The Journey Prize Stories 21

by Various

  He showed me the bag. The stuff inside looked like decomposing thumbs surrounded by dust and dead skin. “I made the tea, I was waiting, and it got stronger and stronger.” He pulled me over to the kitchen counter and showed me the liquid, which was as thick as blood. I dipped my finger in and tasted a bit – sour and bitter, like coffee grains. I spat into the sink. “There are little particles on the bottom that you’re not supposed to drink,” Eddie warned. “But try it.” Eddie lifted the cup to my lips. I looked into his saltwater-blue eyes, their thin irises like the rim around a well. “Please try it.”

  I drank. The tea poisoned my blood. I began to lose my clarity, felt the experience of the night fall away, shedding it in translucent waves, like snake skin. My hands broke my fall as I tumbled onto the couch. Eddie fell behind me and pointed at his fish. They were leaving trails of deformed fetuses with bubbly fingers and many limbs. As the strange shapes began to fade, others appeared in their place – creatures with exo-skeletal spines, or ridges along their skulls, tails wound around their necks and eyes, wing-like webs between their arms and torsos. Finally someone unfolded in the fish tank, a human shape, like a water sprite, pointing at me, her silver hair swirling up and stroking the belly of the angelfish. She traced a word on the glass. “Fire,” it said. I told her she couldn’t bring it in there with her. I told her she was doomed. “Fire,” she mouthed, banging on the glass with open palms. “No,” I whispered. It would go tstz. Even a candle. Tstz. “Climb out,” I whispered. She folded her legs and sank into the gravel. Eddie placed his arm around my waist, pinning me in place. “Climb out,” I repeated. But she wasn’t listening – she was rubbing her hands together, back and forth, faster and faster, trying to strike a flint, to create a spark among the algae.

  After my shower, mist saturated the bathroom. I wiped the mirror with my palm, expecting the film to coat my hand with a larval white glaze. The crinkled skin was barely moist. I wiped again, trying to open the hole long enough to see my face.

  Eddie was snoring when I went into the bedroom to pick up my wallet. If he had been awake, I would have told him I was going out. Then I would have padded to the door, pulled it closed behind me, turned the doorknob to avoid a click, and locked him in, just as I did the night I left to go to the woods outside of London.

  The busy roads degraded into highway as Leo drove us toward midnight, then they transformed into inky trails that sought a horizon line I could barely make out in the dark. Trees rose around us in spiky lines as we entered the forest, our headlights finding the smooth metal curves of a makeshift parking lot. Leo parked beside the other cars and led me through the dark, guided only by a pulsing glow that signalled to us like a bodiless Pied Piper.

  Leo’s friends lit a bonfire and used it as the centre of a circle around which beer and cigarettes were passed freely. A group of drummers lit a smaller fire and played their rhythms while light flickered against their brows. A violinist played something skittish at a fire of her own, the bow not matching her rhythm because her fingers were doing all the work. Her back arched on the high notes then snapped back like a rubber band. All the fires were well contained within their stone circles.

  After hollering hellos, Leo unlooped his firespinners from his belt and dipped them into the jar of fuel he had carried over in his knapsack. The twin globes cut shafts of light into the air, leaving patterned trails like roller coaster paths around the shadowy statue of his torso. The kerosene’s slow burn turned the flames a deep vermillion. Sparks rained down from between the stars, down around the violinist, who continued playing, her music pulsing like an adrenaline-pumped heart.

  Leo’s fire spinners burned off all their kerosene and faded. Someone shouted for him to come over, so I sat down alone, a jag of rock poking into my back. I was in the cold shade, watching the firelight meet in folds over the cleared ground. If I took in the shapes, only the shapes, I would lose the need to make sense of what I saw and would hear only the flickering of a film reel.

  The violinist slowed her fingering down, drawing out notes with a shiver of her hands, staring with unfocused eyes into the fire, her jaw pressed shut by the violin. Then I saw the violin fall into the fire. A blue tongue licked over its surface, peeling away the rich mahogany coating, exposing the original wood. The wood creaked and split into fine lines, the fire slipping inside and bursting back out into the open air. The strings screamed, pitched higher and higher, until the violin released its final song in four ear-shattering pops.

  A tree caught fire behind Leo, flames bursting from the leaves. The fire spiralled down the branches, leapt to another treetop, seeped slowly down the trunk, growled as gravity yanked it home. Leo ran past the violinist and grabbed me from the rock – I could see his dilating pupils absorb the light.

  Everyone in the clearing scattered, weaving paths of escape like ant trails.

  Soon a siren’s wail was just audible over the fire, descending on the clearing from the ash-filled sky. Helicopter blades chopped through the air, beating like drums. The mosquito-shaped machine washed spotlights over the clearing. The blades showered us with sparks as the helicopter pulled away and slipped back into the night. I turned and saw Leo backing away from me. When I caught up, he turned and picked up his pace, heading for the forest.

  The forest was so dark I could only see the shape of Leo’s shoulders and a few trees that shook with the wind of the fire. We ran until the forest closed around us, the only sound our footsteps crunching on pine needles. Leo slowed. I could hear him breathing.

  I stopped and collapsed against a tree, my back against the ridged bark, my hands clasped to the jagged edges. “Why did she do that?”

  Leo came over to me and pressed his hands against my waist, slid them up until the sides of my rib cage were supported by those two centres of liquid warmth. “Everybody’s a pyro,” he said.

  I slipped away, gazing toward the lines of trees that drifted in the smoke. My legs began to propel me forward, away, toward the highway. Leo grabbed my arm.

  “Before you head back to your nice warm flat and watch TV, ask yourself, where do you think we would be now if that first person hadn’t lit that spark and said, holy shit, I wanna do that again?”

  I shook my head. “But it could destroy the entire forest. How are they going to put it out?”

  Leo released me. “With a plane, I guess.”

  I listened until I heard the seashell hum of the highway, then began heading downhill. Behind us, the trees shook their flames free. Centuries of growth unravelled in black folds against the sky, but I could only smell the edges of the fire now. I was growing more distant from it, immersed in the swamp of night. I shivered. I’d never seen fire spread so fast before – even the settee had burned slowly, fighting against flame retardant chemicals.

  Then I thought of the warehouse where we had bought the couch. Thick metal walls, special insulation, and no oxygen allowed through the windows if we closed them up first. I wondered how much heat the glass would withstand. Probably enough.

  I turned and located Leo’s dusky grey form floating in and out of the dark slashes of tree trunks. He was coming toward me at a steady pace, pressing back the branches that I had crashed through. His hair was painting the sky, his hands were tempering space. When he was almost there, I reached out and cupped the collar of his jacket in my palms, then shifted my weight toward the blanket of needles. But he held me up, his hands skimming across my back, his eyelashes fluttering away from my face. “We have to get back to the car before they find the parking lot,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. But I held him for a minute longer, thinking, the tragedy of a forest fire was that trees could not be insured.

  The TV was on to the local station – news of the fire. Eddie was passed out on the couch, arm over his face, snoring. The room smelled foul, and looking down I saw fish pooled on the carpet. I shook Eddie awake.

  “There was a tidal wave in Japan,” he said in a hoarse voice. He grabbed the back of my h
ead in his palm.

  “You were dreaming.”

  He rubbed his eyes and brought his knees up for me to rest on. “I dreamt you were a sorceress who controlled the waves, and you made dolphins jump out of the water, and they had hands, and they started running after me.” He yawned. “And then I was drowning. I couldn’t move. But you were there to save me. I don’t remember how, but I knew you would.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I had never dreamt of Eddie, not even once. I dreamt constructions. I would find myself reclining on an elephant’s back as though it was a bed, walking along a carpet of crushed potato chips, cycling down the road on two spinning mandalas and a canoe paddle. I would step on paper clips as though they were stairs or bathe in ash within a scooped-out television. Then, as I woke, these things would separate and arrange themselves around my room, become the patterns on a poster, perch themselves between the candles on my dresser. The objects and animals would fade as the painted drywall became clear.

  I pushed a strand of hair behind his ear. “Eddie, what have you done?”

  Eddie dropped his hand over the edge of the couch, felt the wet carpet with his bare hand. “I meant to clean that up.”

  I stood up, still wearing my shoes to keep from stepping on glass. I walked over to the window and opened the curtains. Eddie squinted against the light.

  Now the damage glowed. The pool of water, the colourful bellies of fish. Shards of tempered glass, jagged and glinting. Only the tree frogs remained alive in their planted aquarium, perched on their branches, breathing in gulps.

  “That was a forty-dollar angelfish,” Eddie said, looking at the big white one with the yellow stripes, fins now closed tight. He tried to sit up.

  “Don’t move,” I said. I went over to the door to retrieve his shoes, returned and slipped them over his bare feet.

  Eddie pointed at the fridge. There was an orange paste running down the front, mango skin and a hairy pit drying on the floor. “It had gone bad, Serena. It burst in my hands.”

  “How did you shatter three aquariums?”

  “With a fossil.” He corrected himself. “With two fossils and a lamp stand. I think I’m slightly electrocuted.” He put his arm around my shoulder as I pulled him up. Leaning over my neck, Eddie whispered, “They arrested your friend.”

  I stayed still. I knew if I let Eddie go, he would drop back down to the couch. Maybe he would even fall asleep again.

  “It’s true. They caught Camden Market guy for arson.” He motioned toward the TV. “His name is Leo Olm.” He drew the sound out in his cheeks. “They said he did it alone.”

  I turned to the TV, saw the warehouse fire burning, the light too dim because the camera couldn’t pick up its full force. Water from the fire hoses was turning the vibrant sparks into insipid ashes. They disintegrated in the dawn light.

  When we’d arrived at the warehouse, Leo had smashed the window, then spread the ignition fluid around. I had lit a match. The tiny flame had burned slowly, cupped in my palm.

  When I looked into the flame, I saw her. She was a Neanderthal, hairy, jaw protruding from her dented forehead, eyes heavy and sunken beneath her peaked brow. The inventor of fire.

  Leo had grinned. “Lost your nerve?”

  The fire would be swallowed by the warehouse walls, snuff itself out. I had looked around at the shadowy furniture.

  “I’ll give you one more chance,” Leo had said.

  The match shed ash as I clenched my hand over it. When I reached the warehouse door, I squeezed the matchbook between my palms. Leo was still standing behind me in the dark.

  In the centre of the living room, Eddie reached down and picked a piece of glass up off the floor. It had once been part of an opalescent window into another world, fashioned in a kiln at a temperature of 1,500 degrees Celsius. Now it was a possible weapon, or trash.

  I went to the fridge, ignored the mango plastered to the front, and took the cheese out. I began to make grilled cheese sandwiches.

  “Dinner?” Eddie came up beside me, looked into the frying pan. “I’ll set the table.”

  “It’s morning.”

  Eddie stepped away. “I had expected you home, and when you didn’t come, I had to drink all the wine myself.”

  “And then the whisky?” I asked.

  Eddie’s hands trembled as he spread the placemats on the table. “I was having a wake,” he said. “For the fish.”

  The sandwiches sizzled as they hit the pan. I turned to Eddie. He was lining the cutlery up on the placemats, trying to get them straight. Peering at his work, he ran his fingers along the edge of a knife, and it shifted off-kilter. He tried to shift it again, and it went in the other direction. He brought both his hands to it and carved out the space on either side of the knife, leaving it straight. He put a spoon beside the knife, knocking the knife off-kilter again. He held the bottoms of their long handles and brought them parallel to one another, abutting the bases with the bottom of the placemats.

  “Eddie,” I said. “They’re sandwiches.”

  He looked up at me, then back at the silverware. “Then we don’t need these,” he muttered, and began to put the utensils away.

  SHAWN SYMS

  ON THE LINE

  I won’t go out with another man who works on the kill floor. I can’t handle the smell of them, or their attitudes.

  Forget about men from the plant altogether, that’s what I should do. It would drastically cut down on my chances for a date though. Maybe a better solution would be to get out of town altogether.

  I take a deep breath, inhaling the eucalyptus scent, then immerse my head in hot, soapy bathwater. My knees rise above the waterline, the tips of my breasts poke out above water, still covered in suds. Underwater, I rub my temples with both thumbs. I stay submerged as long as I can, until I come up gasping for breath again. Work ended at three-thirty. It’s almost ten now, and I’m finally beginning to feel human.

  Turning up the tap to add more hot water, I pour silvery conditioner into my hand and lather up my scalp. Run my fingers through the full length of my dark hair, starting at my forehead and tracing behind my shoulders. Touching my scalp, I feel a phantom fingertip – as if the last half-inch of my right baby finger were still there.

  The accident was over two years ago. Can’t complain much; I got $2,700 in insurance money and seven days off work. I don’t even think about it anymore. Except the occasional Friday night – like tonight – when I drag myself to the Ox for cheap beers. Even then I only think about it for a second, reminding myself it’s one less nail to paint. A lot worse coulda happened.

  In the grit of a dive or between sweaty sheets, most guys don’t notice. Some men I’ve dated took weeks to mention the finger. Then again, roughnecks aren’t much for holding hands or paying close attention to you. Some don’t even kiss.

  I ease my head back under to rinse out my hair. I’ll be in this town till Dad dies. Don’t know how long that’ll be, he’s taken to falling, though. He needs me; living right downstairs has come in handy more than once. Valerie got to escape to Vancouver once she got married. I’ll get there too someday.

  What’ll I even do in B.C.? I’ve been cutting meat so long I don’t know what else I’m fit for. Maybe lick my wounds and go on pogey for a while? That’s hard to imagine. I’ve always had a job. Val stays at home raising three boys, and I don’t envy her. I like to work.

  You get used to the plant. You cope. I wield a sharp knife all day long. It’s ridiculous, I know, but sometimes I pretend I’m slitting fabric to make little girls’ dresses, instead of carving carcasses into steaks. Agnes, who works next to me, sings Sudanese songs to help get through the day. She taught me one, called “Shen-Shen.” I asked her once what that song is about. “Life is unfair, Wanda. That is what it is about,” she said, and went back to singing. Agnes sends money to her mother and father in Juba every month via Western Union. Can’t complain about the wage. Fifteen dollars an hour is nothing to sneeze at. The men you meet thou
gh. Christ.

  Last guy I dated from Slaughter was Karl Willson – a blond behemoth, prairie farming stock. He was twenty-four, six-three, and very strong – so he was quickly recruited for the harshest job on the kill floor. He’s a stunner and sticker: he kills live cattle and drains their blood. I don’t think less of guys in Slaughter because their jobs are dirtier than mine. The rest of us can’t feel holier-than-thou about chopping steaks, filling sausage links, or grinding burger meat. The reason I don’t like Karl is he’s a prick.

  He came to Alberta a few months ago from Saskatchewan with his younger brother, who got hired to dress carcasses. Karl was well suited to a job as a cutthroat. He didn’t mind killing, he liked it. He was fast. Speedy workers are the company’s wet dream.

  We only dated a few weeks. Karl was brooding and edgy. That made for rough, satisfying sex – but I knew something bad would spring from his constant, simmering anger. One night at the drive-in, I teased him about something – I think it was a cowlick that made his hair look funny – and he punched me hard in the face. I don’t put up with bullshit – that was the end. We haven’t spoken since.

  He got moved to B shift. That means I work days and he works nights. When I go to the Ox on a Friday, he’s usually not there because he can only make last call by coming right from the plant. He sometimes does, the need to drink outweighing the duty to clean himself up first. The smell of Processing wasn’t as bad as Slaughter, but I never went to the bar without taking a long bath.

  Standing up to dry myself off, I close my eyes a sec. Hope I don’t run into Karl tonight. I shouldn’t be going out – it’s the height of summer so we’re on a six-day week at the plant. I need to be there tomorrow morning at seven, even though it’s a Saturday. But I need something to make me forget for a while.