Cala

by Laura Legge

  I think you’ve filled the space entirely, he said. Isn’t it time we open the windows?

  Not yet, Euna said. We have to make sure the evil spirits stay away.

  Aram wondered if Bad Muireall were smelling this smog in the basement, if it were filling her wicked lungs. Even as he wondered this, he started to cough uncontrollably. He could no longer breathe through the grey thickness, its exhaust obstructing his throat.

  Awright? Euna asked.

  He was becoming fevered, frantic. Instead of giving him the one thing he needed, a dose of open country, she flirted, kissing fresh air from her mouth into his. He continued to choke. Please, he tried to say, please.

  Just a minute more, she said. It’s an important tradition.

  He wished he could beg her to open the windows, drop to his knees and entreat her, but he was coughing so violently, his throat so straitened, that he could not reach his voice. He could die like this, his love surveilling but seeing nothing. He forced his way toward the doors. He needed a hit of the heath. The life he wanted with Euna – the having, the holding, the stroking of hair, the smoking of salmon, every day, every night, every window open, every town another, every refrain flowing straight from her mouth to his ear – would never appear if he suffocated in this beautiful, safe room.

  His flight toward the door must have been a dramatic one, because Euna suddenly noticed him drowning in all that air. Or maybe she simply felt the ritual had run its course. Either way she wrapped her arm around his shoulders and helped him toward the exit. When she swung the doors open, elatedly, to a world of blowing snow, Aram could have broken into song. He thought he heard a banging on the basement door, that sound so like a cow lowing, but it was easy to ignore with so much free space ahead of them. Euna gripped Aram by the wrist. The new year stretched, as yet untouched, across the moor.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Madeleine O’Shea and Clare Gordon at Head of Zeus for guiding me with great warmth through this intricate process. Thank you to my agents PJ Mark and Will Francis, both insightful, gifted people in whose hands I feel secure, and to all the helpful folks I have encountered at Janklow & Nesbit.

  Many thanks to the Toronto Arts Council for providing me with a grant that allowed me to work on this novel. Thank you to all the shining strangers I met on my most recent visit to Scotland, in particular Ranald on the Isle of Lewis, Angus in Inverness, Adrian in Arrochar, and Mary at the Glasgow Women’s Library. Thank you to Ransom FA, We Were Promised Jetpacks, King Creosote, Frightened Rabbit, Young Fathers, LAPS, and James Duncan Mackenzie, for making phenomenal music, and for keeping me company while I was writing.

  To the mentors-turned-friends from whom I have learned so much, my gratitude exceeds my capacity with language (even though some of you were wonderful English teachers). Annie Koyama, Dania Bhandal, Randy Boyagoda, and Ruth Donsky, you have opened worlds for me through your goodness, guidance, and attention. Thank you to my advisors at NYU, and in particular Chris Adrian and Katie Kitamura, both writers whose work I value so much.

  Thank you to my beloved, lifelong friend Amrit Phull, ideal of compassion and beauty. I love you, man. To all the Phulls – Kalwant, Kamal, Sanjay, Kiran, Mike, Nani-ji – you are marvellous people, and I am grateful to count you as my second family.

  Thank you to – in no particular order – Rochelle Basen, Ilana Speigel, Mimi Ashi, Kyle Gatchalian, Annika Kirk, Smrita Grewal, Maria Golikova, Inaam Haq, Kristy Wieber, Lisa Bevilacqua, Michael DeForge, Tala El-Achkar, Blake Robert Campbell and James Herbert. Where in this novel I have endeavoured to render the power of a loving community, you were my inspiration.

  Thank you to my late Elders, each of whom was remarkable, beloved: Aunt Betty, Uncle Wool, Grandma Joyce, Grandpa Garth, Grandma Helen, and Grandpa Howard. This book is dedicated in sacred memory of you. The veil is thin.

  Thank you to Aunt Heather and Uncle Aurel, Aunt Janet, Biafia, Nate, Uncle Robert, and Aunt Kathy and Uncle Ken. To my favourite dog, Nina the Chihuahua, and to the cutest little boys on the planet (I’m biased), Elias and Niall: xoxo.

  Thank you to Aunt Marilyn and Uncle Michael, community-builders and appreciators of beauty in its many forms – you are enormously important to me. Thank you to my New Orleans family. I am holding space here for Uncle Gary, a talented writer and gentle human being, whose passing in 2017 affected me deeply.

  Thank you to Violaine, aka Gru, aka Grumita, a continuous source of tenderness, delight, and magic in my life. I am over-the-moon that you exist. Thank you to Jean-Pascal, a profoundly special, creatively gifted human, and to Aunt Valerie, intuitive, intentional, the absolute image of grace.

  Thank you to my brother, Matthew, whose vision, presence, and sense of fun are true guideposts in my life. You offer the world such unwavering attention – a gift few can manage. Thank you to my sister-in-law, Meg, for being so deeply perceptive and authentic, and for blessing our family by joining it.

  Thank you to my parents, Alastair Murray and Margaret, for so much. Dad, you are the most brilliant person I have encountered, bar none – you inspire me with your seemingly limitless talent and discipline. Mom, you are deeply compassionate, and you have a lovely way of listening and communicating. Thank you for inspiring me with your pioneering work in harm reduction and with your continual spiritual fruition. I am proud and grateful to have you as parents.

  There was a wild garden behind my childhood home where I used to get unstuck in time, reading and eating snap peas. I felt completely at home there. This final note is to say, I am grateful to the earth, and to the traditional keepers of the land I now inhabit, the Huron-Wendat and Petun First Nations, the Métis, the Seneca, and most recently, the Mississaugas of the Credit River. I take seriously my responsibility to live here in stewardship and active love.

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