Blood Fable

by Oisín Curran

  He stops to drink. Rook isn’t listening anymore. He’s staring at the TV behind the bar. Our faces are on it. And Quill’s. There’s a picture of the jail we broke out of. There’s somebody talking, but it’s too low to hear.

  Turn that up, George says to the barman.

  No! says Rook.

  Don’t worry, says George, You’re among friends.

  The music stops then. I turn to see the musicians put down their instruments. Quill stands at the microphone.

  No need, she says, To turn up the TV. We all know what it says, what it always says. What it will always say, unless we do something about it once and for all. You know me and know what I’ve done and why I do it. How many rebellions, and yet still my tyrant mother stands. Nothing changes. And yet it does. This time something is different.

  Quill pauses, a long pause, I wish she would get on with it. But she’s just slowly staring around. The people with cameras have turned them on her. Lights are flashing and clicking all around.

  Her, she says finally, and then I see she’s pointing at me. Everybody turns to look. The cameras too.

  This girl, says Quill, Her sight led my mother to seek a city. The City. But when Chisolm couldn’t find it, she built one. And now the girl has come at last and she has told me, as she told my mother, that this is the wrong place. This is not City, and it never has been, never will be. And for that my mother threw her in jail.

  An explosion shakes the bar and bangs all the glasses together. Some crack. Some break. People shout. Quill doesn’t move. She’s looking at the TV. Chisolm is on the TV. She’s talking. The barman turns up the volume.

  …an invasion, Chisolm is saying, From the Isle of War. Once more the forces of chaos are at our gates. I am declaring an emergency and ordering all citizens to stay indoors as we mobilize our resistance to this aggression.

  There’s another explosion and the TV goes black. All the lights go black and we rush outside.

  The city is burning. Flares and fires light the port. Explosions everywhere. Spires and rooftops suddenly white, then suddenly not. Searchlights shoot down from helicopters. Planes are dropping bombs. Noise rings off stone sky, stone walls, stone streets. Between explosions I hear screams. Down below us and out on the water a huge boat with big guns fires into the city.

  This is my mother’s doing, shouts Quill above the noise. This is what she does when her authority is threatened and she needs a distraction. She secretly provokes the Isle of War into attacking us. They live in fear of her aggressions, so it takes little to set them off.

  Horns honk behind us and we jump out of the way. Army trucks run by us. One after the other after the other. They’re full of soldiers. People in the street cheer as they go by.

  Up above, different planes and helicopters shoot out of nowhere in formation. They attack the other ones and the boat. The air burns. Things flame down from the sky.

  We try to run back into the bar but can’t. The place is a pile of rubble. We run and run.

  We? Quill, Rook, George, me.

  Quill leads us to an old museum in a cave in the hillside.

  This has been here a thousand years, she says. A few bombs won’t hurt it.

  Others have the same idea. The place is full of people taking shelter. They sit propped against huge pillars or crouched under exhibits. There’s a model of the city. Somebody begins to mark the bombed parts. The fight outside goes on all night, then all day, then into the night again. Then all the food in the museum’s restaurant is gone. Even the cream and sugar packets are empty. Some people leave to look for supplies, but they never come back.

  A missile hits the east wing, and we pass buckets of water, one to the other, until the fire is out. I want to see the exhibits, but the power is dead and candles and flashlights have to be saved. In the short bits of light that come from outside explosions, I see stained old sculptures of naked people, paintings of women wearing wings, glass cases full of flashing jewels and jewels and jewels.

  Bomb light sprays everywhere now and then. It lights the others. It lights up George. I crawl to him.

  We need a safer place, I say. He has a bottle of liquor he stole from the bar. He drinks from it.

  Yes, he says, Come with me.

  We walk downhill all night. Down and to the right. Down and to the right. Crowds of people jam the streets, the parks, the squares. They don’t want to burn alive or die under a falling building. There are people everywhere. They scream, they moan. Some are covered in blood. But it’s hard to hear them over firetrucks and ambulances and planes and helicopters. The crowds push and pull like ocean water. They push and pull and the crowd scares me more than bombs or burning cars or jets or shrapnel or choking black smoke or the ripped-off legs and arms we sometimes step over. I know the crowds will squeeze me to death at any moment. My head will pop off like a cork and fly up, up, up above the jets. And from there, the eyes in my spinning head will look down on the whole mess. The wrong city, the wrong people, the wrong time. How could I have been so wrong when I knew I was right?

  But I’m not dead. I’m squeezed but not to death. I can breathe a little. I’m holding George’s hand and also Rook’s hand who is holding Quill’s hand.

  We are barely moving, but we are moving, back and forth with the push and pull of the crowd and also a little bit forward. We inch downhill for hours.

  Then there are no more people. We break free of the crowd and the streets are empty.

  Good, says Rook, leaning against a lamppost and breathing hard. We’re through.

  No, says George. This is no good. No fucking good at all. This is the water sucked away before a tidal wave.

  We’re in a square. There’s a pale green hedge around a park in the middle of it. And an old fountain in the middle of the park. The fountain is a tall green-metal statue of Chisolm riding on Lutra’s back. Water shoots out Lutra’s mouth and splashes into a pool at her feet. Battle noise, people noise, all are far away.

  Far away for a little while and then they’re not. Shouts, screams, shots, louder and louder. Soldiers come into the square. They run, trip, fall, run past us. There’s blood on them. Their uniforms are torn. They look scared. They go by us and around us like sad wind blowing by as fast as it can.

  George says we need to get out of here but it’s too late. The other ones, the troops of War, come in fast and neatly and neatly square us and point their guns. We raise our hands.

  We smuggled our refugee friend Bayo out of St. Mike’s in the middle of the night. By that time, the Frothingham cops knew he was there, but under the customs of sanctuary he was safe, unless he left. Thus the coat and glasses in which we costumed him before bundling him into our car in the dark. He crouched on the floor of the back seat until we were out of town and I practised looking innocently out the window as we rolled away up Route 1a to Route 2.

  Columbus! said Myles around dawn. There’s a state trooper on our tail.

  Where? said Iris.

  Two cars back, said Myles.

  In the rear-view mirror I could see his glasses glowing anxiously, and behind him, or rather behind me, the orange fire of the rising sun.

  Iris didn’t turn around but antennae seemed to sprout from the back of her head as she took in the situation.

  Myles, who’d had unfortunate run-ins with the law during his draft-dodging days, loathed and feared all those in uniforms. Bayo, of course, had even more reason to panic at the thought of police. I could see his hand shaking as he adjusted his hat. But Iris, daughter of a colonel, stayed cool.

  It’s fine, she said soothingly. He’s just on patrol. He’s cruising for speeders. Look, he’s passing us.

  Get down! hissed Myles to Bayo.

  Don’t move! barked Iris before Bayo could slip out of sight. That’ll just draw attention. Everybody stay calm.

  The police car slid past; the trooper d
idn’t even turn to look as he went by.

  Worried that Myles would have a nervous breakdown at the border, Iris insisted he pull over so she could drive.

  At the crossing in Calais, Iris announced the presence of Bayo and his desire to claim refugee status. Inside the Canadian border offices, we sat in the lobby while Bayo was interviewed. When he came out carrying some kind of official document, he looked relieved.

  We ate lunch at a Tim Horton’s in St. Stephen and then drove Bayo to Saint John where we delivered him to a church group that was sponsoring him.

  Once he was safely installed, Myles turned the car and headed due west on the Trans-Canada highway. Was this deviation planned? If so, I remember no warning, just acceleration.

  We drove for a night and a day and into the following night in a frenzy. I never looked up at the passing landscape but read and slept and wallowed in my lethargy and powerlessness. My parents were heading back to their starting point, driving desperately out of a world that seemed to be collapsing in their wake—the world they’d built in Cove, the world of New Pond. To escape it, we were heading for a metropolis unknown to me—yet no city could be more intimate—Rochester, New York, city of my birth.

  It was just a road trip, they said, to see old friends, to see what had become of the place. It was in Rochester that they’d met as part of the group that built the great Rochester Zen Center from scratch. Not just a building, not just an organization, but an institution, the fabled boot camp of American Zen. And when, for reasons unknown to me, they’d broken with the teacher there, the break broke their hearts, so that broken-hearted they retreated and rebuilt themselves in Maine. Eventually, the teacher in question retired, and now, ejected from New Pond, Myles and Iris thought the timing propitious for returning to the source, just for a visit... For my part, I thought the timing extremely fishy.

  I don’t want to move to Rochester, I said truculently as its suburbs accumulated in the evening light and gave way to stately residential neighbourhoods over which Myles and Iris murmured and sighed reminiscently.

  We’re not moving here, said Iris, We’re just visiting. Ah, do you remember Meigs Street? she said to Myles. That place we had? The staircase?

  I don’t remember it, I said, slumping in my seat to avoid viewing the tall, beautiful houses.

  Well, of course not, said Iris. You were just a baby when we left.

  We parked outside an odd domicile with unlikely curves. It looked to me like a fist with the index finger pointed straight up, the finger being the chimney.

  It really is art deco, said Myles as he surveyed the facade before inserting a key in the front door.

  It was Pierce’s house, and since he was at our place, we had the key to his. This was the authentic period piece he’d been restoring for the past ten years. Hard to believe that he’d truly bought it for nothing, or that it had ever really been in shambles. The interior gleamed with curvilinear wood surfaces. It looked suspiciously jazz-related to me, but I couldn’t condemn it on the strength of that alone. Actually, I thought it was beautiful. There was a spiral staircase, bright orange rubber tiling on the kitchen floor, magically undulating plywood walls. Every corner revealed a level of aesthetic sophistication so novel to me that I wanted to move in immediately.

  I hate it here, I said, not even trying to sound convincing.

  Pierce’s house was within walking distance of the Rochester Zen Center and in the mid-morning light of the next day, the Boot Camp revealed itself to be a luxurious, old residence, replete with columns and verandas and refinished hardwood floors.

  It’s exactly the same! said Myles as we walked in.

  Iris agreed, but it sounded implausible to me—there wasn’t a speck of dirt on the shining floors, not a single bump or scrape on the blindingly white walls. The wood trim was immaculately finished.

  We became aware that a bony young man was quietly existing next to us. Had he been there from the beginning? He had short-cropped hair and skin that reeked of clean-living. He bowed in Caucasianese-style and we returned the salutation and Myles announced himself. We were expected, he said, and were looking forward to meeting with Peter.

  The young man’s eyes widened at this impertinent familiarity.

  I will notify the Roshi’s secretary, he said.

  Sorry, said Myles laughing, Roshi. It’s just that we’re old friends. He wasn’t a roshi when I left.

  Five minutes later the young man returned to say the secretary regretted that the Roshi was extremely busy today, but we were invited to attend a meditation session, which the Roshi would be leading.

  We followed him down a series of hallways until we joined a line of other, aggressively healthy-looking people with whom we filed into a sun-filled room lined with bamboo matting and the familiar, round zazen cushions. Also familiar was the reassuringly acrid scent of incense and the decluttering peals of a brass bell.

  Peter, a.k.a. the Roshi, floated in fully decked in the rough brown robes of a Zen monk, replete with a square of fabric in a subtly different shade, which denoted his status. His head was shaved, his skin yogourt-white, his eyes bright blue, and he maintained a quiet, benign smile that he turned this way and that in greeting as he entered. The smile landed indifferently upon all, with only the slightest nod of recognition when it came across Myles, Iris, and myself. Then he sat on his cushion, cast his eyes to the floor, and looked about no more.

  I sat on a cushion between Myles and Iris, brought each foot to the opposite knee, and sat, sat. Sat.

  Zenday meditation sessions were adjusted for young attention spans, and Willard had tolerated our rustling and fidgeting with good humour. But this was grown-up zazen. There wasn’t so much as a sigh from the little throng of meditators, not a sneeze or snort. Nobody scratched their noses, nobody burped, and if they farted, they did so with extreme discretion. My limbs soon felt as though they were twisting inside my skin, I tried to breathe through a sneeze for so long that my eyes watered, my throat began to smoulder and my entire nasal region burst into flames.

  A few cars motored sedately by; there was a shout in the street. Otherwise nothing to relieve the monotony.

  The bell ring was a cool wave over my burning joints and head.

  The Roshi spoke. His voice thrummed in a soothing, hypnotic register.

  What is Zen? he said. (Why were teachers always asking this?) It is this moment, right here, right now. It is the smell of incense, of car exhaust, it is that boy there aching to be anywhere but here (general laughter).

  He smiled at me with deep compassion and friendliness—a smile so perfectly calibrated to express his sincerity, his benignity, his serenity, that I found it thoroughly untrustworthy. Willard had ruined gurus for me.

  Zen is, he went on, patting the floor, Just this, just this.

  He continued in this mode for some time before rising and leading the way to the dining hall.

  There we knelt at the low wooden tables and deployed the provided chopsticks to eat brown rice and fresh tofu braised with miso and garnished with toasted sesame seeds and chopped scallions. Myles showered the meal in tamari sauce, wolfed it down, guzzled the green tea provided, and headed for Peter the Roshi, who sat slowly, calmly, attentively consuming his food.

  It was immediately clear to Iris that Myles was breaking protocol, and she hissed at him to come back, but Myles ignored the warning and squatted down across from the Roshi, extending his hand.

  Good to see you, Peter!

  The monks on either side of the Roshi froze, chopsticks vibrating in mid-air. Unmoving, Peter gazed at Myles, benign smile back in place, blue eyes freezing. Finally, he nodded slightly and his remarkable voice motored forth.

  Perhaps tomorrow, he said quietly, We can talk.

  And so we returned the next day, but the Roshi was once again too busy to see Myles and Iris, as he was the following day and the day after t
hat as well.

  He was just another one of those young drifters who started showing up before we left, do you remember? Myles’s voice was aggrieved, incredulous, All of them gape-faced, wild-eyed…

  Angelhaired hipsters yearning for the starry dynamo, murmured Iris, Or however that goes.

  Yes, said Myles, That’s right, and even Ginsberg kept showing up.

  Ginsberg was always showing up, said Iris, You couldn’t turn around without bumping into Ginsberg back then.

  I could barely follow the conversation due to the ice-cream sundae on the white tablecloth in front of me and the view outside the window, which, as advertised, kept changing.

  To assuage their dejection over their non-reception at the Zen Center, Myles and Iris had decided on an urban expedition. We had travelled to the top of a downtown high-rise where the twenty-first floor was a disc inside which the outer ring of the floor slowly rotated 360 degrees, revealing to diners the entire panorama of Rochester.

  After we built that place from nothing, Myles went on.

  You think you should be the one in those robes? said Iris. You think you should be the one in charge?

  I could’ve been, said Myles forcefully, If I’d been willing to lick some boots.

  Sometimes that’s what it takes to get ahead, said Iris.

  Well then, said Myles with a crooked smile, I guess we never will.