Tesseracts Twelve: New Novellas of Canadian Fantastic Fiction

by Claude Lalumiere

  Carter shrugged. “It’s the biggest tree in town.”

  “The point being?” asked Abigail.

  When Carter just looked at her, Eleanor said: “I think that is the point. George invited all of us here just to show us that his tree is bigger than our tree.”

  “Where is George?” asked Abigail. “I haven’t seen him since I arrived.”

  Terry coughed. “He’s tending bar with his wife. Problem is, Peasgoody’s there, and they’re having an argument.”

  Newman, who had been hiding behind the Christmas tree since sneaking in the door behind Terry and Eleanor, poked his head out. “What are they arguing about? Not my goat, I hope.”

  Terry dropped his voice even further. “They’re arguing about babies.”

  Eleanor, who ran a small daycare and headed up the Okotoks chapter of Child Awareness, nearly dropped her eggnog. “Babies? George hates children. What could they possibly be arguing about?”

  “You’ve hit it exactly,” said Terry. “Peasgoody is insisting that George father a child.”

  “What business is it of hers?” snapped Abigail. The mayor’s fingers tightened into a fist, and her face grew pale. Terry could almost see the images forming in her mind: George slapping around a smaller version of himself whenever the boy got out of line.

  “She’s a witch,” said Newman. “Witches make babies their business. Sometimes they eat them.”

  “Newman!” said Eleanor. “That’s sick. Nobody eats children.”

  Newman folded his arms against his chest. “Tell that to Hansel and Gretel.”

  “Madam Peasgoody is not a witch,” said Mayor Abigail. “She’s a herbalist. She probably just thinks it’s unnatural for a married couple not to have children.”

  “Unnatural?” echoed Newman. “I think Madam Peasgoody is as unnatural as they come.”

  Terry thrust forward his glass of eggnog to get the others’ attention, then leaned in to whisper. “She, uh, wasn’t exactly insisting that Mrs. Stromley be the child’s mother. She said that, if Mrs. Stromley wasn’t willing, any healthy woman would do.”

  “Is it my imagination?” suggested Abigail, sniffing the eggnog, “or is there more nog than egg in that glass?”

  Just then Peasgoody marched past them. In her arms she carried one of those slow-burning Yule logs from Wal-Mart. She stopped in front of the fireplace, an enormous affair with dark slate tiles, a raised hearth, and broad oak mantle. After opening the fire screen she set the log on the cold iron grating. From her pocket she removed five bayberry candles and set them on the mantle. Then she stood back, whispered something, and the Yule log and candles ignited.

  “George was,” Terry admitted, “a little heavy-handed with the rum. A herbalist, you say?”

  “Looks like a witch from where I’m standing,” observed Newman, though his posture was closer to squatting as he huddled behind the Christmas tree, his head poking out from a cluster of mandarin oranges. “What bothers me is that she’s using one of those two-hour logs. A traditional Yule log has to burn for twelve hours, or it’s bad luck.” He strained his head further out from behind the oranges and looked around. “It should be about time for the Yule Goat to appear.”

  “Yule Goat?” Carter stared at him. “There’s no such thing.”

  “Oh, yes,” Newman nodded. “The Yule Elf comes riding in on a goat and delivers presents. It’s an ancient Norse tradition.”

  “Sounds more like something out of Charlie Brown,” said Carter. “If George had half a mind to hand out presents, I’d be the first to know about it.”

  “I brought a present,” said Eleanor. She pulled a small, fist-sized box out of her purse. It was wrapped in bright candy-cane paper and had a small pink bow on one corner. “No-one said anything about exchanging gifts, but just in case…”

  “There has to be a Yule Goat,” continued Newman. “Why else would George tell me to expect my goat?”

  Madam Peasgoody finished her prayers or invocations or whatever in front of the fireplace and returned to the bar, where George was still arguing with his wife. Bing Crosby was just finishing “White Christmas,” and Terry could hear George in the ensuing quiet: “I’m not going to have a child by another woman! I’m not going to have a child period!” Bing Crosby responded by singing “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.”

  The dining-room table was decked out in typical holiday fashion: Santa Claus tablecloth, matching poinsettias, bone china, silver silverware. No-one asked Peasgoody how the bayberry candles had been lit, or about the log crackling in the fireplace. Actually, no-one dared say anything. At the head of the table George fumed, his face dark, his eyes pointedly avoiding both his wife and Madam Peasgoody, who sat to either side.

  When, Terry wondered, had George and Peasgoody become such good friends? More important, why? Right now they were getting along like two roosters in the same hen house.

  “Could you pass the yams?” asked Mayor Abigail from behind a flowering poinsettia further down the table.

  Terry obliged and followed up with the Brussels sprouts. He had already filled most of his plate with similar holiday accessories and had yet to see any sign of the turkey. It dawned on him that there possibly were no turkeys in Wales. Newman, who claimed to know everything, could probably tell him, but he was busy cringing in his seat down at the foot of the table.

  “Are you comfortable, Newman?” boomed George, whose avoidance of his wife and his spiritual advisor virtually forced him to spend his time glaring across the table at Newman.

  “Fine, fine,” stammered Newman. “You don’t happen to have a Yule Elf, do you?”

  George blinked at him.

  “These carrots and parsnips are delicious,” said Eleanor to Mrs. Stromley. “You simply must give me the recipe.”

  Mrs. Stromley scowled at her. “You cut up carrots and parsnips. Then cook ‘em.”

  “Oh,” said Eleanor. “I see.”

  “I believe Newman should carve,” growled George.

  Newman about fell out of his chair.

  “But…” said Mayor Abigail. “You’re the host, George. Tradition—”

  “Who gives a pig’s fart about tradition?” snapped George.

  Madam Peasgoody dropped her fork onto her plate, with more force than was really necessary. The china cracked, allowing gravy to escape and run across the tablecloth.

  “George,” said Mrs. Stromley. “This is a bad idea.”

  George rose from his seat, went into the kitchen, and returned with one of those big silver trays with the dome cover that you only ever see in posh French restaurants. He marched the length of the dining room and plunked the tray on top of Newman’s plate, remashing his mashed potatoes and squirting cranberry sauce across the table. From his back pocket George produced a thick carving knife and dropped it onto the table beside the tray.

  He folded his arms across his chest and glared at Newman. “I insist,” he said.

  “Er,” said Newman, caught between fight and flight.

  “If you’ve done what I think you’ve done,” said Madam Peasgoody, “then you’ve crossed the line and there is no going back.”

  “As I’ve told you before,” roared George, “your bloody lines mean nothing to me. Since simply telling you to bugger off accomplished nothing, I’ve had to take more desperate measures.”

  “Oh, George. You didn’t!” said Mayor Abigail.

  Eleanor slammed her hand on the table. “You’re a monster!”

  Terry stared hard at the silver tray, at last clueing in to what was going on. This was low, even for George.

  “We’re waiting,” said George, nudging the knife toward Newman’s hand.

  Newman remained frozen. His lips trembled until at last he muttered: “Goose or pheasant?”

  “Neither,”
said George, and he pulled the silver cover off of the tray.

  There, sitting on the tray like a roast pig, sat Newman’s goat, butter basted and golden brown.

  Newman stared, unable to speak.

  “What’s the matter, Newman?” said George. “Goats are eaten all over the world. Europe, Asia, South America. I sneaked a taste in the kitchen. Yum. Yum.”

  “This is too much,” said Mayor Abigail. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, George.” She rose from her chair to leave.

  Peasgoody was already moving. She had her coat and scarves and paused only long enough to glare at the fireplace, where the candles and the Yule log suddenly extinguished themselves.

  “A plague on your house, George Stromley!” said Madam Peasgoody. “A plague of justice on your character.” Then she stormed out the door.

  “Humph!” said George. “If Newman isn’t man enough to carve, I suppose I’ll have to do it.” He picked up the knife and began cutting.

  Eleanor rose from her chair, and Terry quickly joined her. Newman began laughing, pointing his finger at George and giggling uncontrollably.

  “Don’t go hysterical on me, Newman,” said George. “It’s only a goat.”

  Newman laughed even harder. “Only a goat,” he croaked.

  “We’ll get you another one,” said the mayor.

  Newman staggered out of his chair, and Eleanor handed him his coat. “Only a goat,” he said, and slapped his thigh. “Just a goat.”

  The mayor opened the door. Outside, the snow had stopped, but clouds hid the moon and stars. There was not a breath of wind. Newman’s laughter echoed into the night. In the doorway he stopped and pointed at George, who was still at the table carving the goat.

  “You’ve been cursed by a witch,” he told him. “An honest-to-God witch. A plague of justice on your character! Who could ask for anything more?”

  Terry and Eleanor walked hand in hand down the lane away from George Stromley’s country house. Behind them, Mrs. Stromley’s angry voice rained incriminations on George’s head, while down a side street Newman’s laughter gave no sign of abating.

  “Well, that was a complete fiasco,” said Terry. “George has had lousy parties in the past, but this one should win an award.”

  “It’s not a total loss,” said Eleanor. “I still have that present.” She pulled the candy-cane box with the pink bow from her purse. “Let’s go back to my place and open it.”

  “What is it?” asked Terry. After cursing witches and roast goat for dinner, he was leery of surprises.

  Eleanor took his arm and pulled him closer. “A grand Christmas tradition. Mistletoe.”

  A Wedding at Sheep River

  Ostara: March 21 - April 4

  At first, Terry had been unsure about getting married on Easter Sunday. Though the peculiar date was at Eleanor’s insistence, he couldn’t quite shrug off the suspicion that Madam Peasgoody was somehow behind it, even after Newman Porter had assured him that Ostara, the witch’s Easter, had come and gone two weeks earlier, so the wedding was “probably safe.”

  Terry was also uncomfortable with Newman’s choice of words; “probably safe” was hardly an auspicious way to begin a marriage. Still, if it made Eleanor happy to get married on Easter…

  “Come on, silly. We’ll miss the Easter egg hunt!”

  Eleanor swept toward him in a flow of white silk, very much resembling a fairy princess. Or, Terry reflected, a sun goddess. Her long, golden hair was bound with a single band of white silk that, though plain, fit her like a crown. Her throat and sleeves were rich with lace, and her gown trailed behind her like a cloud, refusing to snag on twigs or to become stained by the bright spring grass of Sheep River Park.

  “I thought it was supposed to be bad luck for the groom to see his bride in her wedding gown before the wedding,” Terry said, grinning to show that he wasn’t disappointed with what he saw.

  “No silly superstition is going to darken our wedding,” said Eleanor. “Come on!” She took his hand in hers. “The egg hunt has already started.”

  “Lead on,” said Terry. Together they bounded off toward the taller grasses along the riverbank.

  A short distance away beneath the shadow of a stand of willows, a cold-eyed George Stromley watched them go.

  “Do you really think this is a good idea?” asked Carter, skulking in the bushes beside him. “I mean, it’s their wedding day. It’s supposed to be a happy occasion.”

  George glared at his friend, then nudged with his foot the large basket in the grass between them. A purple and yellow banded egg rocked on top of a jumble of others all painted in a variety of colours and patterns.

  “Don’t be daft,” said George. “Since when do weddings include an Easter egg hunt?”

  “Then, what about the children? I feel bad about ruining their egg hunt.”

  George stared at him. “You were here this morning, just like I was. You saw. Don’t tell me we’re not doing the right thing.”

  “I’m no longer certain what I saw,” admitted Carter. “So what if Madam Peasgoody started a bonfire at sunrise and danced around it ringing a bell. Madam Peasgoody does a lot of weird things.”

  “And after that?” prompted George.

  “Well,” said Carter. “Then she hid the eggs. Nothing strange about that.”

  “She put a curse on the eggs,” said George. “I know. She put a curse on me at Christmas, and nothing has gone right since. I won’t let her curse the town.”

  “Maybe we should ask Newman about the fire and the bells,” suggested Carter. “Newman knows about curses.”

  “Newman is as bad as Peasgoody,” said George. “Come on. Let’s throw these eggs in the river.” He reached down to lift the basket and was stopped by a shriek in the trees a short distance away.

  “I found one!” The shrill voice that rang through the park was Newman Porter’s.

  “Only one?” Mayor Abigail’s voice came from down by the river. “I’ve found three already.”

  “I guess we missed a few,” said Carter.

  From across the park a chorus of children’s laughter pealed through the air. Everyone, it seemed, was finding eggs.

  “More than a few, I’m thinking,” grumbled George.

  “I’m certain Peasgoody only had one full basket,” said Carter. He lifted the basket of eggs he and George had collected that morning after Peasgoody had planted them throughout Sheep River Park. “There can’t be more than a few out there.”

  “Eureka!” Terry’s voice filled the park as he and Eleanor emerged from some bushes near the riverbank, each with an armload of coloured eggs. Eleanor set her eggs on a blanket then wiped away a smear of lipstick that had somehow found its way onto Terry’s cheek.

  Over by the podium and chairs, where the wedding would shortly take place, Madam Peasgoody paused from her floral arranging and turned to look into the trees where George and Carter were hiding. There was a smirk on her lips and fire in her eyes.

  George plucked the purple and yellow painted egg from the top of the basket and prepared to fling it at her, but Carter caught his arm. “Not here. Not now,” he said.

  Peasgoody tossed her head back and resumed her work.

  “She’s mine,” snarled George, reluctantly returning the egg to the basket. “I’ll destroy her. Just you wait.”

  “Of course you will,” said Carter. “But for now we may as well join them. I think the wedding is about to start.” He hefted the heavy basket of eggs, then grinned. “You know. I think we’re a shoo-in to win the egg hunt.”

  “Just think,” said Eleanor. She and Terry stood near the pavilion, waiting for the guests to finish being seated. “It was less than two months ago, on Valentine’s Day, that you proposed, and now here we are, soon to become husband and wife.”

&n
bsp; “Do you think we rushed things?” Terry asked her. “I could have waited. June or September would have been fine.”

  It was Peasgoody, he thought. Showing up at the oddest times. Lighting candles. Reading poems. It was Peasgoody who pushed for an early wedding, though she never came out and said it directly. That woman has power. She encourages things to happen. Terry couldn’t think of a better word for it.

  Eleanor stretched her hands up toward the sun and spun around, her white wedding gown swirling around her like river currents in a waterfall. “It’s a beautiful day to get married,” she said. “I wouldn’t change a thing. Except, maybe I’d have someone other than George win the Easter egg hunt. I’m certain he cheated.”

  Terry laughed. “George? Cheat?”

  Madam Peasgoody appeared just then from around the corner of the pavilion. The woman’s face glowed, as if it were her own wedding about to commence.

  “I would like you both to have these,” she said, lifting her hands. Nestled in each palm was a tiny, elaborately decorated egg. Not chicken eggs, Terry decided. Something smaller. Robin’s eggs. Or some other bird.

  “Oh! They’re beautiful!” Eleanor took one of the small eggs in her fingers. A thin gold chain had been affixed to the back so she could wear it around her neck.

  He took up the other egg amulet and examined the painting. It had not been done with food colouring and a toy brush. It looked more like a museum piece. There were soft brown checks and bright green diamonds and tiny red runes traced into a simple yet handsome design. Earth colours.

  Eleanor drew the gold chain over her head and let the egg fall to her bosom. Terry, seeing how much Eleanor welcomed the gift, did the same. “Thank you,” he said. “This is very thoughtful.”

  Madam Peasgoody’s crow-bright eyes beamed at them. “When you wear them, they will bring you luck and protection.”

  “Er,” Terry couldn’t stop himself from asking. “Protection from what, exactly?”

  Madam Peasgoody gave him a solemn look. “Evil,” she said. “Seen and unseen.” She wagged her head toward the rear of the wedding seats where George and Carter stood over their collection of Easter eggs, arguing.