The Melting Queen

by Bruce Cinnamon

  I wonder if I’ll see Odessa and Sander at the ceremony. I feel somewhat guilty for the way I blew up at them, and I want to make things right before I go. I tried to find them, back at the Legislature, but I gave up after what felt like hours of searching. I’m unlikely to find them here either. Churchill Square is packed. Thousands of hungover revellers cling to each other, trying to hold themselves upright so they can see Melting Day through to the end. Even if Sander and Odessa are here, I’ll never be able to find them.

  I walk into the square just as Alice Songhua has finished giving her royal Pardon for all the night’s sins. Behind her stand the six big green marble pillars of City Hall. On the three to the left of the main doors, they’ve projected the number 114, and on the other side there’s a massive 115. This morning, Alice Songhua will name Edmonton’s 115th Melting Queen.

  But for now she steps aside. A grizzled old man in a three-piece suit steps forward, standing behind a lectern. His name is Kastevoros Birch, and he’s the head of the Edmonton Civic Heritage Organization, the group that organizes the Office of the Melting Queen. He stares out at the crowd until a hush has fallen over Churchill Square.

  “Life.”

  The word echoes out over ten thousand heads. Birch lets it hang in the air until the sound has faded from everyone’s ears.

  “The Melting Queen is nothing less than this. New life, sprung forth from sleeping earth. The spring wind, come to breathe away the winter. The spirit of Edmonton, embodied. Our eternal mother, inspiring fire, defending us against the cold.”

  I shuffle through the crowd, mumbling “excuse me” at sporadic intervals.

  “Today, we choose one woman to carry on our city’s noble tradition. One woman. To bless us with a long and fruitful summer. One woman. To keep our fires burning in the darkest depths of winter. One woman. To follow in the footsteps of this year’s spectacular Melting Queen, Alice Songhua!”

  Birch’s rasp is drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Alice Songhua walks to the lectern and leans down for a kiss on the cheek from Kastevoros Birch. The old man steps back as she takes the microphone. The applause continues for several minutes as the Melting Queen repeatedly thanks the audience.

  “Thank you, everyone. It’s been an honour to represent you all over the past year. I can’t believe it’s gone by so quickly.”

  She brushes her hair back from her face, reaches up and adjusts the crown on her head. Its magnificent emerald glitters.

  “Being the Melting Queen isn’t always easy. When my name was called fourteen months ago, I had no idea what was in store for me. But no matter what challenges we faced, the people of Edmonton never ceased to amaze me, inspire me, and make me laugh. I am humbled to have been your Melting Queen. I love you.”

  Her voice is full and rich and pure and I believe every word she says.

  “But my time is over now. A new Melting Queen is coming, and I can’t wait to Name her and to Crown her. May she be as strong, kind, and giving as May Winter. May she carry on our noble tradition with grace, grit, and goodness of heart. I wish her a warm spring and a mild winter.”

  Alice Songhua pauses. Everyone in the square holds their breath. I study the faces of the women close to me as I continue to push through to the other side of the square. Will it be the young mother next to me, toddler balanced on her hip? Or the muscular woman in the wheelchair next to them? Or the woman in the green gown next to her?

  In any case, I’m sure she’ll be a new, fresh, invigorating young queen. And once they pick her the spring will really start, and River Runson will bloom, just like the city.

  I have a wild and sudden fantasy that Odessa will be named as Melting Queen—the feminist performance artist who ditches Edmonton for months at a time, who impregnated herself on a whim. I’d love to see the bland people of this grey city react to that. A real shit disturber. A real Queen after so many pliable princesses.

  Alice Songhua looks up at the sky—I half expect the northern lights to be waving down from on high, but of course the mid-morning sky is pale white and barren—then back down at all of us. She touches the emerald in her crown, brings her fingers down to her lips and kisses them, and stretches her hand out towards the crowd.

  “This year’s Melting Queen is River Runson.”

  {6}

  Endowed with a marvellous vision

  It can’t be me.

  But she just said your name.

  There must be some other River Runson.

  But no one else is springing out of the crowd to take Alice Songhua’s hand.

  I didn’t put my name on the statue.

  But somehow they knew.

  Even if I had put up my name, they’d never pick me. They’d do a search for River Runson and find no one in the CIRCLE directory—unless another River Runson already exists. So it must be someone else.

  But you know that’s not true.

  As the disappointed mob disperses, I try not to look like a criminal fleeing the scene. I trust my feet to carry me home as my heart thunders, overhearing conversations that make me blush.

  “River Runson,” says one woman. “Are you serious? That’s the perfect name for a Melting Queen. It’s almost too good to be true.”

  “So was May Winter,” observes her partner.

  For the rest of the day, I hide inside my basement cave, peeking out through my small window every time I hear someone passing by. I wait for a team of police commandos to break down my door and drag me out in front of the city and interrogate me about how I tricked Alice Songhua into Naming me.

  The Office of the Melting Queen issues increasingly urgent requests for River Runson to present herself at their headquarters. But if they can’t find me, they can’t do anything about it. They’ll just have to find themselves another Melting Queen.

  In the middle of the night, I remember my scratched-out CIRCLE—an incriminating piece of evidence. I jolt out of bed and rip my room apart, determined to destroy it for good. But when I find it, and see my new name, I think of Odessa. The name you choose is a promise you make to yourself.

  Odessa has a car. Odessa has money. Odessa will help me escape.

  I draw curious glances as I walk down Jasper Avenue the next morning. I know I must look like a crazy old cat lady, with unbrushed hair and huge, sleep-deprived eyes. But people’s gazes linger longer than they would for a regular Jasper Ave eccentric. Almost as if… You’re just being paranoid. They don’t recognize you. How could they?

  But when I stop at a crosswalk to wait for a light, a woman with a screaming toddler stares straight at me and won’t look away. I glance at her a few times, and on my last peek I see her marching toward me, tugging her child along by the hand.

  “River?” she whispers. She falls forward into my arms and I give her an awkward, terrified hug.

  “I hate my daughter,” she whispers into my ear. “I know that makes me a bad person, but it’s true. She just never stops.”

  Her daughter yanks on her arm and screams and pulls the mother off me. I look down into the girl’s scrunched-up face. She looks so angry in a very grown-up way, enraged at being led around by the hand and then ignored. On impulse I lean down and look her in the eye. I reach out my hand and put it on her shoulder. She blinks in surprise, then smiles at me like she can barely comprehend her own changed mood.

  “Thank you,” says the mother, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry. But you’re… How is that possible?”

  I remember myself, feel a molten vat of fear pour over my head. I pull away from the child and her mother, push past them and into the crosswalk.

  “River!” the mother calls after me. I run.

  In quick succession, four more people recognize me, call me by my name. They stop me on the street and start telling me stories of misery and guilt—their dog ran away after they kicked him, they were passed up for a promotion at work, they cheated on their boyfriend, they found out their sister has brain cancer. All I can do is listen. I’m exhausted by having to
woodenly console them in exchange for the hope that they’ll keep my secret.

  I’m ducking away from another person who’s stomping toward me when I hear the name “River Runson” come out loud and clear behind me. I flinch, expecting yet another person who recognizes me. Instead, I see a TV screen in a nearby bus stop. It’s broadcasting a live episode of EdmonTonight, the city’s most popular local news show. Rosemary Silt, Edmonton’s public-access Oprah, is interviewing Kastevoros Birch.

  “I think the real question on everyone’s mind now is: who is River Runson?” says Rosemary, sipping tea from a fancy cup. She always eats extravagant meals on her show and shares them with her guests.

  “We understand that it can be quite a shock to the woman who suddenly finds herself Named,” says Birch. “But we want her to know that we’re here for her, and we’re excited to meet her, and that a highly trained team of people, who are soon to become her very good friends, is eager to help her.”

  “If you’re just joining us,” says Rosemary, “we’re continuing coverage on the new Melting Queen, River Runson. So far we’ve been unable to locate River, or learn anything about her from friends or family, so it’s quite a mysterious start to her reign!”

  A visibly irritated Birch looks straight into the camera.

  “If you’re hearing this, River, you are asked to present yourself at the Office of the Melting Queen as soon as possible.”

  I turn away from the TV and jump. René Royaume is standing right next to me.

  “I should turn you in,” he says. He’s wearing a green Tashtegos Coffee apron and holding a matching visor crumpled up in his hand. The other is in his pocket, no doubt fondling his stone. His long, black-blue-and-white streaked hair is tied up in a messy bun, but otherwise no trace of the drag queen Magpie remains on his epicene face.

  “Why would you do that?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  “Isn’t it my civic duty?” he asks mockingly. His lips are chapped. He has acetone breath. “Isn’t it your civic duty to be the new Alice Songhua?”

  “It isn’t me,” I say weakly. “There must be another River Runson.”

  “Oh yeah,” he says, “I’m sure it’s a super common name. Just like Tara Nullius and May Tea and Magpie.”

  “Whatever,” I say, in no mood to mince words after being waylaid so many times. “It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving.”

  “I thought you were leaving yesterday,” he says. “You said that Melting Day was your last day in Edmonton. And yet, here you are. It’s almost as if you’re not actually going anywhere.”

  He smirks at me. I glare at him.

  “Why are you being such a jerk? And why are you even here? Are you stalking me or something?”

  “I’m not stalking you, you egomaniac. I just happened upon you. I just got fired.”

  “I don’t care. The last thing I need right now is another tale of woe. And coming from you it’s probably not even true. And besides, it doesn’t matter what you tell them,” I say, turning to leave. “You don’t know anything about me other than my name. Goodbye.”

  “I wasn’t going to turn you in anyway,” he says, matching pace with me. “Can’t really be bothered. I’ve got things to do.”

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure you’re really busy.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am. I have a bunch of dresses to sew for our next show. And later tonight I have to go dramatically stop a wedding.”

  “You know, maybe you wouldn’t need a horrible stone of condensed darkness if you weren’t such an asshole to people.”

  “Or maybe I wouldn’t be such an asshole if I didn’t have this emotional cancer.”

  “Sure. Whatever. I don’t care to argue the point.”

  René shoots back some snarky statement, but I don’t hear it. In between two determined steps, I feel an atomic blast of panic explode through my body. My heartbeat spikes, my pupils swell, every hair on my skin stands on end. The world goes dark.

  I’m running, sprinting, desperate to get away. Tree branches smack me in the face, leaving deep scratches on my arms and chest. I trip and almost fall but I keep going, hurtling through the forest. The moon shines down from above. An overpowering smell of wet rot floods my nose, making me gag.

  “YOU CAN’T RUN FOREVER! WE’RE GOING TO CATCH YOU!”

  A voice booms in my ear, but it’s not René’s. It’s not any voice I recognize. I sob and gasp for air and try to run faster.

  And then, just as soon as they appeared, the voice and the forest and the fear are gone. I’m lying on the ground with René peering down at me, the hints of a curious crowd gathering behind him.

  “So that was really weird,” says René. He offers me a hand up and I ignore it. “You didn’t tell me that you had seizures. Shouldn’t you have a golden retriever or something?”

  My cheeks are on fire. I push past René and the few bystanders.

  “Hey!”

  He races after me.

  “What was that? Your eyes were all bulgy!”

  I don’t answer. I wouldn’t know what to say anyway. My skin is unmarked, but I feel lingering scratches along my arms and across my face. What the hell was that?

  “Please just go away!” I yell. “I’m leaving town. You’ll never see me again. Good luck to you and your stone and finding another job, preferably not in customer service.”

  “Seriously, you should probably go to the hospital, don’t you think? Or are you worried that they’ll know you’re the Melting Queen?”

  I stop and round on him.

  “What do I have to do to get rid of you? Seriously! Back off!”

  René smirks and throws his Tashtegos visor into the garbage can next to me. We’re under the marquee of the haunted house that used to be a church that used to be a movie theatre. Thankfully there are no more people trying to tell me their miseries. But as I’m about to turn and run away from René, I hear the violent burst of an infant’s cries tear through the air. I jerk my head around but I can’t see a baby anywhere. It stops as suddenly as it began.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “The baby crying.”

  “No,” René shakes his head. “I didn’t hear anything. Are you having a stroke? You look like—”

  His voice is drowned out by renewed shrieks.

  “There it is again! Where is it coming from?”

  “I can’t hear anything. You’re definitely dying.”

  I look around and frown. There’s something wrong with the sky. It’s behaving strangely, flickering through several different shades of blues and yellows and whites. I’m about to point this out to René when the world splits in half.

  Through my right eye I can see everything as it is, where I am now: the pale grey sky, office towers, the salt-stained sidewalk, René’s arched eyebrow. Through my left eye, the world has gone insane. Every second a new image takes hold. I see dozens of Jasper Avenues, flickering in and out of existence. Brick buildings become steel- and-glass storefronts, then are replaced in the blink of an eye by empty lots. People in fancy Sunday clothes become ravers dressed in neon tights. Parking meters turn into horse posts, then sprout up as tall trees with knitted cozies on their trunks. The marquee of the haunted house is bright with lights, announcing movie screenings for a dollar—Revenge of the Jedi at 11:30—then dark with peeling paint. The street is a muddy rutted track, then a cracked and patched boulevard, then a smooth concrete thoroughfare with a clanking trolley running along its tracks.

  Everything shudders between the world as it is and all the myriad others. They meld and blend—the solid, stable mid-afternoon and the dozens of encroaching images, racing by faster and faster. I feel an inescapable force grab me and start pulling me out into the street, where people are flickering in and out of existence. I hear their cheering cut in and out, a terrifying staccato. I hear cars honking and tires screeching.

  And then the world I know is gone, replaced entirely by another.

  I w
alk down the centre of the avenue, surrounded by cheering people in all sorts of costumes. I’m wearing a pink dress and holding the reins of a big blue horse. Confetti streams through the air. I look up at the movie theatre marquee:

  HAPPY 92nd MELTING DAY WE’LL MISS YOU VICTORIA GOULBURN!

  Victoria. Yes. That’s my name.

  I start to feel my body. It feels different. Foreign. Alien. Everything is of unfamiliar proportions. The way I move is strange. The colours I see are all a bit off. The odours in the air are things I’ve never smelled before. The dimensions of my body alarm me. I feel knobbly, bony, angular. My eyes are dry. My joints are loose.

  But this brief dysphoria is like a wave crashing to shore—it washes over me, drowns me, then retreats. I feel myself settling into this new body as though I was playing musical chairs. The music stopped and I sat upon a strange chair—a straight-backed, hard-seated, long-legged piece of furniture. At first it felt odd, but I got used to it. The shock dissipates, and I hear the noise that has drawn me here. A baby is crying, wailing.

  I spot the bundle in the crowd, in the arms of its mother. I pass the reins of the blue horse to someone nearby, cut a swath through the marchers. Approaching the baby, I recognize the two parents and their children, younger than I’ve ever seen them.

  “Is this a potential Melting Day Baby?”

  I feel my mouth forming the words, the bizarre coordination of tongue and teeth and lips and gums. I’m not sure if I’m choosing to speak, or just following some preordained script. I want to say these words, I feel them rising up to the surface of my mind, and then I hear myself speaking them.

  “I’m afraid not,” says the father. “He was born yesterday, in the morning. On the last day of winter.”