When he crossed the threshold, Anna greeted him with her usual embrace. She directed him to his usual chair and presented him with a hot cup of tea, but he waved it away, leaving it to cool on the table. Instead of wood crackling in the fireplace there was a monotonous hum throughout the cottage.
“I have made a decision,” she said. She picked up his cup of tea and walked toward a low cupboard. On the cupboard sat a shiny, metal-framed box. She opened the box and set his teacup inside. There was an insistent staccato ring. Anna opened the door of the box and again presented him with hot tea, steam rising to meet cool air.
“I hope you will understand,” she said, studying his eyes for a response.
They had much to talk about that evening. Anna took Zhivago to the little shed and showed him the generator, which had been silent under lock and key and was now rumbling like the aftershock of a distant earth quake. They surveyed the wooden shelves that held other shiny boxes of various sizes, and then returned to the cottage where she tried to explain all that she had been hiding from him. She lit twigs in the fireplace and threw on some logs. She tried to put her arms around him, but he stiffened and resisted her embrace.
“You have too many secrets,” he said and lurched out into the darkness.
Anna slept fitfully through the night and arose before dawn. She called her sorrel mare, hitched her to the carriage, which had been sitting unused for several months, and rode away, knowing that Zhivago had retreated into the forest.
She drove eastward across the plains. Long golden grasses undulated with the wind, the carriage wheels joggled round and round, and the sorrel’s hooves clacked along the roadway, and yet a profound silence enveloped her. She travelled for most of the day, way beyond the forest, and the cottage and her garden.
He was watching from the window when she reappeared. She knew he would be. She could see his shadowy profile as she took her bundle of supplies directly to the shed. Then, still holding one parcel, she walked toward the cottage, entered, looked right into his eyes, smiled a crooked smile, and then took her parcel over to the chrome box.
“Please sit at the table,” she said and clasped his shoulder. “I will prepare your meal.”
The chrome box began to hum and beep, and in no time she removed a plate of steaming food and set it in front of him.
“Linguini and clam sauce. Please give it a try.” She stroked his hand as if to brush away his reticence.
In the days that followed, Anna watched Zhivago progress from microwave cooking to internet browsing. He watched television game shows and Masterpiece Theatre and modern warfare on the news. He appeared baffled and incredulous, then suddenly ravenous for new experiences. Anna fed them to him at his will and watched him turn from introspective musings to computer jargon and talk show sentimentality.
“To think,” he said, “that we can share our minds and souls with so many.”
“Windows in and windows out and windows on the world,” he wrote.
“Hockey is contained and orderly, limited in time and space, unlike the chaos of revolution,” he observed.
Anna began to linger at her window again, but the winter hoarfrost brought nothing but a chill to her bones. This time she could not conjure up a fever and slip through the glass as she had done before.
As for Zhivago, he could no longer write poetry.
Then, one April morning, a warm breeze blew through the window and rustled the flimsy bedside curtains while a chorus of nightingales called from the willow tree. Anna looked out to see her mare frisking in the pasture while Zhivago’s dappled grey stallion followed closely behind. Her fever erupted as it had done over a year before, at first without her awareness, then with great urgency. She knew what she must do.
She slipped through the windowpane, head and hands first, and raced toward the pasture. She called and her mare came, unbridled and whinnying. She pulled herself onto the mare’s back and gripped the tawny mane. Together they leapt over the weathered log fence and travelled south for most of the day. Then they headed toward a rise of black hills that were crowned with the crimson shards of the retiring sun. Anna urged the horse into a full gallop.
Even as the sun disappeared altogether, as the hills blended with a darkened sky and teased of their nonexistence, she knew she would never return. She’d see what was up ahead.
Shifting
“YOU HAVE TO DO SOMETHING with your life,” says Kristine’s mother, perturbed that she has agreed to leave her daughter behind. “You can’t drop out over every little thing. And for heaven’s sake cut your hair.”
With that Kristine’s parents drive away, joining the exodus of cottagers heading back to school or work in nearby towns or further on in Edmonton or Calgary.
The beach is now smooth and naked. No gulls. No people. Kristine steps out of her shoes and walks across the dry sand and into the chilly water. The waves flap around the bottom of her pants and, as she moves in deeper, slap her thighs in rhythm. She turns once to see that a magpie has arrived and is watching from the shore, then she leans back in mock slumber, impervious to the cold and mesmerized by the waves, lost in thought.
You can’t float forever. You must either sink or swim. Sink or swim. Sink or swim.
She hears the muffled honking of a lone goose somewhere overhead. Then a voice.
“Hello. Hello there. Are you all right?”
She lifts her head, then splashes and scrambles to stand up. “Oh yes. I’m … I’m fine.” She is shivering beyond control.
A woman stands at the edge of the water. She is wearing a long white sweater over a black flowing skirt. In her arms she cradles a blue bundle. Her face pales against the sand and her teased blonde hair catches fragments of sunlight; something seems to sparkle there.
“Guess you think I’m kind of crazy,” says Kristine; her clothes are dripping and heavy as she walks out of the water.
There is movement and a gurgling sound coming from within the woman’s bundle. “It’s Andy,” she explains. “Just three months old but he’s very attuned—my nature boy already. I bring him down here most every morning to listen to the water. Sometimes we even hear the pike surfacing, though you have to listen very hard.”
Kristine nods as she tries to wrap her arms around herself.
“Come on up to my cottage. I have a nice fire going. You need to get warm. By the way, my name is Nora.”
Kristine follows Nora and Andy down a narrow pathway through the poplars. There is a tinkling sound, wind chimes in the breeze, then a raucous bird calling through the tree tops.
Old trees form a screen across the front of the cottage, but young saplings crop up at the back. Dead leaves rattle around the base of the trunks. A magpie, dressed smartly in a black-and-white western fringe, flies overhead calling Watch watch watch before perching on the red brick chimney.
Nora opens the screen door, but Kristine stands outside, afraid to go in and muddy up the kitchen.
“Oh, come on in. I’ll get you some towels and something to change into.”
Kristine drips water across the linoleum and then moves onto the braided rug in front of the coal and wood stove. She tries her best to dry herself, clothes and all.
“Here, put this on.” Nora hands her a terry gown.
“Thank you, Nora.” She shivers, in spite of the wafts of heat, removes her wet clothes from under the gown, and then introduces herself. “I’m Kristine. Kristine Welkes. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
For the first time she notices the long, dangling earrings and various chains around Nora’s neck and the two rings in the side of one nostril. She does not want to be caught studying the nose rings so her eyes settle on the silver chains.
Nora’s pale, skinny arms and long delicate fingers begin to flutter over the stove as she stirs a huge black pot of soup with a long wooden spoon. Nearby, on a wooden shelf, a
re jars of spices. The jars at one end contain some very unusual looking ingredients: dark, dried up, indecipherable globs of matter.
Outside the window a pair of magpies banter and jockey across the woodpile. Witch witch witch, witch witch, they say.
“Here, have some soup. It’s my very own recipe. It’ll warm you up and calm you down. It even keeps Andy peaceful when I eat it; my milk is so good for him.”
Kristine sits at the table and inhales the spicy aroma. Andy is indeed a child of mellow disposition; she has yet to hear him cry. She takes a sip. It’s an unusual taste, pleasant enough, but obviously laced with a unique combination of herbs and spices. The flavour, though intense at first, quickly dissipates, inducing her to take another spoonful and another and another.
“Well, now that you have colour in your face, I can give you a little advice. You really need to be looking to the sky, not the water for your animal. I see you following the air currents. Just watch for tornadoes, that’s all.”
“Pardon me?”
“Now Andy has a real affinity for the water. His animal will be from the water. But you, you need to look up.”
“Uh, I like the water, and I hate heights.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And what do you mean look for my animal?”
“It’s your link.”
“Link to what?”
Nora gazes at her with no apparent intent to reply.
Without warning Kristine begins to laugh. “I’m feeling soporific. Know what I mean? Ha ha. Soporific.”
“Lie down on the couch. There’s an afghan for a cover.”
“Yes, I think I will if you don’t mind. You’ve been really kind.” She pulls a blue afghan over herself.
Her change in form is unaccountable. She begins to soften and dilute and flow in rivulets, yet her thoughts remain intact. She rolls and glides and drifts and wanders in oceanic splendour. She joins the stratosphere. She is the stratosphere!
Then she develops rigid edges that stream out horizontally to form a plane, and she understands the terrible burden of holding the earth in place.
Magpie sails upon her surface. He is light and aerobatic, like a kite in the breeze, and while she holds him afloat, he begins to dart up and down through various stratums. Suddenly she’s like the tail of a kite, following him through his comedic escapades.
She shrieks then gasps as they light upon a fir tree.
“How’s that for a ride?” he says, and calls out Rich rich rich, rich rich.
They glide over to the red brick chimney and teeter on its edge. He flashes his iridescent blue tail. Until now she thought magpies were strictly black and white.
She looks down to see a girl, about four years old, sitting in a pile of sand. The child’s blonde curls reflect streaks of sunlight while she digs in the sand with a worn metal shovel. She sprinkles the white crystals along her legs, her thighs, and onto her dimpled knees. She rakes her fingers through the sand and lifts out old root fibres and cigarette butts, discarding them helter skelter. She seems mesmerized by the piling on of sand, and soon she is blanketed from waist to toes, leaving the tender skin of her upper body open to the breeze, the mosquitoes, and the soft slanting sunlight.
The little girl leans back, forcing her toes to thrust out, and reveals painted crimson nails that wriggle and flash in the sunlight. In the instant that Kristine spots these nails, Magpie takes her on a fast glide down and waddles toward the girl in a cocky, self-assured manner. With his fine pincher beak, he attempts to extract a crimson wriggler for himself.
“No, don’t!” the little girl cries, flinging sand in their direction.
Magpie backtracks and squeals while he raises his wings and jerks his neck forward for one last try, but the girl begins kicking her feet and more handfuls of sand explode and spray across his wings and along his illustrious tail.
Magpie screeches and scolds. Wretch wretch wretch wretch wretch. He moves to the grassy edges of the sand pile.
“What is going on?” cries the mother to the little girl as she bursts through the screen door of the cottage.
“He’s after my toes. He’s trying to bite my toes.” Tears stream down the girl’s face.
Magpie pulls Kristine into the shadowy south side of the cottage, and then they dart up toward the rippling warmth of the tree tops.
The mother heaves a rock, which ricochets amongst gnarled old poplars and green saplings, creating a tune of pops and riffles.
As they settle on a top branch, Kristine asks between breaths, “Why did you do that?”
“Because I saw the wrigglers there. I wanted them.”
“But you actually bit her toe. You hurt her, frightened her. It’s only nail polish, you know. Not wrigglers.”
“She flashed those wrigglers right at me so I went for them. What can I say?”
Below them the mother cries in a fury. “I’ll get you, you pesky magpie. Just try that again and I’ll give you something to remember me by. I’ll fix you.” She takes the girl back into the cottage.
Roach roach roach, cries Magpie, getting the final say.
“Bitch bitch bitch,” Kristine hollers along with Magpie and begins to laugh out across the tree tops while rolling with the breeze.
She settles on the branch of a tall poplar and looks down toward the cottage, again aware of her fear of heights. “Oh my God, this is high!” Then she spots Magpie. He has gone back down without her. He surveys the ground again, walking across the sand and the grass and then up along the railing of the cottage verandah. There is a sandwich on the table.
Catch catch catch, catch catch, he calls.
Another magpie replies, Watch watch watch, watch watch.
Kristine spots Magpie’s mate in her black-and-white finery, calling from across the road, right next to a ball-shaped cluster of twigs. A young magpie, with a soft puffy breast and a short black tail, is clinging to a branch below.
Magpie ignores the warning and struts across the table toward the sandwich. Catch catch catch, he calls.
Suddenly the cottage door is flung open and the mother yells, “I told you, get the hell out of here!” She has a newspaper in her hand, rolled up like a baton, and she screams with a rage that reverberates through the trees and over the water. She flails at Magpie and sends him careening across the table and fluttering at the edge.
“Fly out!” Kristine screams just as Magpie attempts to fly. But the woman manages to thwart his balance and knocks him to the floor. She crouches over him. Her dark hair flies across her face, across the ugly contortions of her mouth and eyes. She slams the baton down, over and over and over again.
Magpie squeals, then wails, then moans and sputters.
His mate cries frantically from across the road, then lands next to Kristine, sending an outpouring of desperate pleas. She rants and dives through the air. Kristine can only cling to the branches as she trembles with fright and anger.
The woman grabs Magpie’s tail and flings him into the bushes. “I warned you,” she hollers as she slams the cottage door.
In an instant of resolve, Kristine sails down into the bushes, crashing through rose hips and saskatoon saplings. Magpie is on his back, on a bed of dainty white clover. She reaches out to him, with her now clearly defined hands, and lifts him gently up on her knees and strokes his fine white breast, feeling the warmth within. His heart beats, though very faintly.
“Oh please…. So sorry, so sorry, so sorry.”
She awakens to hear Andy wailing and sobbing while tears stream down her own face.
“Are you okay?” asks Nora.
“No, I’m not. I’m not okay. What have you done here?”
“Here, take Andy for me.” Nora speaks quietly and offers Andy.
Kristine scowls but sits upright on the couch. She takes Andy in her arms and holds him close. She car
esses his head against her shoulder and rocks him back and forth. His crying gradually stops, then he shudders, his energy all spent. The two are melded in a peaceful aftermath.
“I’ll take him now,” says Nora.
But Kristine continues to cling.
Nora pulls him gently away and holds him to her breast.
The wind chimes call and Kristine looks for glimpses of the lake. “I’ll be going now,” she says.
“I know,” says Nora. “There’s a beaver down there. He’s Andy’s, so you’ll watch for him, won’t you? They don’t often come to big lakes, you know.”
Gentle waves move toward the inlet. The reflected sunlight shimmers across the water, occasionally stopping at small islands of weeds. Near the beach are poplars with barren tops that exude a golden glow. Across the lake, along the horizon, are gentle hills with patches of black and ochre.
Kristine moves to the waters edge, aware of another’s presence. She sees him slink through the water, his slicked-down brown back surfacing in unpredictable locations.
“Hey, I’m Andy’s friend,” she calls, then throws off the gown, Nora’s gown, and runs and skips through the water. She dives in, gliding and surfacing and gliding again as though Magpie is pulling her along. The beaver seems unafraid as he pops up here and there with a quizzical look in his eyes.
Over on the shore she spots a fluffy young short-tailed magpie, looking forlorn, attempting to fly on his own at the grassy edge. “Hey, there is something that you should know,” she yells. “You can either fly or swim!” She maintains, of course, one eye on the water, the other on infinite sky. “Hey, wait for me. I have something to tell you.”
Flight 2100
ALICE HAMILTON CHECKS THE DOORS and the windows. She checks them again and then sits in her rocker and looks out across the temperate South Saskatchewan River and up to the crystalline sky. A jet stream is shooting up higher and higher. She contemplates the solid white ribbon that suddenly breaks and disappears somewhere over the prairies. She imagines a heavenly ballet of hadada ibis wings fluttering over the river, then closes her eyes and begins to dream of giraffes aspiring to the tops of acacia, or loping across the savannah, their heads held high with royal grace. An eerie taunt from a spotted hyena interjects and causes her to jump in her chair. Gradually she realizes it is her doorbell. “Just when I was on my way,” she cries. Her bones creak as she lifts herself out of her chair and heads to the door, convinced that she should be dead by now.
Dear Hearts Page 11
