The Melting Queen

by Bruce Cinnamon

  “You didn’t see anything, Mr. Moon. You’re drunk. Let me go or I’ll scream.”

  His eyes bore into mine. Then a bright smile breaks open across his face and he squeezes my shoulder. His voice is cheerful, but I hear the threat in it.

  “I know what I saw, Miss Winter.”

  I relax my shoulder and twist out of his grasp. He stumbles forward and I duck past him. I walk quickly towards the bonfires, towards the massive crowd of people who’ve come out to celebrate the end of winter.

  “I’ll be seeing you, May Winter!” he calls after me. He says my name like it’s a joke.

  I find two eager recipients for the plates of pie, and then I try to enjoy the party. The festivities are taking place on a wide, slanted lawn on the side of a hill. Down below I can see the river, aflood with little icebergs. Up the hill the palisades of Fort Edmonton loom.

  I join one circle around a bonfire where someone is playing a fiddle and some people my age are dancing in time. I accept an offer from a boy and as we spin around I keep my hips held well back even though he’s trying to press up against me.

  But then I realize that everyone is too drunk to care, and mine is the least of the evening’s transgressions. I see a priest off his rocker, swigging from a bottle of communion wine, laughing bearishly and slurring in French with some burly men who are smacking wooden spoons against their naked thighs. Respectable ladies lift their skirts, pulling bottles of amber liqueur from their garters and pinching each other’s pale peach skin. A redcoat is telling a grisly murder story to a group of elderly women around a fire, gnashing his teeth and titillating them with the details. Two of the fine young men Mr. Moon mentioned make eyes at each other from across a bonfire, then sneak off down the hill into the moonlit forest by the river. I even see some of the Cree and the Blackfoot sitting together at their own fires nearby, telling stories and acting out myths.

  All throughout the night I keep feeling my neck tingle and turning around to see Mr. Moon watching me. He’s talking with a group of men who all look like him: the town fathers, the stout-hearted men. They puff away lustily at thick cigars and slap each other on the back. I try not to let our encounter earlier bother me. Whatever he saw in the Mill Creek ravine, there’s nothing I can do about it now. If they find out, I’ll just have to leave town again. Like in Regina. And Winnipeg. And Toronto.

  I can’t seem to shake the sour feeling from my stomach though. No matter where I wander through the mass of people, there isn’t a bonfire where I want to stay. I look down at the river valley, darker than I’ve ever seen it, and feel something pulling me there. Maybe that’s how I’ll celebrate the ice breaking: alone in the dark. Or maybe I’ll come across the two boys I saw earlier, and find some allies who know how to keep secrets like mine.

  I slip away from the revelries and pick my way down the slope, through the woods. The ground is a slippery brown mush—last autumn’s dead leaves dissolving in the spring meltwater. I breathe in the crisp air and tie my shawl tighter around myself. I feel myself smiling, my spirits lifting in spite of my knotted worries. It was a long winter. The longest I’ve ever lived through. But now it’s over. And everyone is so relieved, they’ve all gone a little wild.

  I make my way carefully through the trees, right down to the water’s edge. I crouch on the riverbank and look upstream, watch all the little pieces of ice flowing smoothly and silently towards me. I stick my hand into the water and the cold bites at my skin. Bringing a handful up to my mouth, I drink it in. Thin tendrils of cold spread through me like roots burrowing into the earth. I stand up straight and look down at my reflection in the river. If I didn’t know the truth, I would never guess that I’m anything other than what I say I am.

  I let out a long sigh. I feel my body releasing some of the tension that’s been built up for months and months. For years. A gnarled, twisted mass of anxiety, curled around a truth I can never share with anyone. Maybe I’m not one for big parties, but I’ve got to admit that everybody is onto something. It feels good to celebrate the spring like this. To curse the winter. To say goodbye to the past.

  I’m about to bend down and take another sip of water when two hands grab my shoulders, jerking me away from the river. I collapse backwards and find myself in the lap of Mr. Moon. I try to break free but his grip tightens.

  “Careful now!” he laughs. “You almost fell in! Good thing I was here to save you.”

  “I was fine! Let me go!”

  “It’s okay, I got you. I got you.”

  I squirm against his powerful grasp. I gag on the reek of whiskey which pours from his mouth. I let my body go limp, then thrust up against his arms with full force. But he’s wise to this trick.

  “Hoowee!” cries a voice behind us. “You sure were right Bill! That’s one crazy girl!”

  I hear a chorus of laughter and I realize to my horror that other men are standing on the bank behind us.

  “I saw what you were doing down near that creek,” Bill Moon slurs into my ear. His hot humid breath soaks the side of my face, reeking of rancid saskatoons. I try to turn away as far as I can.

  “You like coming down here near the rivers and creeks, don’t you? You like swimming late at night, when you think nobody will see. Somebody’s got a big secret that you don’t want anyone to know… well, it’s not that big of a secret.”

  The men behind us laugh. I feel my body grow cold, drain of all its heat, tense up. Bill Moon relaxes the tiniest bit. I explode forwards, sink my teeth into his hairy arm.

  Bill Moon howls and I snake out of his arms and I’m running, running away from the men, running through the forest. They’re howling, they’re following me, I pant and taste the blood and spit it out and it runs down my chin.

  “HELP ME! SOMEONE HELP!”

  I crash through the trees, hopefully towards the party. Hopefully someone will hear me: the boys in the woods, or someone relieving themselves, or someone, anyone, please.

  The branches keep hitting me in the face so I raise my arms in front of me. The dry wood and sharp thorns leave deep scratches on my arms, but I barely feel them.

  I turn around, see the trees rustling behind me as the men follow.

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

  I turn back just in time to see the branch under my foot, tripping me, sending me crashing to the ground.

  Their hands are on me instantly, tearing my shawl off my shoulders and throwing it into the trees.

  “Let’s see what you really got up under those skirts of yours,” a voice growls. It could be Bill Moon, it could be any of the others.

  Rough hands rip at my dress, pulling it up. I try to squirm free but they’re too strong. I feel my bare legs exposed to the air, my belly pressing down into the cold slimy mush, prickled by pine needles. I shut my eyes as tight as they’ll go. They rip my dress all the way off, until I’m naked as the day I was born. The huge rough hands turn me over so I’m facing the sky.

  I shut my eyes tight, twist my face away. I don’t want to see them, don’t want to see myself reflected in their vicious eyes.

  “No!” I cry. “Please stop! Please.”

  The men just stare at me for a few seconds. I cover myself with my hands but they have seen my secret, fully exposed. Bill Moon crouches down next to me.

  “We know who you are, Albert Herring. We’ve heard all about you, from folks back in Regina. This is what you get for coming to our town and trying to bring your filth here.”

  He slaps me across the face. I feel the sting, feel my skin sing. He hits me again—once, twice, over and over. Then the others fall on me, hitting me and kicking me and pushing me and shouting at me.

  Their feet smash against my side, into my ribs, knocking the wind out of me. I gasp for air and beg them to stop but they can’t hear me, no one can hear me. I struggle against them but they’re too strong, too determined to hurt me. Two of them hold my thrashing legs down and another draws his foot back.r />
  He kicks me between the legs, igniting pain like I’ve never known before. Pain that splits me in two.

  The men hit me. Across the face, across the chest. They kick me in the side. They kick me between my legs. They rip out part of my hair and howl to the moon. I scream and I scream but no one can hear. No one is coming to save me.

  And then it stops. I keep my eyes closed. I hear them talking nearby, but I don’t know what they’re saying. I open my eyes after what feels like hours and I see the stars swirling through the night sky. I can’t move. Every part of my broken body screams.

  The men stop talking and come back over to me. They pull me up by my hair and I’m too numb to even worry anymore. Just let it stop now. Let it be done, all of it.

  “We have a job for you, milady.”

  Some man’s voice. Bill Moon. I don’t know. They’re all just rough hands, beards, sneers.

  “We need a special lady. A woman to be our queen. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  They drag me up the hill to a tent. One of them scrubs roughly at my face, pulls my hair back and ties it. The remnants of my dress hang in tatters off my body, dead mushy brown leaves stuck all over me, barely covering me. I stand there mutely. I can’t move on my own.

  They bend my fingers around a little bouquet of broken branches. They lead me outside the tent and onto a small hill, in front of a huge crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” bellows Bill Moon. He waves his arms extravagantly and then he almost falls over. His arms pinwheel until his thick calloused hand grabs onto my bare arm and he steadies himself with a chuckle.

  “The good people of Edmonton have drafted a Proclamation! You have convened a council of Edmontonians and created a Proclamation! You have declared this day, when the ice breaks up on the river and we come together as a city to celebrate springtime shoulder to shoulder, a civic holiday forevermore! May Day! The Day of the Great Breakup! The Day the River Runs Free! Melting Day!”

  The crowd cheers at every word. Bill Moon smiles at me, basking in the joy of the city.

  “And, in thanks, we humble gentlemen have found you a Melting Queen!

  Bill Moon lifts up my hand and the crowd erupts into laughter. There’s a bright flash as someone takes our picture. Dozens of people raise their glasses and bottles in a mocking toast to my health.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she?” He laughs along with them. “A proper lady, a good daughter of Edmonton, rosy-cheeked and stout-hearted.”

  Mr. Moon leers at me, hiccups jovially.

  “Give a twirl for your adoring people, my queen!”

  The crowd roars with laughter as he spins me about, crushing my fingers in his.

  “This lovely lady has agreed to embody the spirit of the spring,” bellows Moon. “We need never fear winter again, for we are safe in her warm bosom.”

  The crowd weeps with laughter. I stand there in front of everyone I know, the whole city come out to celebrate. Do they recognize me? Do they understand that I was briefly one of them? Or do they just see a drunk fool, a man in a dress putting on a show for them?

  They cheer and laugh and hug each other. None of them seems to notice the way I’m bent over, covered in mud and dead leaves, tears streaming down my cheeks. None of them seems to notice the red marks on my skin, already blackening into bruises. Or maybe they do notice. Maybe they do know who I am. Maybe they understand exactly what they’re doing.

  “Our queen deserves a crown!” yells Moon.

  A pair of rough hands comes down on my shoulders and I smell whiskey breath once more. I’m frozen, I can’t run, I can’t cry out to the people that these men have hurt me. No one cares. They cheer them on as they lower a circle of muddy, strung-together leaves onto my head.

  “Our queen deserves a throne!”

  Moon shoves me down onto an old tree stump nearby and bows mockingly in front of me. He turns to the crowd.

  “Well? Bow to your queen, Edmonton!”

  The crowd howls with delight and bows, shouting out mocking congratulations.

  “To your majesty’s health!” screams one taunting voice.

  “Long live the queen!” jeers another.

  The men and women in the crowd try to outdo each other’s bows, bending lower and lower, cackling at each other’s false prostrations.

  “Give us a blessing, your majesty!” shouts one man.

  “Grant us gifts with your feminine charms!”

  “Give us a speech!”

  “Dance for us!”

  “Show us your womanly talents!”

  I sit there shivering in the dark, waiting for it to be over, wishing I was anyone but who I am. Bill Moon yanks me to my feet and leads me in a dance, pulling my ragdoll body across the lawn as a band strikes up a tune. Soon the whole crowd is dancing, laughing about the hysterical spectacle Bill Moon has conjured up for them.

  Moon sits me back down on the stump and I hold my rags around myself, trying to find the power to move, to leave this place. No one is looking at me—they’ve forgotten me here, they’re done with their toy. I could sneak away so easily, if only I could bring myself to stand up. But I feel such intense pain inside of me, as if every bit of me is broken and can never be made whole again. I can’t move. All I can do is sit and watch as they dance.

  The party goes on—I don’t know how long, it could be hours or minutes, it could be two songs or twenty—and they start coming up to me. One by one. Sheepishly. Guiltily. Glancing warily at the revellers around them, in case they should be seen talking to the freak. Someone drapes a blanket loosely around my shoulders. Someone wipes the mud off my face with their handkerchief. They all apologize for what they’ve done: We’re sorry, May. We’re sorry, Albert. We’re sorry, whoever you are. Whatever you are. We do not love you, but we are not cruel.

  But you were cruel, I think. You are cruel. You are a cruel city.

  Each of them melts away into the night, unburdened by their confessions, absolved of their responsibility. The aching pain inside me starts to disappear. It doesn’t hurt anymore. I feel numb, hollow, lighter than air.

  The world spins before me and I feel my balance give way. I collapse onto the cold dead grass, but nobody notices. I lie in a pile of dead leaves, beside the dead stump, listening to the hum of the party, looking up at the sky. I see the aurora dancing, peaceful and sad above us all.

  The aurora fades as my eyes flicker closed, and then the world is dark.

  {18}

  Let history forget her name

  They arrive one by one, ringing Clodagh’s doorbell and stepping warily into her house. They file into her back garden, sitting on a multitude of folding chairs that Kaseema scrounged from somewhere and arranged in the closest approximation to a circle that she could manage.

  I look around the circle and I see so many familiar faces. The Melting Queens, united for the first time. Only sixty or so are still alive, and Sander has interviewed them all. While I’ve been fighting Odessa, and then fighting my own memories, he’s been quietly building up friendships, recording their versions of events for his book. Some of them had vowed to never attend any kind of reunion. Some of them have publicly endorsed Odessa. But they all came when Sander asked them to.

  They’re all different than they were in my memories. Most of them are visibly older. Greyer. Thinner and less substantial. Even the young ones have Shishira’s old eyes, eyes that have seen too much. They’re uncomfortable with this meeting and they’re uncertain about me and they’re unconvinced that they should stay. But they’re here. And that’s what counts.

  “You’ve all come here because of Sander Fray,” I say, standing before them. I nod to Sander, who watches from Clodagh’s back doorstep, standing beyond the circle with Kaseema and René.

  “He’s writing a true history of the Melting Queens, and all of you have told him your truths, so he can share them with everyone. I hope you’ll help me do the same.”

  “I heard you had a nervous breakdown,” says Ananke
Cosmopoulos, the architect of Sundial Park.

  “I think you all know better than to believe that,” I say. “After I was attacked, I was overwhelmed by Intrusions. I was torn apart. I didn’t even remember who I was most of the time. And when I did, I could feel memories raging at the edge of my mind—your memories.”

  I lock eyes with Doreen Spurlong, who founded the Edmonton International Cat Festival, and remember coming home to find Catsy Cline dead on the bathroom floor.

  I look at Eliza Lake, the deafblind Melting Queen who helped establish 911 emergency services in Edmonton, and remember the indescribable panic I felt when I was dropped into her life and lost my sight and hearing.

  “I remember being all of you,” I say, “and all the others too. How many lifetimes did I live, lost in those memories? One minute I was Oriana Kuruliak in 1959, inventing a new Ukrainian dance named after a whirlwind. The next I was Katherine Held mourning my father and Karen Mackenzie watching the Millennium fireworks and Giselle Schaft looking on with satisfaction as old buildings were torn down to make way for something new.”

  I meet the eye of the queens I mention, and I know they feel the connection we share. Out the corner of my eye, I can see the others too, the ones who’ve passed away, standing silently behind us, around the outside of circle. They will always be a part of me now.

  “I lived it all,” I say. “I saw it all. I flickered through a hundred and fourteen years of our history, out of order. I jumped across years and decades. But I worked my way steadily back, to the beginning, to the night when this all started.”

  A gentle breeze plays with Clodagh’s windchime. A cloud moves in front of the sun. The Melting Queens listen to me, feeling our connection growing stronger by the second.

  “All my life I heard that the Melting Queen was magic. But I never saw any magic. I heard that the Melting Queen could perform miracles. But I never saw any miracles. All I saw was a bunch of women cutting ribbons and kissing babies, with a bunch of goddess mythology glazed overtop to make things seem more mystical.”