane I see the air flow over its wings, faster on top and slower underneath, holding up the plane, a plane that weighs more than the largest steam locomotive ever built, and as the jet climbs into the sky like a man going up a flight of stairs, I know that if the air peels off the wings in unseen swirls and whirlpools, the plane will crash, but we won’t make a white splash in the water because there’s no lake under us, just grass and asphalt. A black and orange flower will bloom in the field at the end of the runway.
     When the fishers pump the oar, eddies and swirls peel off it and press against the blade, and that presses the boat forward. What brings down the plane moves the boat. Nature has her ways, if you work with her, she rewards you with flying planes and gliding boats.
     My cousin and I used to go into the park next to our house. The oaks and beeches and maples and pines and firs and sycamores made it a quiet place, the only sounds the rustle of the leaves high above us and the scuff of our feet in the duff. We thought of it as a secret place, known only to us, a source of treasure, a landscape of adventure. Once we saw the wreck of an airplane caught high in the branches of the trees. We took one of the transformers that had come loose and fallen to the ground, and for a long time after we had fine copper wire to play with, varnished a rich mahogany red. My cousin told me we could make snares and catch fish, or make electrical stuff, if we wanted. Just thinking about the possibilities hidden in the coils of fine, dark red wire was enough, it made us happy. We hid the transformer in the gazebo and took it out to relish the technical perfection of its windings, fine as hair.
     A day or two after we found the transformer we were forbidden to go into the park, a prohibition we could not understand until we heard talk among the grownups about the dead pilot of the airplane hanging in the branches of the sycamore tree. We waited for our chance and crept back into the park but the wreck had been removed. As usual, the grownups had spoiled our fun, but we were used to it, and went about our business.
     When it rained, the snails came out of the underbrush, their shells banded yellow and black and sometimes orange. The shells gleamed in the wet. I gathered up the snails and set them on the pine-log railing of the gazebo and waited for them to race each other. The snails came out from their shells, waving their antennae, testing the air for danger. They crawled over the curve of the railing and fell into the grass and disappeared.
     One day the sirens moaned while I was building forts and jetties with the rocks at the edge of the water. I ran up the slope to the road, a cyclist rushing home knocked me over. The wheels of his bike scraped my bare belly, there was no other injury. My mother dressed us in two layers of underwear, and two layers of overcoats, the topmost one made from a bright red blanket. We must have looked like little red snowmen. The woollen vest itched, I cried with vexation in the cellar. We heard the bombers fly over, they seemed closer this time, perhaps the cellar magnified their sound, it came out of the ceiling and the floor and the walls. When the bombs hit the railway yards, we felt the thump, and a small cloud of dust drifted down from the ceiling. The lights flickered and went out. One of the grownups lit a candle, the light made a boundary around us like a wall. We huddled up next to Mother, and felt secure. But the vest still itched.
     When I hear sirens in a war movie these days, something grabs my throat and squeezes tears from my eyes.
     I visited the lake again recently. The mountains that stood on the opposite shore still stand there, self-sufficient and silent. High above them, a con trail divides the sky. I can’t see the plane, but I know it glides through the air like a fish glides through water.

     November 2004

 

Friday, April 19, 2024

A Story

  A story


When Stevenson woke and saw the cat sitting on Pyotr’s bunk, he knew he was going to die. The cat gazed at him, then began to groom itself, lifting one white paw to rub over its black face. Its whiskers were white.

“Why did you come back?” Stevenson said. The cat stopped licking its paw. “To tell you about Pyotr,” it said.

“What about Pyotr?”

“They shot him 27 minutes after they took him away.”

Stevenson remembered. The guards came, two of them, wrapped in heavy coats, their rifles slung over their shoulders. “Come!” motioned the taller one, the one they’d labelled Mutt. Jeff, the shorter one, helped Pyotr stand up. Then they guided him tenderly through the cage door into the passageway. Jeff turned back and carefully locked the gate. The cat had watched the small procession move away, then it hopped off Pyotr’s bed, squeezed between the bars out into the passage, and followed. Its tail stood straight up, the tip waving from side to side, its ears laid back.

Stevenson considered the cat’s precision. “How do you know it was 27 minutes?” he asked. "There’s a clock at the far end of the passage,” said the cat. "You can’t see it from here. It showed two minutes past 6, it took me two minutes to return from where I watched the shooting. Then it showed 31 minutes past. 31 minus 4 is 27.”

Stevenson followed the cat’s calculation with some difficulty, and had to do it over in his head. He knew there had been a time when he wouldn’t have needed the cat to explain the arithmetic. But now he felt as if he was observing the world through a thick fog which occasionally thinned out and even parted for a few seconds. Thinking was an effort, like walking through soft sand that slipped away from under his feet.

The cat resumed grooming itself. After a while it occurred to Stevenson that there was something he didn’t know. “Why did they shoot Pyotr?” The cat gazed at him for a long moment. It seemed to Stevenson that she pitied him.

“They shot him because he was a traitor,” she said.

“How was he a traitor?”

“He told the truth.”

Stevenson frowned. This was a puzzle he could not solve.

Saturday, April 13, 2024

She closed the book

She Closed the Book

 

Written for the "3-minute Fiction Contest", round 8, NPR, March 2012. The contest required starting with the given first sentence, and writing 600 words or less. Unfortunately, only legal residents of the US were eligible to compete. I had been working on the song for some time, and was surprised and pleased at how easily it came as part of this story. Usual process: Start the work, let it mull for a couple of days, try again. Then it usually comes easily, the subconscious writer has been at work. It did a lot more than develop the original idea. I did not at first plan a song composed by Genevieve and Fred. The 600 word limit forced pruning, hence the occasionally telegraphic syntax. The comma error in the given sentence is not mine. The song was later set to music by a friend.

...............................................................................................


     She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. He half rose from the chair. Turning, she gazed at him with cool eyes, closed the door gently behind her. He sat down, touched the book, opened it. “To Genevieve, love, John” in his florid handwriting.
     He watched her walk to her car. The sun lit up the street like a movie set, bright colours glowing. He imagined he heard a song half-remembered: She’s leaving home, bye, bye. The music drifted through and over their last conversation. “There’s some frozen meals downstairs,” she said. “The package tells you how to cook it in the microwave.” He stood in the door, holding the book, his first gift to her. “Do you want this?” he asked. She glanced at the bag on the chair beside her. “I don’t think I have room for it,” she said. He put the book down in front of her. “Read it,” he said.
     He watched as she opened the book, glanced at the inscription, leafed through it, and stopped to read. “Come live with me and be my love,” she read, her voice clear and neutral, “and we will all the pleasures prove.” Paused. “Not much pleasure lately”, she said.

.....

     She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. I should have a flashback here, she thought. To the days when reading meant something to me. Though it never did, really. Mean something. I read that book because John gave it to me. It mattered to him. Seemed to matter to him.
     She turned and gazed at him. He gave me that book to show he cared, she thought. The book didn’t mean anything to him, the poems meant nothing. It was bait. They were love poems, he was playing a part. The bait worked, his desire for me trapped me. Trapped us both. That’s what he wanted.
     She walked to the car. She knew he watched her. The colours of the gardens were clear and luminous, the houses looked like paper cutouts. She got in the car and drove away. Come live with me and be my love. Words, words, words. Tricks to get you into bed. And we will all the pleasures prove. Not much pleasure lately, she thought.

....

     She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. The butterfly on the rose bush greeted her ecstatically: “I’ve been waiting for you”. She smiled, held out her finger. “Hello Fred”, she said. Fred settled on her finger and preened in the sun, his wings iridescent blue and purple. “Let’s make songs, alternating lines. When we’re done, we’ll sing it. I’ll start.”

We’ve been together 50 years
Through many a calm and storm.
We’ve shivered in the rain and snow
But true love has kept us warm.

Now sun and wind have brought us here
To gardens of delight and joy,
We’ll kiss and dance till night comes down,
Till we’re again a girl and boy.

Till we’re again the girl and boy
That met so long ago,
Till we’re again the boy and girl
That learned true love is slow.

True love is slow, it outlives time,
It bears all kinds of weather,
Now, after fifty years of love,
We still want to be together.

     “That’s good”, said Genevieve. Fred’s wings opened and closed slowly. She leaned down to let them brush against her lips. “Come live with me”, she murmured, “and be my love.”

Thursday, April 11, 2024

Tack

 TACK


     Some people are born to die violently. They don’t attract murder, but they spend their lives in the wrong places, where the coincidence of events will result in a death, or two, or three. Tack Smith was one of these. He was killed on a dreamy warm Sunday evening when he happened to need a box of milk, and wandered into a robbery in progress. When he realised what was happening, he turned and bolted straight into the path of the number 5 bus, which first bounced him to the ground and then ran over him. The driver refused to finish the route, and quit the next day. His name was Mr Townsend, and he was the husband of the live-in housekeeper for Tack’s father. She had resigned to marry him, and so had made way for Tack's father and mother to beget him.

     Here’s the back story.

     Julius Quintus Smith was the fifth son of a Latin teacher. To please his father, he took a degree in classical studies and tried teaching history. He could not control his classes, his students holding him in affectionate contempt. His last class was genuinely surprised when he resigned at the end of the term. A local insurance broker, desperate for someone to fill in for a dying colleague, took him on. Julius surprised them both by becoming a success. His gentle manner and his habit of quoting Latin tags put potential clients off their guard. They even helped him explain the policies to them, sometimes reading an obscurely worded paragraph, and asking Julius if it meant thus and so.

     After a few years of boarding at Mrs Moore’s, Julius bought his own house, and engaged Mrs Moore’s sister, Bethany Slocum, to keep house for him. Bethany was a few years younger than he, and enjoyed the conversations they had over supper, which he insisted she take with him.

     One day Bethany asked if she could have a few words.

     “I’ll be giving my notice,” she said. “I’m to be married six weeks from today. Mr Townsend, who drives the number 5 bus, has asked me to marry him.”

     “Oh,” said Julius.

     “Alphonse, Mr Townsend that is, is man of interesting conversation,” said Bethany. “It was that which attracted me when we had coffee after his shift. I’ve become accustomed to interesting conversation.”

     “Oh,” said Julius.

     “If I may say so, Mr Smith”, said Bethany, “it was the conversations in which you so kindly included me that enabled me to hold up my end, as it were. Mr Townsend respects a woman of good conversation. He says that a mutual interest in good conversation increases the attractiveness of a woman.”

     She blushed

     “Oh,” said Julius

     “Mr Townsend is a respectable man,” said Bethany. “We would be honoured if you could attend the wedding. Mr Townsend asks if you would be so kind as to propose the toast to the bride.”

     “Oh,” said Julius. “Yes. Of course. Be delighted.”

     He looked at her, and realised that despite her plain features, the intelligence and good will in her face made her pleasant to look at. He noticed for the first time that she had a well proportioned figure. He realised he would miss her. And he suddenly envied Mr Townsend, who would soon be enjoying Bethany’s pleasantly plump charms and interesting conversation.

    “Congratulations and best wishes,” he said. “I shall wish you all happiness.”

     And wondered what he would do for a housekeeper. But Bethany had thought of that, too.

     “You should advertise in the paper, and put up a notice at Wootten’s,” Bethany said. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing one.” She handed him a slip of paper. “I’ve made the starting date a week before the wedding, so that I can train whoever it is that gets the position.”

     WANTED: Live-in housekeeper for bachelor starting June 10th. £5 a week, full board, two days off per week. Apply Mr Julius Smith, 24 Royland Street, between 5 and 7pm.

     And that was that.

    Next day was Bethany’s day off. Julius heard the front door bell. He looked through the glass, and saw a young woman carrying a suitcase. He opened the door.

     “Er, hello,” he said.

     “I’ve come about the job,” said the young woman.

     “Er?”

     “The housekeeping job. I need it, and I can do it..”

     “Er?”

     “My name is Jane Grey. I’m 32 years old, I was let go from my last job a month ago, I don’t have a place to stay, and I’m hungry.”

     “Er?”

     “Just let me in, and I’ll explain.”

     “Er, yes, er, Miss Grey, please come in.”

     Jane Grey came into the hall and put down her suitcase.

     “I’ve been working in a clothing store, maybe you know it, Markwell & Shields on Worthington? Sales have been down ever since Mr Shields retired. Three weeks ago they gave me my last pay. Last week I couldn’t pay my rent, my landlady said she would let me owe for a month, but I don’t like that, it’s five pounds, so when I saw your ad I thought, That’s a perfect job for me, I can do housework and cook. I kept house for my Dad for six years after Mum died, and I can pay my back rent out of my first pay.”

     She looked at Julius expectantly.

     “Er, yes, I suppose so,” he said, staring at her. He hadn’t stood this close to a presentable young woman other than Bethany for many years. She was a little shorter than he. She wore a grey coat, a dark red scarf, and a dark red hat. Her brunette hair curled invitingly. She gazed at him from hazel brown eyes. She wore pearl studs Her mouth was coloured the same dark red as her scarf. She looked very attractive.

      “Do I get the job?” she asked. “I can start immediately.”

     “Er, yes, I suppose so.” He continued to stare at her, and a slow blush crept over her face.

      “Here, let me take your suitcase, I’ll show you to your room.” He headed for the stairs.   

     “Here,” said Julius, opening the door to the front bedroom. Jane walked past him into the room and looked around. It was neat and clean.“This will do nicely,” she said. “Please show me the kitchen.”

     Jane opened the cupboards, found what she wanted and made tea with toast and kippers. “Shall I take this through to the dining room, or will you take it here?” she asked. “Er, here,” sad Julius, and so their courtship began.

     Bethany approved of Jane. She had only to tell her of Julius’s quirks. The wedding went off well. Bethany invited Jane too, so it seemed natural that Julius and Jane would go together. They danced a couple of dances, and made small talk with the two other couples at their table. That is, Jane talked while Julius listened and said Er and Rather, and Quite so.

     Julius ate his meals with Jane as he had with Bethany, but he found himself tongue-tied, unable to find the conversational openings that would impress Jane. Jane had no trouble finding things to talk about. The weather opened the day, whatever item of news caught her fancy made the second topic, and after that Julius learned to take whatever she offered. A rose that she had admired on her walk to the shops. Mrs Wendover’s sciatica, which led to a lively give and take about nerve damage, a subject Julius knew nothing about. The narrow boats on the canal, a subject Julius could discuss, and having spent a week on one as a boy, he could add lively details of personal experience. The vagaries of the number 5 bus, which ran on time only at the beginning and end of the day, despite Mr Townsend’s best efforts to keep to the schedule. The shapes of stained glass, which Jane loved. The pattern of tiles in the kitchen floor, which prompted Jane to talk about tessellations and quilts. She began to make a quilt, using log-cabin squares in shades of cool blues and greens with a touches of warm yellow and red.

     One day she mentioned Mr Grantham’s dog Percy, a bad-tempered black Scottie. “He growls at everybody but me and Mr Grantham,” she said. “He doesn’t like his name.”

     “Who, Mr Grantham? I don’t know his given name, do you?”

     “It’s Wallace,” said Jane, “and he likes it. Keeps quoting that line about the Scots that hae wi’ Wallace bled. I meant the dog. Imagine calling a Scottie Percy. The Percys weren’t exactly friendly towards the Scots, and the dog knows it. Besides, it’s a prissy name.”

     “A prissy name? What’s in a name?” said Julius.

     “Well, yours is the name of a Caesar, isn’t it?” said Jane. “That shows your parents had ambitions for you.”

     “What about yours, then?” said Julius. “It doesn’t suit you at all.”

     “What do you mean,” said Jane.

     “You’re no plain Jane,” said Julius, and felt his face grow warm.

     Jane studied his face. “You’re blushing,” she said. “But you needn’t be embarrassed. I like a compliment now and then.”

     “Do you really? I could pay you compliments all day long,” said Julius. He felt very daring, and reached across the table to cover her hand with his. Jane did not take her hand away. She smiled at him, and said, “I’d like that.”

     Two months later they were married. Bethany and Mr Townsend stood up with them, and their guests ate and drank and offered toasts, and wondered how soon they would bore each other to death. Julius’s brothers and sisters, all movers and shakers in their careers, gave them suitable presents, and later occasionally invited them on family outings.

     Julius and Jane continued to have interesting conversations. Each was willing to talk about anything that interested the other. They tried out a number of diversions, and discovered they both liked baroque music and all kinds of art, which neither had taken seriously before. They produced a son, and would have had more children, but an infection attacked Jane’s ovaries and that was that.

     Julius was taken by a sudden urge to honour his father, and named the boy Tacitus. Jane added Graydon after her mother’s family. Julius pronounced the boy’s name in the classical fashion, so he became Tack. He thrived in school, made many friends, and had teachers who encouraged both his intellectual pursuits and his dreamy creativity.

     And very early on, he displayed a talent for accidents. He pulled a pan of boiling water off the stove when he was four. But it spilled sideways, and two nasty burns on his left foot was the only consequence. He hung a swing from the oak tree in the back garden, which promptly fell when he tested it, and left him with a twisted ankle. When he played soccer with his friends, he accumulated skinned knees and bruised shins. He played cricket, and stumbled while running backwards trying to catch a high ball, wrenching his back. An attempt at skating left him with a concussion when he fell over backwards, slamming his head on the ice.

     Tack went off to university, and lost his way and his luggage on the journey to his lodgings. His lodgings burnt down in the spring term, and only Tack sustained an injury when he dropped three feet from his ground floor window onto the lawn. A twisted ankle again. He had registered to read chemistry. During the first laboratory session, a test-tube exploded and burnt off his eyebrows. He‘d been wearing safety goggles, or there would have been worse injury. Punting on the back reach of the river, the pole became stuck. Tack hung onto it, it slowly leaned over, and Tack went into the water, wrenching his back (again) and injuring his dignity.

     But Sally, his girlfriend, who was reading philosophy, thought the calamity was cute. As was Tack’s habit of denting his car on miscellaneous poles and posts that appeared to infest the roads and parking lots only when he was driving. She decided to keep him, and engineered an introduction to Tack’s parents. They approved. She was a sensible girl, obviously fond of their son, willing to take on the job of making a life for them, and of repairing the damage the fates inflicted on him. As soon as they could after taking their degrees, Tack and Sally married. Tack garnered a quality-control job at a paint factory. Sally taught kindergarten. Tack took up painting, to use up the paint samples from the lab. Sally learned quilting from Jane. They were very happy.

     One Sunday morning Sally drifted into the kitchen with a small frown on her face. “Good morning,” said Tack. “You’re frowning.”

     “I think I may be pregnant,” said Sally.

     “Oh.”

     “Well, it does happen,” said Sally. “In fact, some people expect it.”

     “Oh. Er, did you? Expect it, I mean?”

     “Oh yes. Just not this soon. Not to worry. If I’m pregnant, I won’t be due until July or August, so I can finish out the year, and I’ll qualify for leave.” Sally was indeed pregnant, and she soon began to feel those sudden cravings described by all the guides to pending motherhood. Maybe she felt she should have cravings, or maybe she just decided that pregnancy was a good excuse to indulge her whims. Tack was more than happy to indulge her whims, too. It became his habit to go to the corner shop whenever Sally announced a craving. Mr Wootten noticed the variety of requests, guessed the reason, and solicitously inquired after Mrs Smith’s health. Tack kept him up to date. The two men discovered a common interest in Test Matches, which gave Tack an excuse to linger a few extra minutes before returning home to discover whether he had bought the right brand of chocolate or raspberry jam or tea biscuits. Which he rarely had, but Sally always forgave him.

     Sally also wanted more milk. Usually, the daily three pints were enough, but every now and then she disposed of them by tea time. Then Tack would go out to get some more. That’s why he was wandering up the street at seven o’clock on a warm June Sunday. When he opened the door into Mr Wootten’s shop, it was unusually still, but Tack didn’t notice. He went to the cooler and picked up a box of milk, and turned towards the counter. He was looking forward to a nice chat about cricket. He saw a man with strangely squashed tan features. For a moment or two he was puzzled, and then noticed the gun pointing at him. The man said something about moving over behind the counter. Tack saw that Mr Wootten was holding his hands in the air, and that a pile of banknotes were lying on the counter. The man waved his gun at Tack again. “Move!” he said, not loudly, but his tone was extremely unfriendly. Tack stood near the door holding the box of milk. Perhaps it was the thought of escape that triggered his sudden movement, He whirled and pushed at the door and ran straight into the street. The number 5 bus was turning the corner. Tack bounced off it, half fell, turned again to regain his balance, and stumbled forward. The bus knocked him down and ran over him. By the time it stopped, Tack was dead.

     The robber ran out of the shop, saw Tack’s body, and stopped. He stretched out his hand towards Tack. Then he doubled over and vomited. Mr Wootten came up behind him, took his gun from him, and smacked him smartly on the head with it. The robber fell. Mr Wootten returned to his shop and called the ambulance and the police. By this time, Mr Townsend had stepped out of the bus. He took one look at Tack, and fainted. Mr Wootten came out of the shop again, looked at Tack’s body, shook his head, and walked over to Mr Townsend. He helped the man sit up, and they waited for the police.

     Mr Townsend never drove another bus. He took early retirement, and spent the rest of his days growing roses in his back garden. Bethany and his children told him he wasn’t responsible for Tack’s death, but he blamed himself because he had managed to get back on schedule one round early.

     The robber, whose name was Geronimo Percival Brown, came to, and sat on the steps of the shop waiting for the police to arrest him. Like Tack, he had attracted bad luck all his life. The robbery had been his first attempt at crime, and Tack’s death convinced him it should be his last. After his prison sentence, he learned how to repair shoes, and made a modest living.

     Tack’s parents and Sally grieved for him. His son was born six weeks later. He was christened Walter Benjamin, after a philosopher that Sally admired for his ideas about art. They had made for interesting conversations with Tack.


Nightmares

Nightmares         He knew as soon as he woke up that this would be a day like no other. Yesterday had been such a day. Tomorrow would be...