4.
The woman who answered my pounding on the door was tall and thin, all pale skin and a dark dress, with eyes like a fish and hair done up in a tight bow. The sort of person you’d call striking more than pretty, like trees frozen after an ice storm.
“Can I help you?” she said, each word cold and clipped.
“Is Adrian here?” I said, as nicely as I could manage.
“Ah. His friend, hmm?” she said, saying the world as though it was a kind of unpleasant disease.
“Yes.”
“And your name is?”
“Katie,” I said. I waited, but she didn’t offer hers. “Can I talk to him?” I finally added.
“Wait.” She closed the door, not quite slamming it, and I waited on their front porch, staring about at the yard. It was large, and almost devoid of lawn. Just about every kind of tree I could recall filled it, with various bushes and flowers and some moss that was apparently grass. I wondered if anyone complained that the Holmes’s didn’t mow their lawn, but somehow doubted it. Adrian’s mom looked like sort who’d chew up and spit out the neigbhourhood beautification committee.
She opened the door again three minutes later. “Upstairs, first door on your left,” she said curtly.
“Thank you.” I wasn’t surprised to not get a reply and went inside. The house was all earth tones, brown and green, with actual paving stones of some kind for the stairs. The floors were wooden, and walking down the upstairs hallway felt as if I was in some tunnel under the earth. I reached the door quickly, feeling as if I was walking through some Hobbit home, and knocked.
Adrian opened it a few moments later, suppressing a yawn. He was wearing pyjamas that looked to be a couple of sizes too small and there were dark circles under his eyes. He stared up at me in puzzlement for a few moments and rubbed some sleep from his eyes. “Hi?” he said, voice soft as ever.
“Sorry, your mom never aid you were asleep.”
“Stayed up late,” he said around a yawn, heading back into the room. I followed. It was plain and functional, with a bed, dresser, computer desk and nothing else. No pictures on the walls, posters, or anything at all. Everything was in shades of dull green, almost as impersonal as a hospital.
“Your mom clears your mom daily?” I said.
He nodded, pulling out the desk chair and sitting down as he stretched, absently rubbing his right arm where I’d squeezed it yesterday after. “You need something? Sorry, didn’t mean to sound rude --.” He yawned again.
“Is your mom really your mother?” I asked without thinking.
“What kind of question is that?”
“I meant, step mother,” I said quickly.
He shook his head. “She’s my real mom. Why?”
“I thought she was a wicked stepmother,” I said defensively.
“Oh.” He was quiet a few moments. “Why are you here? I mean, it’s neat having someone visit me, but not at seven a.m..”
“Sorry, I just -- something happened to my mom.”
“Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. Look, I -- her hands have eyes on them!”
“Oh.” It was a very different kind of ‘oh’. He didn’t look surprised as much as resigned and went over to the dresser. “You mind turning around? I should get real clothes on.”
“I could wait outside,” I said.
“Better not; Penelope hasn’t had breakfast yet.”
“And Penelope is --?”
He said something muffled, then: “Sorry, sister.”
“You don’t want me to wait outside while you change because your sister hasn’t had breakfast,” I said, studying the dull green walls. “That makes no sense.”
“Does your mom?” he said, a little sharply.
I turned angrily at that, then froze and stared.
Adrian had some sweats on and a t-shirt in one hand and I could see the outline of my hand where I’d squeezed his arm in anger as a deep, purple bruise around a far too thin arm. I looked down at my hand and back up, but he’d already wiggled into the shirt, blushing furiously as he did so.
“I - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to --.”
“I’m fine,” he lied. “I just bruise easy.”
I turned around again and heard a grunt as a dresser drawer opened. “Adrian?”
“I’m fine. And I’m sorry for what I said about your mom. I’m just tired and I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“You ever had coffee?”
“No.” He sat down on the bed beside me and put socks on. “The world is weird enough; we don’t need stimulants on top of that.”
I had to grin at that. “Feels weird enough today. I’d rather have you not fall asleep mid-conversation, though. Breakfast, my treat?”
Adrian was silent a few moments, as if mulling over the intricacies of breakfast, then nodded. “Fair payment.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing’s free,” he said, opening the door. “For one thing, another thing has to be exchanged, yes?”
“That doesn’t apply to just asking questions!”
“I think it always does,” he said as I followed him down the stairs. “There’s always a cost. Like when predators attack.”
“What?”
He looked back up the stairs at me in surprise. “Prey always jump up. It’s like showing off; slows them down.”
“It tells the predator they’re healthy,” I said.
He nodded. “And the cost is a few lost seconds, an exchange.”
“Listening could be cost enough,” I said dryly as he began putting in a black snowsuit.
“Most people don’t listen; they just wait their turn to talk.”
“My mom --.”
“Breakfast first,” he said. “Please. I’m tired, coffee might be good, and I’m going to have to ask you questions too.”
I started, but said nothing as his mother watched us, eyes cold and dark, not helping her son, only saying he needed to wear more. Adrian told her he had to be able to walk as well, dryly, and received no reply except a stony silence he didn’t seem to find bothersome at all.
I would have dragged him out the door if I didn’t think it would hurt. I did up his shoelaces while he got the mittens on, trying not to look as impatient as I felt. Adrian just dressed in silence and shook his head when I went to talk as we went outside.
I headed down the street towards Pat’s Grill. The food was decent, cheap, and it was only five blocks; Grandpa had taken me there a few times when mom had to go clear up business dealings from back home before mom began insisting he make and eat breakfast like everyone else
I tried not to wonder what he looked like now. Or what customers would think at his store, if they showed up and saw changes in him, if they could at all.
Adrian reached out and took my hand in his, squeezing it lightly and saying nothing. I returned it as lightly, not noticing anyone watch us from the bus on its way to school.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Gloaming: 3
Apologies; the month was hectic, and the novel has been going oddly slow; still feeling my way around the plot.
3.
The important question to me wasn’t how I’d ended up with the groundhog’s shadow in mine, as much as: if you see a groundhog on February second with no shadow at all, what does that mean for six more weeks of winter or what? I’d have asked Adrian, but I was pretty sure he’d have just said that he had no idea.
Duncan was shovelling the sidewalk outside his house when I went by and waved to me. I returned it.
“Hey, you.”
He grinned. “Sluffing off?”
“A little,” I admitted.
“So, what’s wrong?”
“Huh?”
“Normally, I make a joke, you make one, we get serious later. If we bother. So spill.”
I had to grin at that. “Just something weird I saw.”
“Huh.” Duncan looked at me, and he didn’t even bother with a joke about my reflection. “Want to talk about it sometime?”
“Maybe later,” I said, a little surprised I’d been that easy to see through.
He didn’t press it and went back to shovelling as his father yelled something out the door about wanting it done before the snow melted before slamming it. I winced, but Duncan just kept working. I left him to it, since sometimes being a friend is knowing when to walk away, when words just aren’t enough and don’t matter.
We’d taken to playing the DS Lite at my place, after his dad had sold his. I’d asked why, not getting it, and Duncan had just shrugged, voice light. “Dad’s got a drinking problem.” And then he laughed. “Mom calls it that. But it’s not true. Dad has no problem drinking at all. The rest of his life, now --.” And he’d just shrugged and kept playing, and beat my high score.
Someone had already shovelled the driveway when I reached Grandpa’s house. It was probably mom, since the sidewalk was done as well. Grandpa’s sign was still in the yard, even in winter. Some neighbours had taken issue with Grandpa never mowing his lawn shortly after we’d arrived. I’d said I could, but Grandpa had said it was his lawn and a matter of principle. Hence the: ‘Caution: Dandelion Preserve’ sign he’d put up in September.
I’d asked him how serious he was and he’d just smiled, told me all jokes were half-truth, and began learning how to make dandelion tea. Given that, the neighbours took my mother’s palm-reading hobby entirely in stride.
Aside from it, the house was pretty normal all told. Yellow and brown, one level, and just one oak tree in the back (Grandpa hated raking leaves as well; I’d never been certain why he hadn’t moved into a condo and avoided a lawn entirely.) The interior was mostly country, even in the garage: lots of wood, warm colours and a homey feel to everything.
Mom was making a stir fry when I came in from the garage, singing Billy Joel songs to herself. The kitchen had brick walls, which Grandpa apparently had insisted on, and more pots and pans than seemed remotely sane. I avoided using most of them to be on the safe side.
“Singing means I was right about Ichabod?” I said.
Mom looked over. “Maybe. Grandpa told me about your all-nighter. You want to tell me why?”
“I made a new friend,” I said. “I wasn’t sure yesterday, when we met, but we met again today. He was wondering what I was doing in the park. Nice kid, but a bit too serious. The kind of homeschooling my mom warned me about.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” mom said.
“So I should stop?”
“Heavens, no!” We shared a laugh and mom put the frying pan down on the stove, turning off the burner. It was only then that I realized she was wearing oven mitts on both her hands.
“You burn yourself?”
“Oh, no. I’m fine.” She took them off and showed me her hands. “See?”
I looked at the bumps on her palms in confusion, about to ask, when the eyes opened up. The same green-brown of my mom’s, but on her hands. I stared down in shock, and mom looked down as well.
“Is something wrong?” she said, or started to say, but I was already in the hallway, skidding across the floor. I remember reaching my room. I don’t remember bolting the door, but I know I did. I slammed it, locked it, and buried my head between two pillows as her questions outside rose into stern demands I ignored.
Reading palms. It was almost funny. I made sounds that could have been laughter and hugged myself in the dark. My diary was on the desk with my pen beside it, but I couldn’t bring myself to write anything or even get out of bed at all. I was cold, and hot, and running a fever and terrified and helplessly sane.
Somehow the shadows in the room were only shadows and I slept in fits and starts, wakening to the certain feeling I was being watched from the shadows even though the room was empty. Turning on all the lights just made it seem darker an d I eventually dug out my headphones and played show tunes under the covers until dawn.
Duncan locked his bedroom door all the time after his father stole his DS; I never locked mine before that night.
3.
The important question to me wasn’t how I’d ended up with the groundhog’s shadow in mine, as much as: if you see a groundhog on February second with no shadow at all, what does that mean for six more weeks of winter or what? I’d have asked Adrian, but I was pretty sure he’d have just said that he had no idea.
Duncan was shovelling the sidewalk outside his house when I went by and waved to me. I returned it.
“Hey, you.”
He grinned. “Sluffing off?”
“A little,” I admitted.
“So, what’s wrong?”
“Huh?”
“Normally, I make a joke, you make one, we get serious later. If we bother. So spill.”
I had to grin at that. “Just something weird I saw.”
“Huh.” Duncan looked at me, and he didn’t even bother with a joke about my reflection. “Want to talk about it sometime?”
“Maybe later,” I said, a little surprised I’d been that easy to see through.
He didn’t press it and went back to shovelling as his father yelled something out the door about wanting it done before the snow melted before slamming it. I winced, but Duncan just kept working. I left him to it, since sometimes being a friend is knowing when to walk away, when words just aren’t enough and don’t matter.
We’d taken to playing the DS Lite at my place, after his dad had sold his. I’d asked why, not getting it, and Duncan had just shrugged, voice light. “Dad’s got a drinking problem.” And then he laughed. “Mom calls it that. But it’s not true. Dad has no problem drinking at all. The rest of his life, now --.” And he’d just shrugged and kept playing, and beat my high score.
Someone had already shovelled the driveway when I reached Grandpa’s house. It was probably mom, since the sidewalk was done as well. Grandpa’s sign was still in the yard, even in winter. Some neighbours had taken issue with Grandpa never mowing his lawn shortly after we’d arrived. I’d said I could, but Grandpa had said it was his lawn and a matter of principle. Hence the: ‘Caution: Dandelion Preserve’ sign he’d put up in September.
I’d asked him how serious he was and he’d just smiled, told me all jokes were half-truth, and began learning how to make dandelion tea. Given that, the neighbours took my mother’s palm-reading hobby entirely in stride.
Aside from it, the house was pretty normal all told. Yellow and brown, one level, and just one oak tree in the back (Grandpa hated raking leaves as well; I’d never been certain why he hadn’t moved into a condo and avoided a lawn entirely.) The interior was mostly country, even in the garage: lots of wood, warm colours and a homey feel to everything.
Mom was making a stir fry when I came in from the garage, singing Billy Joel songs to herself. The kitchen had brick walls, which Grandpa apparently had insisted on, and more pots and pans than seemed remotely sane. I avoided using most of them to be on the safe side.
“Singing means I was right about Ichabod?” I said.
Mom looked over. “Maybe. Grandpa told me about your all-nighter. You want to tell me why?”
“I made a new friend,” I said. “I wasn’t sure yesterday, when we met, but we met again today. He was wondering what I was doing in the park. Nice kid, but a bit too serious. The kind of homeschooling my mom warned me about.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” mom said.
“So I should stop?”
“Heavens, no!” We shared a laugh and mom put the frying pan down on the stove, turning off the burner. It was only then that I realized she was wearing oven mitts on both her hands.
“You burn yourself?”
“Oh, no. I’m fine.” She took them off and showed me her hands. “See?”
I looked at the bumps on her palms in confusion, about to ask, when the eyes opened up. The same green-brown of my mom’s, but on her hands. I stared down in shock, and mom looked down as well.
“Is something wrong?” she said, or started to say, but I was already in the hallway, skidding across the floor. I remember reaching my room. I don’t remember bolting the door, but I know I did. I slammed it, locked it, and buried my head between two pillows as her questions outside rose into stern demands I ignored.
Reading palms. It was almost funny. I made sounds that could have been laughter and hugged myself in the dark. My diary was on the desk with my pen beside it, but I couldn’t bring myself to write anything or even get out of bed at all. I was cold, and hot, and running a fever and terrified and helplessly sane.
Somehow the shadows in the room were only shadows and I slept in fits and starts, wakening to the certain feeling I was being watched from the shadows even though the room was empty. Turning on all the lights just made it seem darker an d I eventually dug out my headphones and played show tunes under the covers until dawn.
Duncan locked his bedroom door all the time after his father stole his DS; I never locked mine before that night.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Gloaming: 2
2.
Adrian pulled the hood of the snowsuit up again. “Do you like hot chocolate?”
“Look, I never said you had to believe me,” I snapped.
He stood up, shoving the scarf into a pocket. “I do.”
“Just like that? I saw a groundhog that didn’t have a shadow!”
“I know you did.”
I stood as well. He didn’t fall back, this time. “What?” My voice was almost as quiet as his normally was. My mom does that, when she’s really angry: she just gets quiet and cold, and I’d never thought I had it in me to do the same before now.
Adrian sighed, not moving. “Can we talk about this somewhere else, inside?”
“There’s a coffee shop on the corner of Six and Eight,” I said, still quiet, “and you are going to talk. Got it?”
“Yes.”
I marched towards the coffee shop, then had to stop and wait for him to catch up.
“Thank you,” he said. “It’s hard to walk in large shoes.”
I said nothing and we reached the coffee shop in silence.
The Coffee Place was your average downscale hole in the wall; all the drinks were in mugs or takeaway, the coffee was just listed as coffee, and even called itself small, medium, and large instead of other sizes that impressed no one. They didn’t even serve tea, believing it was a way of ripping people off. They did make awesome hot chocolate though.
I got two hot chocolates while he claimed the chairs by the fire and peeled off the snowsuit and a sweater. I walked back as he was putting his shoes back on.
“Three pairs of socks?” I said as he finished putting the second boot back on.
“Yes.” He wrapped his hands around the coffee mug and inhaled the aroma of the hot chocolate for a few moments before looking up at me. “I couldn’t ask until today.”
“About what I saw?”
Adrian licked his lips. “Would you have been back tomorrow?”
His gaze was just a gaze this time, but even so: “Yes,” I said. “I don’t know why.”
“It is dangerous.”
“Coming back to the field, or not knowing why?”
That won the hint of a smile. “Both.”
“You saw the - the groundhog too?”
He shook his head. “Not then. I saw where its shadow went., when I saw you. But you want answers, and the groundhog can’t give them.”
“Because it’s a groundhog, maybe?” I said.
“That, and you have his shadow.”
“I stole the groundhog’s shadow.” Adrian nodded, then took a sip of his hot chocolate. “That makes no goddamned sense!”
“The groundhog you saw did not have a shadow,” he said. “The shadow has to be somewhere, correct?”
“Don’t shit with me,” I snapped, grabbing his arm when he reached for his coffee again. “You don’t try to pull logic out of your - your ass after telling me I stole a shadow!”
Adrian stared at me, then his arm, then said: “Could you let go? You’re hurting my arm.”
I blinked, then let go as he rubbed it with his other arm, looking paler than he had earlier.
“I --.”
“Don’t. I’m sorry.” He picked up the mug again, wincing a little and trying to hide that. “I told you I had a medical condition, right?”
“You look kind of thin,” I said.
He shook his head. “I’m not -- strong, if that’s what you mean. But that’s just me, not other things. I see things that as they are.”
I waited, he said nothing else. “That’s a medical condition?”
“Most people don’t. They see what they want to, or have been conditioned to, or --.” He frowned, thinking. “If one person says they saw a ghost, the chances are that others will follow suit. Mass hallucination. People see what they want to, not what is actually present.”
“Including, what, captive shadows?” I tried, but the sarcasm was utterly wasted.
“Yes.”
“So it involves being sorry how, exactly?”
“I’ve never had to explain it; I don’t think I’m doing a good job.” Adrian set his empty cup down on the table and looked at it.
“You buy the second one,” I said.
Adrian looked up at that. “I guess telling isn’t enough,” he said a few moments later, picking up the mug. Steam came out of it.
I stopped him before he could drink from it, not caring how it looked to the staff.
“It’s only half full,” he said, showing it to me. “And not as good. Magic is a lot of things, but it’s no longer a way into Eden by the back door.”
I stared, then watched as my mug was suddenly almost half full as well. Adrian set his own down quickly, but I caught the slight tremble to the cup before he did.
“It’s not easy then?”
“Not in the normal world, and definitely not doing things on the fly like that.” He picked the mug up again with both hands. “The gloaming is gathering around you, because of what you saw and refused to unsee. Magic, in other words, from where magic went to die.”
I took a drink of the hot chocolate, trying to gather my thoughts. It was a little watery. I took a drink of it, feeling a little better, and said the words all parents hate to hear: “Why me?”
He gave a half shrug,. “I don’t know.” He looked up from his drink “It wasn’t an accident though. Somehow the groundhog’s shadow entered your own before you saw the groundhog. You did it, or she did, or something else.”
“I like accidents,” I said, quoting Duncan. “They’re good for blaming other people.”
Adrian shook his head, taking another sip of his drink. “When it comes to magic, there aren’t any accidents. There is the gloaming proper, magic, fate, destiny, the influence of gods and powers, dreams and wishes, us and our potentials ... a lot of things.”
“Even the stars?” I said.
“What?”
“I had a really good horoscope today.”
Adrian stared at me for a long moment. “No.”
“So, astrology --?”
“Just because magic is real don’t mean some things aren’t bunk,” he said tightly.
“So,” I said, “what about chakras?” Adrian just stared at me. “Okay, then. I sort of feel better, actually. How much is ‘bunk’?”
Adrian shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure. People can become aware of the gloaming on small levels, and see it through their own beliefs. It could manifest as chakras, for that, responding to need and desire.”
“But the map isn’t the territory,” I said.
Adrian smiled slightly for a moment. “Definitely not. And some of the stuff that isn’t real about magic is deliberate, like auras.”
“My mom has seen auras,” I said.
“Then she saw what she wanted. They’re actually a myth invented by magicians. Put out word auras exist, and those who ‘see’ them aren’t suitable candidates for real magic.”
“But auras have been reported for longer than magicians would make made this myth, right? I’ve had enough lectures from my mom on Saint Hildegard and the like.”
“Migraine aura art. You have a migraine, you translate it into art. Normal headaches probably work to, but it’s where magicians got the idea from. I think the whole holy auras for people and such is just what it seems to be, artistic licence. And how people translate what they see in their heads, making it bearable, normal. Making the wondrous mundane.”
“Which would be why everyone knows about auras,” I said slowly, putting down my empty mug. “They are mundane now, at a certain level.”
“Yes. At least, that’s my understanding of it.” Adrian finished his drink and started putting his snowsuit back on.
“You never said why you really had to come outside and bug me,” I said.
“You’re attracting the gloaming to you,” he said, wiggling his right arm into the snowsuit. I fought the urge to giggle and helped him instead.
“Thank you,” he said once we were done.
“Spill.”
“Magic is dying. But it dies slowly,” he said as I opened the door, following me outside. “Like gods, long and slow. And it doesn’t want to die, so when people become aware that things aren’t kosher, it latches onto that sometimes. Puts more magic into the world, uses your confusion as desire. Things will begin to happen around you, the magic tough other people. They might find it normal, or not. And eventually ...”
“Eventually what?”
“I don’t know. I imagine the result is different for everyone. I thought someone should warn you, in case -- before -- it started to happen to you. That was it. I should get home now.”
I nodded to him, thanked him, and went to catch up on lost sleep.
And sometimes, hearing is like sight. We hear what we want to, or don’t hear what is really said. I’m not sure what would have happened, if I’d known what he meant then. Maybe it would have turned out differently. I don’t know. And even if I could know, I think it would hurt too much to know.
Adrian pulled the hood of the snowsuit up again. “Do you like hot chocolate?”
“Look, I never said you had to believe me,” I snapped.
He stood up, shoving the scarf into a pocket. “I do.”
“Just like that? I saw a groundhog that didn’t have a shadow!”
“I know you did.”
I stood as well. He didn’t fall back, this time. “What?” My voice was almost as quiet as his normally was. My mom does that, when she’s really angry: she just gets quiet and cold, and I’d never thought I had it in me to do the same before now.
Adrian sighed, not moving. “Can we talk about this somewhere else, inside?”
“There’s a coffee shop on the corner of Six and Eight,” I said, still quiet, “and you are going to talk. Got it?”
“Yes.”
I marched towards the coffee shop, then had to stop and wait for him to catch up.
“Thank you,” he said. “It’s hard to walk in large shoes.”
I said nothing and we reached the coffee shop in silence.
The Coffee Place was your average downscale hole in the wall; all the drinks were in mugs or takeaway, the coffee was just listed as coffee, and even called itself small, medium, and large instead of other sizes that impressed no one. They didn’t even serve tea, believing it was a way of ripping people off. They did make awesome hot chocolate though.
I got two hot chocolates while he claimed the chairs by the fire and peeled off the snowsuit and a sweater. I walked back as he was putting his shoes back on.
“Three pairs of socks?” I said as he finished putting the second boot back on.
“Yes.” He wrapped his hands around the coffee mug and inhaled the aroma of the hot chocolate for a few moments before looking up at me. “I couldn’t ask until today.”
“About what I saw?”
Adrian licked his lips. “Would you have been back tomorrow?”
His gaze was just a gaze this time, but even so: “Yes,” I said. “I don’t know why.”
“It is dangerous.”
“Coming back to the field, or not knowing why?”
That won the hint of a smile. “Both.”
“You saw the - the groundhog too?”
He shook his head. “Not then. I saw where its shadow went., when I saw you. But you want answers, and the groundhog can’t give them.”
“Because it’s a groundhog, maybe?” I said.
“That, and you have his shadow.”
“I stole the groundhog’s shadow.” Adrian nodded, then took a sip of his hot chocolate. “That makes no goddamned sense!”
“The groundhog you saw did not have a shadow,” he said. “The shadow has to be somewhere, correct?”
“Don’t shit with me,” I snapped, grabbing his arm when he reached for his coffee again. “You don’t try to pull logic out of your - your ass after telling me I stole a shadow!”
Adrian stared at me, then his arm, then said: “Could you let go? You’re hurting my arm.”
I blinked, then let go as he rubbed it with his other arm, looking paler than he had earlier.
“I --.”
“Don’t. I’m sorry.” He picked up the mug again, wincing a little and trying to hide that. “I told you I had a medical condition, right?”
“You look kind of thin,” I said.
He shook his head. “I’m not -- strong, if that’s what you mean. But that’s just me, not other things. I see things that as they are.”
I waited, he said nothing else. “That’s a medical condition?”
“Most people don’t. They see what they want to, or have been conditioned to, or --.” He frowned, thinking. “If one person says they saw a ghost, the chances are that others will follow suit. Mass hallucination. People see what they want to, not what is actually present.”
“Including, what, captive shadows?” I tried, but the sarcasm was utterly wasted.
“Yes.”
“So it involves being sorry how, exactly?”
“I’ve never had to explain it; I don’t think I’m doing a good job.” Adrian set his empty cup down on the table and looked at it.
“You buy the second one,” I said.
Adrian looked up at that. “I guess telling isn’t enough,” he said a few moments later, picking up the mug. Steam came out of it.
I stopped him before he could drink from it, not caring how it looked to the staff.
“It’s only half full,” he said, showing it to me. “And not as good. Magic is a lot of things, but it’s no longer a way into Eden by the back door.”
I stared, then watched as my mug was suddenly almost half full as well. Adrian set his own down quickly, but I caught the slight tremble to the cup before he did.
“It’s not easy then?”
“Not in the normal world, and definitely not doing things on the fly like that.” He picked the mug up again with both hands. “The gloaming is gathering around you, because of what you saw and refused to unsee. Magic, in other words, from where magic went to die.”
I took a drink of the hot chocolate, trying to gather my thoughts. It was a little watery. I took a drink of it, feeling a little better, and said the words all parents hate to hear: “Why me?”
He gave a half shrug,. “I don’t know.” He looked up from his drink “It wasn’t an accident though. Somehow the groundhog’s shadow entered your own before you saw the groundhog. You did it, or she did, or something else.”
“I like accidents,” I said, quoting Duncan. “They’re good for blaming other people.”
Adrian shook his head, taking another sip of his drink. “When it comes to magic, there aren’t any accidents. There is the gloaming proper, magic, fate, destiny, the influence of gods and powers, dreams and wishes, us and our potentials ... a lot of things.”
“Even the stars?” I said.
“What?”
“I had a really good horoscope today.”
Adrian stared at me for a long moment. “No.”
“So, astrology --?”
“Just because magic is real don’t mean some things aren’t bunk,” he said tightly.
“So,” I said, “what about chakras?” Adrian just stared at me. “Okay, then. I sort of feel better, actually. How much is ‘bunk’?”
Adrian shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure. People can become aware of the gloaming on small levels, and see it through their own beliefs. It could manifest as chakras, for that, responding to need and desire.”
“But the map isn’t the territory,” I said.
Adrian smiled slightly for a moment. “Definitely not. And some of the stuff that isn’t real about magic is deliberate, like auras.”
“My mom has seen auras,” I said.
“Then she saw what she wanted. They’re actually a myth invented by magicians. Put out word auras exist, and those who ‘see’ them aren’t suitable candidates for real magic.”
“But auras have been reported for longer than magicians would make made this myth, right? I’ve had enough lectures from my mom on Saint Hildegard and the like.”
“Migraine aura art. You have a migraine, you translate it into art. Normal headaches probably work to, but it’s where magicians got the idea from. I think the whole holy auras for people and such is just what it seems to be, artistic licence. And how people translate what they see in their heads, making it bearable, normal. Making the wondrous mundane.”
“Which would be why everyone knows about auras,” I said slowly, putting down my empty mug. “They are mundane now, at a certain level.”
“Yes. At least, that’s my understanding of it.” Adrian finished his drink and started putting his snowsuit back on.
“You never said why you really had to come outside and bug me,” I said.
“You’re attracting the gloaming to you,” he said, wiggling his right arm into the snowsuit. I fought the urge to giggle and helped him instead.
“Thank you,” he said once we were done.
“Spill.”
“Magic is dying. But it dies slowly,” he said as I opened the door, following me outside. “Like gods, long and slow. And it doesn’t want to die, so when people become aware that things aren’t kosher, it latches onto that sometimes. Puts more magic into the world, uses your confusion as desire. Things will begin to happen around you, the magic tough other people. They might find it normal, or not. And eventually ...”
“Eventually what?”
“I don’t know. I imagine the result is different for everyone. I thought someone should warn you, in case -- before -- it started to happen to you. That was it. I should get home now.”
I nodded to him, thanked him, and went to catch up on lost sleep.
And sometimes, hearing is like sight. We hear what we want to, or don’t hear what is really said. I’m not sure what would have happened, if I’d known what he meant then. Maybe it would have turned out differently. I don’t know. And even if I could know, I think it would hurt too much to know.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Reunion
Reunion
(Jan 2009)
Josh MacLeod
Being a god means no longer being accountable.
You will be given power. Yes.
You are not of this world. Oh, yes.
Yours is a power of creation. And, yes, again, yes. This is what I was given, the power to shape the universe to my will. To work miracles that drive men mad, to waken them to the larger world. I have done all this. I have seen wonders and terrors, beauties and abominations.
That I have been marked by this, I cannot deny. That I have been made Greater, I cannot forget.
And yet, the world calls. Mundane, stifling, as fragile as a reflection on water. I don't know how phones reach here. I was given a cell phone, though I've never paid a bill I know of. Told to answer it. Mostly it's other gods. Sometimes mortals with prayers. But never a wrong number.
This time, it is my mother. "Are you coming to the family reunion, Donald?" No mention that we haven't spoken for at least ten years. No explanation of where she found this number. Only the question.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I'm busy."
And there is silence, for a brief moment. "Too busy for family?" And her voice has need in it, and pain. And my Duty rises up inside me, like heartburn, reminding me I must answer pain, must work to free the world of snares. That the God Of Cracks is more than shielding from bureaucracy, more than making stands in the moments between moments, more than letting broken things fall through to heal.
"It seems not," I say, and ask for the date. My voice is different, to my ears: more Donald than Power, more man than god. I remind myself of all I am, and how small is what I am not.
*
The rain is not my doing, not consciously. The caterers not arriving was mine: one more glitch in the system, one more crack for things to fall though. They wouldn't trust online maps as readily, which was reason enough for what I did, even if not the reason entire. I am waiting for someone to suggest cannibalism, listening to voices, trying not to wish for some lightning.
"Road coming here was, dude, slipperier than frog snot!" "Can't we just order pizza?" "And then I said: form 224-f? Really? That isn't even my department!" "And after the lancing the baby was fine." "So I told her I didn't date protest ants! Get it?" "After he broke my heart, I told him that was just more pieces to love him with. Then he slapped me with a restraining order." "So I said, 'No, this is how you use a boning knife' and the trial is probably next year." "Donald?"
I turned at the last voice. "Aunt Agnes?"
She waddled over, weighed down by foundation, wobbling on high heels like a druken top. "Donald! Dear little Donnie. How are you?"
"I am."
"That's just wonderful! What are you doing for a living?"
"Finances," I said, which was true enough.
"Oh, a shame. I'd hoped you'd become interesting," she tsk'd. "No wife yet?"
"No."
"Everyone need a good woman. Or a good man, hmm?" She winked a few times, eyelids cracking.
"No." I put some of what I was in my voice.
"Oh, well then. No need to be like that, now, is there?" She sniffed. "Why, Gilbert is still in the Service, and our little Shadow is a hair follicle replacement engineer, and Agnes Jr. has three grandchildren, but one of them --."
"What does Shawn do?" I said, feeling the weight of things unspoken between words.
She hesitated, then said: "Hair, at a very fine salon. And he's looking for --."
"I am a God," I said.
"Oh, moved down in the world, have you? Become a CEO?"
I stared at her, and dropped the Veil. She stared back, holding her purse a little tighter.
"Well. That's done horrible things for your hair, that I can tell you!"
"Pardon?" I said, and people turned. The veil held for them, but they weren't entirely stupid, not quite all lemmings. A few headed for cars, making excuses.
"Probably the god of some big, important thing, like not seeing family, hmm?"
I could, now, see some Protection about her, and almost pitied the god who must have Chosen her.
And I reached out, with my nature, and opened cracks.
People gasped, blanched, fell to the ground. Even Agnes reeled slightly at the collective stench.
"I do hope you have another one," I said to my mother, who had turned the colour of curdled milk, and then I went home, not caring if they saw my step through the world.
I turned my cell phone off, and gathered up my power. It would take some work to ensure this miracle was lost in the celestial bureaucracy, but it was what I was About.
(Jan 2009)
Josh MacLeod
Being a god means no longer being accountable.
You will be given power. Yes.
You are not of this world. Oh, yes.
Yours is a power of creation. And, yes, again, yes. This is what I was given, the power to shape the universe to my will. To work miracles that drive men mad, to waken them to the larger world. I have done all this. I have seen wonders and terrors, beauties and abominations.
That I have been marked by this, I cannot deny. That I have been made Greater, I cannot forget.
And yet, the world calls. Mundane, stifling, as fragile as a reflection on water. I don't know how phones reach here. I was given a cell phone, though I've never paid a bill I know of. Told to answer it. Mostly it's other gods. Sometimes mortals with prayers. But never a wrong number.
This time, it is my mother. "Are you coming to the family reunion, Donald?" No mention that we haven't spoken for at least ten years. No explanation of where she found this number. Only the question.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I'm busy."
And there is silence, for a brief moment. "Too busy for family?" And her voice has need in it, and pain. And my Duty rises up inside me, like heartburn, reminding me I must answer pain, must work to free the world of snares. That the God Of Cracks is more than shielding from bureaucracy, more than making stands in the moments between moments, more than letting broken things fall through to heal.
"It seems not," I say, and ask for the date. My voice is different, to my ears: more Donald than Power, more man than god. I remind myself of all I am, and how small is what I am not.
*
The rain is not my doing, not consciously. The caterers not arriving was mine: one more glitch in the system, one more crack for things to fall though. They wouldn't trust online maps as readily, which was reason enough for what I did, even if not the reason entire. I am waiting for someone to suggest cannibalism, listening to voices, trying not to wish for some lightning.
"Road coming here was, dude, slipperier than frog snot!" "Can't we just order pizza?" "And then I said: form 224-f? Really? That isn't even my department!" "And after the lancing the baby was fine." "So I told her I didn't date protest ants! Get it?" "After he broke my heart, I told him that was just more pieces to love him with. Then he slapped me with a restraining order." "So I said, 'No, this is how you use a boning knife' and the trial is probably next year." "Donald?"
I turned at the last voice. "Aunt Agnes?"
She waddled over, weighed down by foundation, wobbling on high heels like a druken top. "Donald! Dear little Donnie. How are you?"
"I am."
"That's just wonderful! What are you doing for a living?"
"Finances," I said, which was true enough.
"Oh, a shame. I'd hoped you'd become interesting," she tsk'd. "No wife yet?"
"No."
"Everyone need a good woman. Or a good man, hmm?" She winked a few times, eyelids cracking.
"No." I put some of what I was in my voice.
"Oh, well then. No need to be like that, now, is there?" She sniffed. "Why, Gilbert is still in the Service, and our little Shadow is a hair follicle replacement engineer, and Agnes Jr. has three grandchildren, but one of them --."
"What does Shawn do?" I said, feeling the weight of things unspoken between words.
She hesitated, then said: "Hair, at a very fine salon. And he's looking for --."
"I am a God," I said.
"Oh, moved down in the world, have you? Become a CEO?"
I stared at her, and dropped the Veil. She stared back, holding her purse a little tighter.
"Well. That's done horrible things for your hair, that I can tell you!"
"Pardon?" I said, and people turned. The veil held for them, but they weren't entirely stupid, not quite all lemmings. A few headed for cars, making excuses.
"Probably the god of some big, important thing, like not seeing family, hmm?"
I could, now, see some Protection about her, and almost pitied the god who must have Chosen her.
And I reached out, with my nature, and opened cracks.
People gasped, blanched, fell to the ground. Even Agnes reeled slightly at the collective stench.
"I do hope you have another one," I said to my mother, who had turned the colour of curdled milk, and then I went home, not caring if they saw my step through the world.
I turned my cell phone off, and gathered up my power. It would take some work to ensure this miracle was lost in the celestial bureaucracy, but it was what I was About.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A quick ficlet
"So I have to eat them?"
"Yes, Johnny. Vegetables are good for you. And don't you roll your eyes at me! You have to eat them."
"I've been eating veggies at Bruce's. But we play with them first."
"We do not play with vegetables at the table!"
"Dear, if it gets him to finish supper ..."
"Fine. You may play with them, then eat -- oh my God! You do NOT do that with vegetables! Oh my God! Angels and ministers of -- you put your clothes back on right this minute!"
"Geeze. Sorry."
"What do you have to say for yourself young man?"
"Carrots are better when they're peeled. Duh."
"Yes, Johnny. Vegetables are good for you. And don't you roll your eyes at me! You have to eat them."
"I've been eating veggies at Bruce's. But we play with them first."
"We do not play with vegetables at the table!"
"Dear, if it gets him to finish supper ..."
"Fine. You may play with them, then eat -- oh my God! You do NOT do that with vegetables! Oh my God! Angels and ministers of -- you put your clothes back on right this minute!"
"Geeze. Sorry."
"What do you have to say for yourself young man?"
"Carrots are better when they're peeled. Duh."
Gloaming: 1
And here is the first installment of Gloaming. It's about teenagers, growing up, and what happens when magic begins leaking into your otherwise sane life. Each installment should be about 3 typed pages, with some variation. I promise to post one every two weeks, at least.
I'm currently writing #6 and haven't had to go back and change too much yet (though I finally figured out some things about Adrian's mom tonight that are pretty important for her). The goal is for the project to be from mostly Katie's pov (I hesitate to say all, because a scene or two may need to be from Duncan's.)
1.
Hello, me. I’m trying to remember you. They’ve give me paper and a pen. It took -- has taken -- over two weeks for me to come to grips with it not being that paper, and that pen. I knew it wasn’t at all, couldn’t be, but
No, that’s not working.
I promise to write more coherently, or at least chronologically.. I’m telling a story here, after all. All I can ask is that you don’t confuse the teller with the tale; I think that’s the best I can hope for anymore.
Everyone has a story. That’s one of the things mom told me that winter. It was the winter of Moby Dick, which explains a lot of that. I plan to keep my story shorter, since I don’t know how much paper I have, or for how long.
Writers are told to leave out the boring bits, so I’ll try and do the same. Make this just be about that winter and nothing else. But if not for this winter, my life would be just boring bits, the things left out of stories. This may limit some of the people I’m going to tell you about: you won’t understand my mom with just one winter to judge her by. So try not to judge anyone harshly, except me.
This is a story, even if it’s my life. And all fiction is lies, even if it’s about things that happened. Even if I was there. There’s parts I remember clear, others not so much. Sometimes I get the feel of things, sometimes the think of them. Some conversations are verbatim, others are prose and not spoken words.
I’m going to tell you some lies now, about true things.
It started with the groundhog.
It was February second, and it had snowed last night. I was seventeen, going on eighteen, and I like to think I was just that. Not thirty two in cynicism, eighty one in sexual awareness thanks to the internet and so forth. I was home-schooled, but don’t hold that against me. I like to think I was normal, is what I’m saying.
The ground was slushy after the snowfall and I’d spent eight hours standing in the old Baker Street park staring at a hole on the ground. My shoes were soaked through, the rest of me getting there, but I didn’t actually feel all that cold. Mostly numb. Fogged up a little, in the head. I’d must have lost track of a couple of hours, because the ring of my cell phone jarred me.
“Hey,” I said quickly, just managing to dig it from a pocket, check the time and open it before it went to voicemail.
“Katie Gwendolyn Smith.”
“Oh. Hi, mom.”
“Where have you been? I called earlier.” And I had ignored the phone, since it was too early for Duncan to call about playing a video game together. (Things like this are why I never got call display on any phone my mom paid for.)
“I was waiting for a groundhog.”
A silence. “And?”
“It’s Groundhog’s Day, mom. I’m testing the superstition.”
“Since Seven a.m.?”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s not getting you out of doing your math work. Your grandfather is going to be home within the hour; and it is also your turn to make supper, in case you forgot that as well?”
“I’ll be home quickly,” I said, casting the ground a last look before hurrying to the road. I looked back from the road, just in case I saw the groundhog again, but I saw nothing.
Feeling returned to my feet as I walked, and Duncan called a few minutes later, asking if I wanted to play a game with him tonight. I said I had school and he got into the usual ‘you homeschoolers get homework?’ mock horror, our old routine. We meant nothing by it, not anymore. It was just how we talked to each other, and I lobbed some fake insults his way, keeping it normal. Which was a lot more comfortable thank keeping it real. (I’m pretty sure I thought that then, or something close to it; it was a strange winter.)
Supper was chicken surprise, the surprise being that I didn’t overcook the pasta. Grandpa said it was good, which meant it was. He never said if supper was bad, but that was because he insisted I learn to cook if me and mom were staying with him. Grandpa thought everyone should learn such things and since he had insisted I cook in the first place, he never complained about some of the results. I think he must have made grandma very happy, but mom never talks about her.
I did the math quickly, trying for sleep after and failing. I kept imaging groundhog shadows and couldn’t shake the feeling I’d have terrible dreams if I slept. So I did English until I heard grandpa getting up and stumbled out of my room for some coffee.
“You are far too young for all-nighters,” he said, looking over the paper at me. “You should save that for college.”
“I wanted to get some things done this morning.”
Grandpa just nodded; I hadn’t said what things, so he didn’t press.
I had the coffee, porridge, left a note for mom and dressed warmer before getting out again. I made sure to leave my cell at home. The park was mostly empty except for old Mr. McClure feeding pigeons at the far end, but he pretty much did that most days all over the neighbourhood so I gave him a friendly wave and went to examining the hole after cleaning a rock off to sit on it.
I knew the burrow had other entrances, but I figured I’d see them from the rock as well. Mom doesn’t get sarcastic often, but she definitely would have if I sprained an ankle looking for groundhog holes and waiting.
It was a little past noon, going by the sun, and I was starting to get angry. I mean, I’d seen it yesterday morning, and it hadn’t shown up again. I was half-seriously debating a shovel when someone coughed behind me.
I turned, almost sliding off the rock, and found myself staring at a kid in a bright pink snowsuit compete with balaclava, toque and scarf. A mittened hand waved awkwardly, followed by a soft, muffled male voice: “Hello?”
“Hi yourself. Rock’s free,” I added.
“I suppose.” He walked closer, moving as if he had almost no joints, and waved a hand behind him, a little to my left. “I came from that house. The one with all the trees,” he added before I could ask.
“So, no school?”
“Homeschooled. I have a medical condition of sorts.”
“It involves clothing?” I said, because I wasn’t my grandfather.
“Huh?”
“Sorry, I thought --” I paused, not sure what I thought. “Do you need help getting home?”
“Help?”
“With, ah, walking?”
“Oh, clothing. No. My mom is very protective sometimes. I’m wearing two snow suits, else I would be walking fine.”
“I guess that explains why one is pink?” I said dryly.
“Yes.”
“O-kay. What brings you out here?”
“You have been here two days: I wondered why.”
I eyed the house, and then his clothing. “Must be some wondering, to come all the way out here wearing all that.”
“Twice is interesting; more seldom is,” the boy said.
“Is?”
“Unhealthy.”
I sighed, looking back at the hole. “Go home, kid.”
“You are looking for a groundhog.”
I didn’t fall this time. I turned carefully, and then stood and looked down at him. “That wasn’t a question.”
“You are in a field with them, on the third of February. It seemed obvious. You want to talk about it?”
“Get lost,” I said, no longer feeling friendly. I was feeling stupid enough as it was, but I also knew it wasn’t enough to make me give up.
“I just --.” I took a step towards him and he stepped back, raising his hands. One mitten fell off to reveal a glove under it.
We both stared at it, and I looked at him, then sighed. “I didn’t mean to startle you like that.”
“I am okay. Can you pick up my mitten?”
“Pardon?”
“I think,” he said gravely, “that I would fall over and not be able to get back up.” And then he laughed, as soft as he spoke.
I laughed too, surprised, and got it, putting it on him. “I’m Katie.”
“Adrian,” he said, wiggling it after it was on his hand.
Then he went home, making his almost-robot way back through the show and somehow never quite falling.
And that was how I met Adrian.
The third day he showed up before lunch, wearing less layers than before.
“Hey,” I said
“Hello,” he said, still quiet even with the scarf undone. Some people just talk softly; Adrian was one of those.
He sat down on the rock beside me slowly, having only the pink snowsuit, mittens, a scarf and whatever was under it on. It seemed enough, given he wobbled slightly when he sat.
“What are you wearing?” I finally said.
“Two sweaters, a t-shirt, undershirt, long johns, two pairs of sweats, one snowsuit, scarf, gloves, mittens,” he said, pulling the hood back off the snowsuit. Under it he was pale with dark eyes and curly dark hair framing a serious face.
“How do you get out of that?” I said.
“With help.”
“And you don’t need to wear it?”
“Not this much,” he said firmly.
“So maybe this is a lesson to not come out and bug me?”
He smiled briefly at that, quick and shy, and then looked grave as if it hadn’t happened at all. “Perhaps.”
I sighed. “You should go home before you need to go to the bathroom or something.”
“I mentioned the problem; my mother took it into account.”
“Wait. What?”
“A diaper,” he said, the tips of his ears turning pink.
“Is your mother mental?” It slipped out before I could stop it.
“She is concerned.”
“Concerned is a little less than dressing someone in more than six layers of clothing,” I said. “There’s no wind, and it’s not that cold.”
“Worried, then. I am, too.”
“About what?”
“You. Why you are waiting for a groundhog.”
“Look, Adrian, just go home, okay? I don’t feel like being bugged.”
“I spent an hour getting dressed this morning,” he said, raising his voice a little.
I sighed. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth?” he said, soft again. “About why you are here.”
“Kid,” I began, and he looked into me. I don’t have words for it, even now. It was as if his gaze went right into me, pinning me in place with an intensity that took my breath away. It was as if he looked and into me, and right through me at the same time.
I took a breath, managed a cough, and the moment passed and was gone. I looked away quickly, trying to gather my wits.
“Please,” he said, a little louder, almost sounding desperate
So I told him.
I'm currently writing #6 and haven't had to go back and change too much yet (though I finally figured out some things about Adrian's mom tonight that are pretty important for her). The goal is for the project to be from mostly Katie's pov (I hesitate to say all, because a scene or two may need to be from Duncan's.)
1.
Hello, me. I’m trying to remember you. They’ve give me paper and a pen. It took -- has taken -- over two weeks for me to come to grips with it not being that paper, and that pen. I knew it wasn’t at all, couldn’t be, but
No, that’s not working.
I promise to write more coherently, or at least chronologically.. I’m telling a story here, after all. All I can ask is that you don’t confuse the teller with the tale; I think that’s the best I can hope for anymore.
Everyone has a story. That’s one of the things mom told me that winter. It was the winter of Moby Dick, which explains a lot of that. I plan to keep my story shorter, since I don’t know how much paper I have, or for how long.
Writers are told to leave out the boring bits, so I’ll try and do the same. Make this just be about that winter and nothing else. But if not for this winter, my life would be just boring bits, the things left out of stories. This may limit some of the people I’m going to tell you about: you won’t understand my mom with just one winter to judge her by. So try not to judge anyone harshly, except me.
This is a story, even if it’s my life. And all fiction is lies, even if it’s about things that happened. Even if I was there. There’s parts I remember clear, others not so much. Sometimes I get the feel of things, sometimes the think of them. Some conversations are verbatim, others are prose and not spoken words.
I’m going to tell you some lies now, about true things.
It started with the groundhog.
It was February second, and it had snowed last night. I was seventeen, going on eighteen, and I like to think I was just that. Not thirty two in cynicism, eighty one in sexual awareness thanks to the internet and so forth. I was home-schooled, but don’t hold that against me. I like to think I was normal, is what I’m saying.
The ground was slushy after the snowfall and I’d spent eight hours standing in the old Baker Street park staring at a hole on the ground. My shoes were soaked through, the rest of me getting there, but I didn’t actually feel all that cold. Mostly numb. Fogged up a little, in the head. I’d must have lost track of a couple of hours, because the ring of my cell phone jarred me.
“Hey,” I said quickly, just managing to dig it from a pocket, check the time and open it before it went to voicemail.
“Katie Gwendolyn Smith.”
“Oh. Hi, mom.”
“Where have you been? I called earlier.” And I had ignored the phone, since it was too early for Duncan to call about playing a video game together. (Things like this are why I never got call display on any phone my mom paid for.)
“I was waiting for a groundhog.”
A silence. “And?”
“It’s Groundhog’s Day, mom. I’m testing the superstition.”
“Since Seven a.m.?”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s not getting you out of doing your math work. Your grandfather is going to be home within the hour; and it is also your turn to make supper, in case you forgot that as well?”
“I’ll be home quickly,” I said, casting the ground a last look before hurrying to the road. I looked back from the road, just in case I saw the groundhog again, but I saw nothing.
Feeling returned to my feet as I walked, and Duncan called a few minutes later, asking if I wanted to play a game with him tonight. I said I had school and he got into the usual ‘you homeschoolers get homework?’ mock horror, our old routine. We meant nothing by it, not anymore. It was just how we talked to each other, and I lobbed some fake insults his way, keeping it normal. Which was a lot more comfortable thank keeping it real. (I’m pretty sure I thought that then, or something close to it; it was a strange winter.)
Supper was chicken surprise, the surprise being that I didn’t overcook the pasta. Grandpa said it was good, which meant it was. He never said if supper was bad, but that was because he insisted I learn to cook if me and mom were staying with him. Grandpa thought everyone should learn such things and since he had insisted I cook in the first place, he never complained about some of the results. I think he must have made grandma very happy, but mom never talks about her.
I did the math quickly, trying for sleep after and failing. I kept imaging groundhog shadows and couldn’t shake the feeling I’d have terrible dreams if I slept. So I did English until I heard grandpa getting up and stumbled out of my room for some coffee.
“You are far too young for all-nighters,” he said, looking over the paper at me. “You should save that for college.”
“I wanted to get some things done this morning.”
Grandpa just nodded; I hadn’t said what things, so he didn’t press.
I had the coffee, porridge, left a note for mom and dressed warmer before getting out again. I made sure to leave my cell at home. The park was mostly empty except for old Mr. McClure feeding pigeons at the far end, but he pretty much did that most days all over the neighbourhood so I gave him a friendly wave and went to examining the hole after cleaning a rock off to sit on it.
I knew the burrow had other entrances, but I figured I’d see them from the rock as well. Mom doesn’t get sarcastic often, but she definitely would have if I sprained an ankle looking for groundhog holes and waiting.
It was a little past noon, going by the sun, and I was starting to get angry. I mean, I’d seen it yesterday morning, and it hadn’t shown up again. I was half-seriously debating a shovel when someone coughed behind me.
I turned, almost sliding off the rock, and found myself staring at a kid in a bright pink snowsuit compete with balaclava, toque and scarf. A mittened hand waved awkwardly, followed by a soft, muffled male voice: “Hello?”
“Hi yourself. Rock’s free,” I added.
“I suppose.” He walked closer, moving as if he had almost no joints, and waved a hand behind him, a little to my left. “I came from that house. The one with all the trees,” he added before I could ask.
“So, no school?”
“Homeschooled. I have a medical condition of sorts.”
“It involves clothing?” I said, because I wasn’t my grandfather.
“Huh?”
“Sorry, I thought --” I paused, not sure what I thought. “Do you need help getting home?”
“Help?”
“With, ah, walking?”
“Oh, clothing. No. My mom is very protective sometimes. I’m wearing two snow suits, else I would be walking fine.”
“I guess that explains why one is pink?” I said dryly.
“Yes.”
“O-kay. What brings you out here?”
“You have been here two days: I wondered why.”
I eyed the house, and then his clothing. “Must be some wondering, to come all the way out here wearing all that.”
“Twice is interesting; more seldom is,” the boy said.
“Is?”
“Unhealthy.”
I sighed, looking back at the hole. “Go home, kid.”
“You are looking for a groundhog.”
I didn’t fall this time. I turned carefully, and then stood and looked down at him. “That wasn’t a question.”
“You are in a field with them, on the third of February. It seemed obvious. You want to talk about it?”
“Get lost,” I said, no longer feeling friendly. I was feeling stupid enough as it was, but I also knew it wasn’t enough to make me give up.
“I just --.” I took a step towards him and he stepped back, raising his hands. One mitten fell off to reveal a glove under it.
We both stared at it, and I looked at him, then sighed. “I didn’t mean to startle you like that.”
“I am okay. Can you pick up my mitten?”
“Pardon?”
“I think,” he said gravely, “that I would fall over and not be able to get back up.” And then he laughed, as soft as he spoke.
I laughed too, surprised, and got it, putting it on him. “I’m Katie.”
“Adrian,” he said, wiggling it after it was on his hand.
Then he went home, making his almost-robot way back through the show and somehow never quite falling.
And that was how I met Adrian.
The third day he showed up before lunch, wearing less layers than before.
“Hey,” I said
“Hello,” he said, still quiet even with the scarf undone. Some people just talk softly; Adrian was one of those.
He sat down on the rock beside me slowly, having only the pink snowsuit, mittens, a scarf and whatever was under it on. It seemed enough, given he wobbled slightly when he sat.
“What are you wearing?” I finally said.
“Two sweaters, a t-shirt, undershirt, long johns, two pairs of sweats, one snowsuit, scarf, gloves, mittens,” he said, pulling the hood back off the snowsuit. Under it he was pale with dark eyes and curly dark hair framing a serious face.
“How do you get out of that?” I said.
“With help.”
“And you don’t need to wear it?”
“Not this much,” he said firmly.
“So maybe this is a lesson to not come out and bug me?”
He smiled briefly at that, quick and shy, and then looked grave as if it hadn’t happened at all. “Perhaps.”
I sighed. “You should go home before you need to go to the bathroom or something.”
“I mentioned the problem; my mother took it into account.”
“Wait. What?”
“A diaper,” he said, the tips of his ears turning pink.
“Is your mother mental?” It slipped out before I could stop it.
“She is concerned.”
“Concerned is a little less than dressing someone in more than six layers of clothing,” I said. “There’s no wind, and it’s not that cold.”
“Worried, then. I am, too.”
“About what?”
“You. Why you are waiting for a groundhog.”
“Look, Adrian, just go home, okay? I don’t feel like being bugged.”
“I spent an hour getting dressed this morning,” he said, raising his voice a little.
I sighed. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth?” he said, soft again. “About why you are here.”
“Kid,” I began, and he looked into me. I don’t have words for it, even now. It was as if his gaze went right into me, pinning me in place with an intensity that took my breath away. It was as if he looked and into me, and right through me at the same time.
I took a breath, managed a cough, and the moment passed and was gone. I looked away quickly, trying to gather my wits.
“Please,” he said, a little louder, almost sounding desperate
So I told him.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Code Red
"It's your fault." It's not often to tell a client that, but sometimes it's the truth. 12 person jury, and they convicted him. It was his own fault, really. I call it The Giver's Dilemma. Like the prisoner's, only not alike at all. Essentially, you give gifts. And then you must give better gifts. And better gifts after that. And the gifts given in childhood count the highest, in this regard. We can remember when we got for our eighth birthday and not last year. To whit: if you give shitty gifts, the shit hits the fan.
In his case, 15 years without chance of parole.
I told the jury, "You can't put Santa in a no-fly list! He's the spirit of Christmas! Sure, he has sherry at every single home, but he's never been charged with a DUI yet." It failed. Horribly, miserably, failed. The prosecution got into the obesity epidemic, and my client as a poor role model, and then got into the whereabouts of Mrs. Claus, and the nature of Santa's 'elves'.
I tried to point out the magical aspects, to help salvage my client's dignity, but it never worked. I said: "And then the presents appear!" made more sense than the prosecution's arguments about relativity and a-entropic space/time fields. To which he said: "Oh, yes, and 'a stork brings them' makes more sense to children than nonsense about sexual reproduction."
Did the prosecutor made the naughty often? Don't even go there. It's an invasion of privacy and rights that made the Bush-Cheny administration look like poster boys for libertarianism. Then we had PETA weigh in on flying reindeer, church leaders on how my client had turned the Christmas season from a holiday about someone not born in December in a manger who may not have existed into crass commercialism that netted companies small fortunes and boosted the economy. It was the only part I won.
I tried to appeal to the fact that my client was a mythological entity, but I had no more luck than Creationists on their best days. I appealed to his Sainthood in the end, desperate for anything to sway jurors muttering about scab labour and shoddy toys and the prosecutor -- he just smiled. The scroogiest, grinchiest smile in lawsville, and said: "Your client is a bearded pseudo-saint with an affinity for the color red who makes it his mission to redistribute wealth to the youth that follow his orthodox code of behavior, while at the same time de-emphasizing religion? There is no Santa. He's just a fat, magical Trotsky!"
They laughed all the way though my attempts at a rebuttal. The jury convicted in in less than five minutes for a DUI, terrorism, flying without proper licences, animal abuse, scab labour, using illegal tactics to break up unions. Christ. I can't even recall all of it.
And when it was over, the Prosecutor laughed and left, a halo around his head, and said: "Yes! People wil celebrate Christmas in my name again! Mine, not a pathetic third century saint!" Never did get his name., but damn he argued a good case.
In his case, 15 years without chance of parole.
I told the jury, "You can't put Santa in a no-fly list! He's the spirit of Christmas! Sure, he has sherry at every single home, but he's never been charged with a DUI yet." It failed. Horribly, miserably, failed. The prosecution got into the obesity epidemic, and my client as a poor role model, and then got into the whereabouts of Mrs. Claus, and the nature of Santa's 'elves'.
I tried to point out the magical aspects, to help salvage my client's dignity, but it never worked. I said: "And then the presents appear!" made more sense than the prosecution's arguments about relativity and a-entropic space/time fields. To which he said: "Oh, yes, and 'a stork brings them' makes more sense to children than nonsense about sexual reproduction."
Did the prosecutor made the naughty often? Don't even go there. It's an invasion of privacy and rights that made the Bush-Cheny administration look like poster boys for libertarianism. Then we had PETA weigh in on flying reindeer, church leaders on how my client had turned the Christmas season from a holiday about someone not born in December in a manger who may not have existed into crass commercialism that netted companies small fortunes and boosted the economy. It was the only part I won.
I tried to appeal to the fact that my client was a mythological entity, but I had no more luck than Creationists on their best days. I appealed to his Sainthood in the end, desperate for anything to sway jurors muttering about scab labour and shoddy toys and the prosecutor -- he just smiled. The scroogiest, grinchiest smile in lawsville, and said: "Your client is a bearded pseudo-saint with an affinity for the color red who makes it his mission to redistribute wealth to the youth that follow his orthodox code of behavior, while at the same time de-emphasizing religion? There is no Santa. He's just a fat, magical Trotsky!"
They laughed all the way though my attempts at a rebuttal. The jury convicted in in less than five minutes for a DUI, terrorism, flying without proper licences, animal abuse, scab labour, using illegal tactics to break up unions. Christ. I can't even recall all of it.
And when it was over, the Prosecutor laughed and left, a halo around his head, and said: "Yes! People wil celebrate Christmas in my name again! Mine, not a pathetic third century saint!" Never did get his name., but damn he argued a good case.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Confessionals
“In nomine ....” The priest paused, unsure how it went from there. You are dying, he informed himself, but he already knew that. Memory had degraded, simple things become complicated, complicated ones simple. Two hours ago, he had rounded off pi to save time. What pi had been before was -- gone.
“In name,” he said. “In the name of. Yes. That is is.” But what? He moved slowly through the junkyard, hands touching things at random as if hoping to spark memory from rust.
I am dying, he thought again. It was not comforting. It was not uncomfortable. It just was. He knew he should not be. He had been the word made flesh, to live forever. But the world moved on, as worlds do.
Who used fossil fuels? Energy cubes? No one, and none. And all that ran on them, dying and discarded. An immortality that does not change is only a prolonged death. Change. Strive. Or die. It seemed so simple now.
The priest moved slowly, senses acute, hearing the child crying. There were responses built into him, about children crying, and comfort. Memory dredged up voices: “He is a robot: he cannot hurt the children, as men of cloth have. It is a perfect choice.” But I have words, he thought now, so I can. Other memories came and went, brief sparks, like a hurricane touching down and vanishing again.
He used to be Important, the priest knew. Powerful, with the true kind of power, the kind used to better serve others. He had changed lives, helped people, told them the words that they needed to hear for the moment (often not what they had to hear, no, but the priest understood that few wanted what they needed). He wondered what he needed, but the crying voice seemed enough.
To do what I was meant for, he thought, and he was, if not satisfied, at least content.
The child was human, or human enough. To the priest, ‘human’ was ‘consciousness’ and he knew it when he saw it, in humans or otherwise. There are things that scanners cannot scan, he remembered counselling other robots. We are more than the sum of our parts.
And the child before him was that. The priest counted several back-up organs, regenerative tissue, and currently a broken arm lodged under a fallen machine.
The child cried, pulling at his arm though it did not move. He could have cut it off, and grown a new one, but that would have hurt more. So the child cried, and waited for rescue.
“I am here,” the priest said, kneeling down beside the child.
The child looked up, confused, and the robot was aware of being scanned in turn. “A robot?” Wonder replaced pain, for a few moments. “I didn’t know we still had robots.”
The priest did not wince: his features remained calm, placid, hiding any pain that could have shown. “What do you need?”
“My arm is trapped,” the child said.. “And I don’t think my distress call is reaching my sister.”
The priest nodded, assessing the rubble and making calculations. “I am not certain I can free you from this: my systems are dying.”
“Ah.” The child fell silent, pale with pain. “Is it hard?”
“Dying?”
The child nodded.
“Sometimes. Things grow harder.” The priest sat down, sevros whining in protest. “Do you have priests, still?”
“Some,” the child said. “But we are all immortal now. If I die here, I will live again with these memories, or most of them, in moments. It is only sleep, for us.”
“A different world.” The priest was quiet then, wondering what their lives must be like. “Are you often sad, or happy?”
“When I want to be,” the child said. “I could turn off my pain receptors, but then this would have no meaning.” He tugged at his arm, which remained stuck. “It will be a poor story to tell if I’m not hurt.”
“You could free yourself,” the priest said.
“I know. But then what’s the point to getting stuck, or the purpose?” the child asked.
The priest stared into bright and challenging eyes. “I am a machine, for all that I am. I cannot escape that. But the universe is not one. Things do not have a purpose, as if they were equal, as if you are interchangable, as if it were a machine. To have purpose implies function. What is your function?”
The child fell silent, thinking it over. “To live? It is what I am best at,” was added,. and the priest approved of the humour.
“You are, and you are a part of life. There is no Purpose in that, no Meaning. I am, and you are, and we are part of life, and life is.” The priest stood, slowly. “This is not what I was taught to say, but it is what comes to me now. Sparks of data over memory crystals. Everything we do is like that. Meaning is not necessary. Appreciation is.”
“Are you sure you’re not broken?” the child said, tugging at his arm again.
“I am running down. I am dying. I am not certain the comparison applies.”
“What do you do?” the child finally said.
“I watch more sunsets,” the robot priest said. “I compare. I contrast. I am reminded that everything changes. And I am often afraid,” he added, mostly to himself. Death would end everything save memory, and only this child might recall him of all that now lived.
“I’m not,” the child said.
“Yes.” The priest stared down. A part of him wanted to ask if the child was certain to survive, if no distress call meant the child would not project awareness into a new body, but the priest knew them for its own pain, and said nothing. He reached down, with his good arm.
“In nomine,” he said. “Yours and mine.” And he pulled the child free of the arm. The child screamed in pain, for a moment, the blocked the pain and pushed the priest back.
“You - you hurt me?” the child said, a new arm growing.
“I gave what you needed,” the priest said. “I am sorry.” He turned away, uncertain if he was more sorry for the child or himself. He would never have done that, before. But everything was falling apart. Even primary programs. Even his own commands. Desires remained, even now, but the child’s pain remained as well.
The priest sat down, calmly, and stared up at the sky. The sun would rise, the sun would set. He waited to appreciate it.
“In name,” he said. “In the name of. Yes. That is is.” But what? He moved slowly through the junkyard, hands touching things at random as if hoping to spark memory from rust.
I am dying, he thought again. It was not comforting. It was not uncomfortable. It just was. He knew he should not be. He had been the word made flesh, to live forever. But the world moved on, as worlds do.
Who used fossil fuels? Energy cubes? No one, and none. And all that ran on them, dying and discarded. An immortality that does not change is only a prolonged death. Change. Strive. Or die. It seemed so simple now.
The priest moved slowly, senses acute, hearing the child crying. There were responses built into him, about children crying, and comfort. Memory dredged up voices: “He is a robot: he cannot hurt the children, as men of cloth have. It is a perfect choice.” But I have words, he thought now, so I can. Other memories came and went, brief sparks, like a hurricane touching down and vanishing again.
He used to be Important, the priest knew. Powerful, with the true kind of power, the kind used to better serve others. He had changed lives, helped people, told them the words that they needed to hear for the moment (often not what they had to hear, no, but the priest understood that few wanted what they needed). He wondered what he needed, but the crying voice seemed enough.
To do what I was meant for, he thought, and he was, if not satisfied, at least content.
The child was human, or human enough. To the priest, ‘human’ was ‘consciousness’ and he knew it when he saw it, in humans or otherwise. There are things that scanners cannot scan, he remembered counselling other robots. We are more than the sum of our parts.
And the child before him was that. The priest counted several back-up organs, regenerative tissue, and currently a broken arm lodged under a fallen machine.
The child cried, pulling at his arm though it did not move. He could have cut it off, and grown a new one, but that would have hurt more. So the child cried, and waited for rescue.
“I am here,” the priest said, kneeling down beside the child.
The child looked up, confused, and the robot was aware of being scanned in turn. “A robot?” Wonder replaced pain, for a few moments. “I didn’t know we still had robots.”
The priest did not wince: his features remained calm, placid, hiding any pain that could have shown. “What do you need?”
“My arm is trapped,” the child said.. “And I don’t think my distress call is reaching my sister.”
The priest nodded, assessing the rubble and making calculations. “I am not certain I can free you from this: my systems are dying.”
“Ah.” The child fell silent, pale with pain. “Is it hard?”
“Dying?”
The child nodded.
“Sometimes. Things grow harder.” The priest sat down, sevros whining in protest. “Do you have priests, still?”
“Some,” the child said. “But we are all immortal now. If I die here, I will live again with these memories, or most of them, in moments. It is only sleep, for us.”
“A different world.” The priest was quiet then, wondering what their lives must be like. “Are you often sad, or happy?”
“When I want to be,” the child said. “I could turn off my pain receptors, but then this would have no meaning.” He tugged at his arm, which remained stuck. “It will be a poor story to tell if I’m not hurt.”
“You could free yourself,” the priest said.
“I know. But then what’s the point to getting stuck, or the purpose?” the child asked.
The priest stared into bright and challenging eyes. “I am a machine, for all that I am. I cannot escape that. But the universe is not one. Things do not have a purpose, as if they were equal, as if you are interchangable, as if it were a machine. To have purpose implies function. What is your function?”
The child fell silent, thinking it over. “To live? It is what I am best at,” was added,. and the priest approved of the humour.
“You are, and you are a part of life. There is no Purpose in that, no Meaning. I am, and you are, and we are part of life, and life is.” The priest stood, slowly. “This is not what I was taught to say, but it is what comes to me now. Sparks of data over memory crystals. Everything we do is like that. Meaning is not necessary. Appreciation is.”
“Are you sure you’re not broken?” the child said, tugging at his arm again.
“I am running down. I am dying. I am not certain the comparison applies.”
“What do you do?” the child finally said.
“I watch more sunsets,” the robot priest said. “I compare. I contrast. I am reminded that everything changes. And I am often afraid,” he added, mostly to himself. Death would end everything save memory, and only this child might recall him of all that now lived.
“I’m not,” the child said.
“Yes.” The priest stared down. A part of him wanted to ask if the child was certain to survive, if no distress call meant the child would not project awareness into a new body, but the priest knew them for its own pain, and said nothing. He reached down, with his good arm.
“In nomine,” he said. “Yours and mine.” And he pulled the child free of the arm. The child screamed in pain, for a moment, the blocked the pain and pushed the priest back.
“You - you hurt me?” the child said, a new arm growing.
“I gave what you needed,” the priest said. “I am sorry.” He turned away, uncertain if he was more sorry for the child or himself. He would never have done that, before. But everything was falling apart. Even primary programs. Even his own commands. Desires remained, even now, but the child’s pain remained as well.
The priest sat down, calmly, and stared up at the sky. The sun would rise, the sun would set. He waited to appreciate it.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
The Art of Interviewing
When the come to the Firm it is my job to talk to them; I like to consider myself a First Responder.
"Yes, we offer brand name recognition." "Yes, we can give you new powers." "Yes, we help design your costume for you." "Yes, we hook you up with the best PR firms."
But really, I just ask questions. I'm good with those, and silences others feel the need to fill. And most of them want to talk: hiding their truths from family, lovers, friends. I've never understood why they do that, or what it says about them and trust, but we make a lot by referring them to discreet psychiatrists. If you can't tell your S.O. you are a superhero and you go around fighting for justice and truth, it adds up to a lot of sessions.
They talk away, and I just listen. You have to be a good listener, in this job. You have to know what to say, what can't be said, what must be said even if the client could destroy the entire office building in under three seconds. It's like poking a lion in a cage, waiting for it to roar. I understand why supervillains do the things they do better, now. (I prefer the publicity end of The Firm to the financial, so I have few dealings with them.)
Most of the heroes are scared, when they talk to me. What if they lose control? What if they turn on 'beat up villain' and can't turn it off? Even with training and government funding, there is always that fear. But fear doesn't always limit potential. I pay attention to the ones with potential,. the promise for heroism, who need that small extra push to greatness.
Some of them do realize something is missing, some indefinable drive or need, but they skirt the issue, slip aside from it. And I listen, nod, make notes, and run scanners, learn identities, probe secrets. Many of them have horrible masks that any decent face-rendering system can bypass. For the others, there are simple 2-minute DNA tests, secret databanks, and government files. Can't represent a client you don't really know, after all.
We weed out the ones without families, focusing on the loved, the cherished, the kindly family people. And we send our agents out, some time after the hero has left for work, or on a patrol. Because the Firm gives the services the heroes need, not only those they want. Because only the tragic hero is real, because we are defined by our loss, the sum total of regrets. Because a pure hatred can make a hero that no idealism can truly foster.
Because they could be great, and if their families must die to save the world, this is the price paid. We include it in the miscellaneous fees, when we do not do it for free.
"Yes, we offer brand name recognition." "Yes, we can give you new powers." "Yes, we help design your costume for you." "Yes, we hook you up with the best PR firms."
But really, I just ask questions. I'm good with those, and silences others feel the need to fill. And most of them want to talk: hiding their truths from family, lovers, friends. I've never understood why they do that, or what it says about them and trust, but we make a lot by referring them to discreet psychiatrists. If you can't tell your S.O. you are a superhero and you go around fighting for justice and truth, it adds up to a lot of sessions.
They talk away, and I just listen. You have to be a good listener, in this job. You have to know what to say, what can't be said, what must be said even if the client could destroy the entire office building in under three seconds. It's like poking a lion in a cage, waiting for it to roar. I understand why supervillains do the things they do better, now. (I prefer the publicity end of The Firm to the financial, so I have few dealings with them.)
Most of the heroes are scared, when they talk to me. What if they lose control? What if they turn on 'beat up villain' and can't turn it off? Even with training and government funding, there is always that fear. But fear doesn't always limit potential. I pay attention to the ones with potential,. the promise for heroism, who need that small extra push to greatness.
Some of them do realize something is missing, some indefinable drive or need, but they skirt the issue, slip aside from it. And I listen, nod, make notes, and run scanners, learn identities, probe secrets. Many of them have horrible masks that any decent face-rendering system can bypass. For the others, there are simple 2-minute DNA tests, secret databanks, and government files. Can't represent a client you don't really know, after all.
We weed out the ones without families, focusing on the loved, the cherished, the kindly family people. And we send our agents out, some time after the hero has left for work, or on a patrol. Because the Firm gives the services the heroes need, not only those they want. Because only the tragic hero is real, because we are defined by our loss, the sum total of regrets. Because a pure hatred can make a hero that no idealism can truly foster.
Because they could be great, and if their families must die to save the world, this is the price paid. We include it in the miscellaneous fees, when we do not do it for free.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)