The Melting Queen

by Bruce Cinnamon

  The Spring Throne stands on top of a small hill at the east edge of the park. There are no signs warning off trespassers—Coronation Park belongs to everyone—but no one has ever sat on the throne except a Melting Queen. Like so little else in Edmonton, the Spring Throne is sacred. When May Winter first sat the throne, the sun roared over the horizon behind her and blinded her astonished, adoring Edmontonians. Just as it should in about fifteen minutes.

  I go up to the tent flaps and peek through a slim crack.

  The trees along the edges of the park are leafless, but they’ve been adorned with white fairy lights that shine down on the crowd. Paper lanterns are strung between them, green and pink, the royal colours of the Melting Queen.

  A hush falls over the crowd as the lightshow begins.

  “From the beginning,” a deep voice rumbles, “we have come again and again to this gathering place, this valley, this bend in the river.”

  I watch the silk screens which have been suspended behind the Spring Throne. Everything is backwards, but I can see what’s being projected on the other side: teepees popping up along the river bank, bison charging across the prairies, canoes being paddled upstream by sharp-nosed, stony-faced men with bare chests.

  “We grew in number, and gathered from all corners of the earth. We learned to live together, no matter our differences.”

  European settlers march westwards across the screen, leading oxen by the ear, towing everything they own in a wagon. The Indigenous people fade quietly and conveniently off the far side of the screen. The walls of the first Fort Edmonton spring up, and Mounties ride out from it, towards the audience.

  “We were always a transient city. A gateway. A boomtown. People came, and left again. Shallow roots were pulled up before they could grow and thrive.”

  People decked out in shabby Klondike prospector’s gear appear, along with oil sands workers, both eager to move north and make their fortunes before returning to the East.

  “Through time, the face of our valley changed. We built and rebuilt and made a home for ourselves.”

  The teepees reappear, then the fort, then Edwardian brick buildings, followed by brutalist concrete blocks and glittering glass spires. They mound up on top of each other and jumble together, along with some recognizable buildings like the Legislature and the Stalk.

  “And through it all, from the birth of the city to this day, through storms and crises, through sun and shine, one woman has watched over us. One woman has united us, has defended us from the dark and cold, has shown us to ourselves.”

  The faces of one hundred and thirteen women flicker by in rapid succession, giant faces which fill the screen. Each one has a number underneath, from 1 - May Winter, to 29 - Saoirse Beltane, to 58 - Vivian Tegler. Certain Melting Queens are greeted with applause and cheers, others met with silence. We run through all of them, all the way up to 113 - Louise Morrison, and then finally Alice Songhua, Melting Queen 114.

  She’s supposed to emerge beneath the screen. That’s how it always goes. But Alice Songhua still hasn’t been found, by Kaseema or anyone. So the list skips back, to the Melting Queen who was missing from the parade of faces, though nobody seemed to notice. Melting Queen 92 steps out from behind the Spring Throne.

  “Edmonton!” cries Victoria Goulburn. “Tonight we crown our Melting Queen!”

  The crowd roars with joy, but there’s definitely an undertone of confusion—a feeling of “Who is this woman and where is Alice Songhua?” I hope it goes well for Victoria. It took a lot of persuading to get her to do it, but in the end she agreed. And Sander said that there is a precedent. Shishira Sarasvati was not there to crown Victoria herself, so her predecessor Mia Paraná did it instead.

  I stand there quietly for a moment, listening to the distant echo of Victoria’s voice. I feel a wave of anxiety pass through me, a twist of familiar panic, like I’m running for my life.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” I say.

  Odessa is right there at my side.

  “Yes you can. Yes you can, River.”

  She takes my hand.

  “I know you have doubts, but everyone has doubts. You think I’m so decisive and certain about everything? I have doubts all the time.”

  “But you are decisive and certain about everything.”

  She puts my hand on her abdomen.

  “This was the last day I could get an abortion. This was the day I had to decide whether to actually go through with this crazy plan of mine. But I’m going to see it through. Once you start something you should finish it. You should trust that Past You was wise when they put you on this path, and trust that Future You will be resourceful and resilient enough to work it out, no matter what happens, no matter what name you take.”

  Her stomach is warm and I feel the small swell of her belly. For a moment I even think I might feel a kick, but that’s probably just my imagination.

  “You’re right,” I say. “I’ve been running and running all winter. Walking in circles and getting nowhere. It’s time for me to stop.”

  Sander pops his head through the tent flaps again.

  “It’s time.”

  My friends usher me to the ramp which leads up the back of the hill. I can hear the sound of a million strangers on the other side. I crush Odessa’s fingers but she doesn’t say anything. Each breath feels shallower than the last. My hands are numb and freezing. A gauze has descended over my ears. But I hear Victoria speak those four symmetrical syllables, and my feet carry me up and out into the lights.

  As I step into the glare, I feel a million sets of eyes feasting on my face—the whole city, come out to see the new Melting Queen. A sea of glittering eyes in the dark, reflecting the green and pink lanterns. My dazzling dress creaks as I make my way towards Victoria, who holds the emerald crown on a white cushion in her hands.

  Silence. No cheering. No jeering. Nothing.

  I walk past the Spring Throne, draw level with Victoria. We’ve run through the ritual over and over and I’m grateful for Kaseema’s insistence that we rehearse it to death now that I can walk through this on autopilot.

  Victoria invites me to be the new Melting Queen. I assent by bending down and allowing her to place the crown on my head. I straighten up and she approaches me for the crucial symbolic moment, the point of communication where one’s reign ends and another’s begins.

  As her face draws nearer, I notice that Victoria’s lips are dry and cracked. I wish I had some lip balm to offer her.

  She kisses me, the lightest of kisses. It feels like solid air pressing against my lips. She pulls her face away from mine, keeping her back to the crowd, giving us this silent private moment together in front of a million people. I can see concern hiding deep in the dark dry wells of her pupils, behind a veneer of reassurance and pride. She gives me the smallest of nods, then turns to face the crowd.

  “Edmonton!” she cries, taking my hand and lifting both our arms into the air in a victorious salute. “I give you your Melting Queen!”

  Silence. No applause. All I hear is my heart thundering in my chest. The crown is heavy, and my neck starts to ache from the weight of that huge emerald. My lips are still burning from Victoria’s kiss, but otherwise I feel no different.

  Say something. Anyone. Anything. Shout a slur. Start a cheer. Even a single hollow clap. But they just stare at me.

  A cold breeze tries to tear the northern lights from my shoulders. I have to pee.

  Victoria lets our arms drop and gives me hand a squeeze before she backs away from me, leaving me alone at centre stage. I look out at the crowd, singling out individual faces. A chubby man in an Oilers jersey. An old woman who rubs her dripping nose with a balled-up tissue from her cardigan pocket. A guy with comically raised eyebrows and wide eyes. A girl who’s blushing the blush that I can’t because all the blood has drained from my head. A child perched on its father’s shoulders, looking around at everyone else and then up at the sky, bored by the proceedings. I take a deep breath. />
  “Edmonton!” I proclaim. “Brothers and sisters! And others,” I add in a mumble. I imagine Sander biting his tongue at that. I’m not supposed to deviate from the sacred text, not even by a single word. “It is with great joy and humility that I accept this responsibility. I…”

  Their lips are pressed together anxiously. Their brows are knit. They all seem concerned and sad. They all just watch me. Tense. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Silent.

  “I come before you as a daughter and a sister and a friend.”

  I see several eyebrows go up at this statement.

  “Tonight, in the sight of you, my city, I am not just a woman—”

  A loud shout issues from somewhere in the crowd. No words, just a long angry boo which fills up Coronation Park and then dies out. People look around to see who shouted, but nobody can seem to locate him. They settle their eyes back on me, and I feel the increased skepticism and judgement in their gazes. I swallow against my dry throat, and continue.

  “I am not just a woman…”

  I hear the man’s shout still ringing in my ears. I feel the next line rising in my mind, and I know I’m supposed to tell them that I am not just a woman, I am the emblem of us all, I am the vessel of our renewal. I feel dizzy. I feel the saliva in my mouth turn sour like I’m going to vomit. I feel something rumble inside me, as if that one jeering cry has triggered an avalanche.

  “You know what?”

  The faces perk up. Everyone looks up from their smartphone screens, where they’ve all been recording this awkward travesty.

  “No. This isn’t right.”

  I see their eyes swell. This is not in the text.

  “Do you think I don’t know what you’re all thinking?”

  I step forward and the crowd shrinks away from me. I feel a swell of confidence, and a smile spreads across my face. Their fear makes me feel powerful.

  “I am not just a woman,” I say. “Obviously. I know that. I’m not pretending otherwise.”

  The crowd reels back a little further, stunned. I feel all the anxiety and shame and panic that have been lurking in me burn away, erupting in a bright flash of rebellious joy.

  “I’m not a woman at all. I’m not a daughter. Or a sister. Or a queen. I’m not a king either. Or a son. Or a man. I’m nothing. I’m no one.”

  I tear off the emerald crown and hold it in my shaking hands.

  “I won’t be May Winter. I won’t be Alice Songhua. I can’t be your picture-perfect queen. Your latest goddess. I can’t be a beauty pageant princess or a proud civic booster. But I can do something else. Something that nobody else has done before: I can tell you the truth.”

  The crowd begins to recover from its initial shock. People start yelling, booing, making rude and violent gestures at me. I don’t care. I can’t stop myself. It feels so good, like tearing off a scab, itching a scratch until it’s gloriously raw.

  “And do you know what the truth is, Edmonton? The truth is that you’re not that great. You think all these projects will make you better, but they won’t. You think all these women stroking your ego make you special, but they don’t. You think a single day of whimsy and freedom once a year makes you wacky and colourful and open-minded? You’re lying to yourself. You’re nothing special. You’re not important.

  You’re just a grey, bland, boring city full of tired, timid, small-minded people. And if you think that I’m going to keep playing along, to keep pretending that you’re the greatest city on earth, think again. I’m River Runson. I’m genderfluid. And I’m not going to let you get away with these lies anymore.”

  I drop the crown, turn my back on the wailing crowd, and march off the hill. I go past the withered throne, past the horrified Sander and the elated Odessa, past the tent, out of the park, down to edge of the swiftly flowing river. I look out on my namesake, running on fast and free. The roar of the crowd is deafening, buzzing, hysterical. Good. Let them howl.

  The queen is dead. Long live the queen.

  {10}

  A gathering of worthy petitioners

  “MELTING QUEEN MELTDOWN,” declares the Edmonton Bulletin. My face appears on every newspaper, every broadcast, every social media feed in the city. Battles rage on TV panels and Twitter threads, Edmontonians debating everything from my gender to my body to my perversion of tradition. I’m an abomination, come to destroy a sacred institution. I’m a misogynist, muscling my way in on women’s territory. I’m a breath of fresh air after a century of treacly garbage. I’m a monster. I’m a brat. I’m a rebel. I’m a hero. I’m a man. I’m a woman. I’m a threat.

  I try to go home, but from down the block I see a pack of reporters camped out in front of my door, circling like hungry coyotes. The city has been set on fire by my tirade, and I can’t hide away. Protesters and counter-protesters picket in front of the Stalk. Kastevoros Birch and ECHO officially denounce me, fire Kaseema, and kick her out of the Office of the Melting Queen. We relocate to Odessa’s house and make do with what we have.

  Odessa is thrilled by my performance and the ensuing scandal. Sander is sullen and moody with me for making a mockery of his great mythology. But Kaseema is a rock.

  “You’ve made things more difficult for yourself,” she says. “But if we abandoned every Melting Queen at the slightest impropriety we’d never make it through to spring.”

  She looks at Sander and he nods reluctantly.

  “There have been worse coronations,” he admits. “Fran Fletcher spat on her predecessor and punted the emerald crown into the crowd. It was missing for a month.”

  “Exactly,” says Kaseema. “So let’s get to work.” She starts performing some finger gymnastics on her tablet. “It’s time for the next step.”

  The beginning of every Melting Queen’s tenure, explains Kaseema Noor, is marked by a gathering of petitioners. They come to convince the new figurehead to be their champion for the following year. Every Melting Queen has a project. In 1908, Aurelia Green presided over the official opening of the University of Alberta. In 1960, Astrid Knudson got the Queen Elizabeth Planetarium built, sharing her love of the cosmos with Edmontonians of all ages. In 1999, Karen Mackenzie, a bartender at the popular Jasper Ave nightclub Phrique, celebrated the turn of the millennium by organizing the biggest fireworks display in Edmonton’s history.

  According to Sander Fray, nothing has ever come with the position of Melting Queen except a ceremonial crown and a small team of advisors. There’s no salary, no residence, no clearly defined agenda or set of duties. The Melting Queen is given nothing except a voice—a platform to advocate for whatever issues are important to her. And so, of course, she attracts hundreds of organizations and businesses, all desperate to bask in the warm glow of her limelight.

  The Melting Queen’s Picnic is their chance to persuade her to send a little love their way. I ask whether anyone will want the endorsement of a crazy, loose-cannon queen like me. Kaseema assures me that the petitioners will still come. Even if I’m damaged goods. Even if my reputation isn’t good-as-gold. I’m still a cash cow they’re all eager to milk. And a queen who can command headlines is the kind of queen they want, no matter how I get myself on the front page.

  So, two days after the coronation, I climb on board The Edmonton Queen with Sander, Kaseema, and a crowd of about a hundred people. They bought tickets for the boat ride down to the Melting Queen’s Picnic months ago, so it’s a real mixed bag. Some of them are moderates who are willing to overlook my incendiary coronation. Some of them are radicals like Odessa. Some of them are just curious to see me in person. But the riverboat isn’t full. Some of those who had tickets clearly stayed home in protest.

  We set off on a slow chug upriver. The Melting Queen’s Picnic, Sander tells me as we cruise, always takes place on Big Island—a land mass which sits an hour upstream by paddle steamer. Despite the name, it isn’t actually an island, having been reabsorbed into the riverbank several decades ago. The weather is nice and the ride is smooth and leisurely, with the riverboat’s pad
dlewheel chopping through the shallow, jasper-green water. All the ice is gone by now and the air is tolerably warm, but I still see no signs of greenery on the riverbank. My fault, the Cultists say. I never sat on the Spring Throne. I don’t have a uterus. I did everything wrong.

  I stand at the railing and watch the riverbank slide by, enjoying how the spring breeze plays with the evergreen trees. Suddenly, I feel a shiver of fear rip through me. I feel tree branches slapping against my face, and hear men’s voices howling over my shoulder. I clutch the rail, overcome by dizziness and nausea for a second before these foreign feelings all evaporate.

  Sander is by my side in an instant, wide eyes all over me.

  “Is it happening? Are you going to have an Intrusion?”

  “I don’t know, Sander. I really hope not.”

  He must hear the irritation in my voice, because he shrinks back, looks down at the river dejectedly. I feel guilty.

  “It’s not always a big, out-of-body thing,” I say. He perks back up, instantly back in research mode. “Sometimes I just have random sensory experiences, like smelling pine needles or hearing a song that nobody else can hear or tasting a really strong flavour of saskatoons in my mouth. Sometimes it’s more like ideas that randomly pop into my head, stuff I’ve never learned on my own, like the melting point of sulphur or the capitals of South America or the name Albert Herring.”

  “Who’s Albert Herring?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody. That’s what I’m saying. I just have random memories that aren’t my own, bubbling up to the surface of my mind.”

  “It sounds incredible,” says Sander, staring at me with awe.

  “If it never happens again it will be too soon,” I say. “How much longer till we get to Big Island?”