by then no one to measure or observe
space missions private, Consortium reserved.
They filled our bee boxes—they slashed our hives—
when we come back——Draco in three thousand
Vega in twelve——
Search for the Bitter Green Willow
That shade a distant star, parsecs away
around the earth, and to the far first moon
a journey to the Sun in eight minutes
What measures shall we bring, what instruments
parsec counters, they sat her in a room
she who found Neptune: four hours, roaming—
diurnal and divided, the Night said:
east to west, rotational, great sphere turning
above us no fixed points, only the light—
In this way we learned to outmanoeuvre
armies, battleships, Consortium tanks.
It were the woman of the willows, she
taught us how to navigate by the stars.
Bramah and the Resisters
She left the Beggar Boy with Grandmother.
She grew in fame and stature with her tools.
Locksmith extraordinaire, her hands steady
her pick and twirl, her golden Pippin File.
She helped them to survive, siphoning off
funds from her Consortium contracts given
over to Grandmother who warned in visions:
impending raids, inspections from the Guards.
Many a time she was called before the
Investigator, she never faltered.
The trouble with you, he said one cold night.
—No one as fast enough, no one as skilled.
Although questioned about that old oak box
her face impassive, her brown eyes downcast.
The Battle of the Whispering Trees and After
Everyone sidestepping everyone else
that long steep fall, down-down-down
where no birds sang, or only the one:
everyone keening the same old song
full-throated, ice-hacked, that lake sly as sin
entrapped, they’d say later, diaphanous:
locked doors, footsteps echoing, a hand raised
voices recorded on tape; suitcase lost—
Banquet table regulars, we sat full
those several trips, an array of choices
special occasion parlance, gleaming knives
our eyes held: her shining skin, her bright hair
We made sure she never, we made sure—
Bramah, we said, take us with you, and she
did.
We took turns carrying the book of stories.
We carted, pulled, pushed, preserved, that oak box.
From the lips of the Beggar Boy, no words.
And did Bramah return to us. She did.
And Grandmother shared her Threshold Magic:
each year a code, a gate, a lock and key:
all pushed us onward further from Perimeter
honey locust, oak, flowering dogwood
anonymous, soon and after, imposed
little gods, usually spiteful, who watched
tacit unseen when we gathered round to—
learn from, and listen to, once upon a
time: brief encounters, close calls, near misses
we hid seeds, we bartered for glass, we dodged
those Guards of the Fifth Gate sent to track us.
Always on the run, we fled to the hills.
Drones and satellites no match for our spells.
What Bramah Learned, She Taught
He stood, swarm surrounded, then fell knee-first
acacia hidden, we emerged, straight
to his body, touching each welt, red ridged.
A thousand stings, salve circles, fingered skin
to receive the wounded or to comfort
strewn across the veldt, hundreds of men
through thinnest of cloth: arms, necks, backs, stung
at night, she made us write out our word lists
paper scraps, pencil stubs, boots smeared with blood
Bramah crouched, console set to the stars’ light
she tapped code to call the ship back to us
crushed thyme underfoot a scent we carried.
Did each of those men have names, she would ask—
to bury the dead, to sing of this task—
Our killings done with mercy.
Grandmother Hears News of the Four Aunties
And in that time long after the Five Troubles
And in that time of torrential rains, windswept
And in that time of colony collapse
extreme climate variability
summer droughts, the land parched, wells gone septic
She heard the aunties still grew wheat somewhere
far Outside Perimeter, by ferry
how to send word to them back there, before—
She overheard a Guard of the Fifth Gate,
Some crazy old woman, her Beggar Boys
we moved them on because of their chanting:
When the North Wind blows, Agatha
remember, remember
gold and silver scissors, honey in small pots
When the southern breezes sigh, Tabitha
silk ribbons, running red
banyan and oak, linden and ash
Magda from the east, Maria from the west
copper thimbles filled with mead
sequoia seeds shaken, salal leaves pressed
Meet Them at the Wishing Well
What They’ve Seen They Never Tell.
All this Grandmother memorized, although
she took her time, before telling Bramah.
First, Grandmother wanted to tell her own tales——
Around the Campfire Called If Only…
We gathered to hear:
Bramah’s grandmother, who laughed, coughing:
The Tale of the Knife: A Disappearing Trick
The Tale of the Ice Box
The Tale of the Little Golden Spoon—
When we said, Tell us. She just laughed and coughed.
And did we lean in closer? We did. We did.
Grandmother just coughed and laughed; her mask torn.
Nah, Nah, some tales are mine for keeps, until—
And did that Beggar Boy lean in, eyes round as saucers?
He did. And Grandmother just coughed and laughed,
Now, now, you take Ravi, my voodoo doll
Hide her from Consortium: rip her seams.
Inside, ivory and gold, parchment scraps.
These her foreshadowings, never say they’re dreams:
The Tale of the Girl and the Disappearing Streams
Her distances vast, her steps measured long
south of the Equator, never rising
unseen star, yet she knew to turn herself
what once was North, directly overhead.
Mind’s eye dilated, this she had been taught
to wait—before her feet met tundra, poplars
sun-dappled green, a few stands of red oak
long lines of alder, their sticky sap sought—
in her quiver, a thousand arrows, each
Calisto, Arcos, forearm to shoulder
semicircles and faint, ending in pairs
the scent of water, stones marked pungent, sweet
east wind, north south, her eyes, instruments
evenings in springtime, as then were called: she’d
hunt for the first bright loganberries, lips
stained red, mouth open, her tongue water fed.
The Tale of the Girl with a Thousand Pockets
Once upon a ti
me,
there lived a girl
who owned a coat with a thousand pockets.
This girl was tall, her hips narrow as a Stripling Boy,
those ones who gathered acorns at Perimeter’s edge.
At night under the cold light of the two moons,
the Chief of the Acorn Boys
met with the Girl with a Thousand Pockets.
Rumour was that Acorn Boy was the bastard of Betty, the Village Spy.
Everyone knew that Betty was always fooling with one guard
or another, always hanging out at that Mean Old Fifth Gate.
Anyways, there was Acorn Boy,
also known as Bloody-Eyed Jim.
There was the Girl with a Thousand Pockets.
Each pocket held a key or a lock,
or a locket and many other such things.
Before a Portal Opening, saying the words,
First, full, last—
under the unwinking gaze of two cold moons,
Acorn Boy and Pocket Girl
escaped the Guards of the Fifth Gate.
So much underhanded trading going on!
Seeds for keys. Glass for lockets,
pennies for pliers.
Many a cold two-moon night, they gathered, boys, girls,
and few of them who said, We’re in between.
In a circle they sat, leather satchels
opened to show Pippin Files, tweezers
picks and drill.
One after the other, boy, girl and in-betweens
told stories within stories of Bramah
she of the Gold and the Green.
Oh, they said, her long black braid
her quick hands.
One night, one year later, those two moons hid their light for hours.
Bloody-Eyed Jim crouched low amid tall grasses.
These grasses, planted by Pocket Girl’s great-grandma,
were known as the Disappearing Weeds.
If you crouched low enough, you could go invisible.
First, you had to kiss the ground and pull out one weedy grass clump.
Bloody-Eyed Jim was about to grasp grass and heave up,
when suddenly, in blew a gust of North Wind.
Clouds flew across the faces of those two cold moons.
It were the Time of the Great Barter.
And there amid the Disappearing Weeds,
stood the Girl with a Thousand Pockets,
her rainbow-coloured hair streaming down
either side of her narrow shoulders, down to her narrow hips.
Watch out, Jim! the girl cried.
Then she fell face down into the weeds.
Bloody-Eyed Jim ran to the girl.
His leather-toed boots touched her silent limbs.
The girl lay face down in mud.
In between her shoulder blades, a lone long knife.
With one strong tug, Bloody-Eyed Jim pulled,
warm flesh, cold steel.
Bloody-Eyed Jim turned the girl over.
He bent to her face, lifted a strand of hair—
oh, those soft shell-shaped lips:
Bloody-Eyed Jim heard three soft words: First, full, last.
Then the Girl with a Thousand Pockets breathed her last breath.
He grabbed at her coat.
He pulled her pockets;
he pulled her coat down and off.
Bloody-Eyed Jim leapt up—
then he paused, and bent to the dead girl,
he tucked his hands into her pockets.
He pulled out two gold coins and put the coins on the girl’s eyes.
“May you sleep the sleep of Ever-Forgetting,
rising one day, unharmed,” Jim said.
When Bloody-Eyed Jim looked up to the far edge of Perimeter, he saw
three tanks and one hundred horses, sent in by the Investigator.
Men and women shouted and pointed.
Jim flung the coat of the Girl with a Thousand Pockets over his own shoulders.
He ran away into the wind, far across Perimeter’s edge.
Never a Guard could catch him, as long as he knew the first, full last.
When the North Wind blows a song,
up to those two cold moons, shadows leap.
Some say in the shape of a tall willowy girl—
there she is, look up, dancing with the wind.
The Tale of the Girl with Far-Seeing Eyes
This is a story recorded one day
by that blind girl who saw everything and
by Bloody-Eyed Jim: his hands all over
things stolen, bartered and traded: androids,
cracked laser plates, them WiFi access codes
given over to a Guard, then stolen back by the trader,
Jai-Ishmael, great-grandson, cousin, twice removed of, oh well never mind.
Alas, when Aunty Pandy came, she took
Jai-Ishmael and with him this story.
All we got from him then was hacking coughs.
We sat with him but at a distance,
you understand.
Him on his big belly, no one to turn him over.
The Tale of the Boy with the Red Canoe
Grandmother said, Now pay attention to this story.
The trader Jai-Ishmael stole this story from another trader.
That trader: such a big troublemaker. Grandmother coughed and laughed,
He fell out way past the Winter Portal.
The Boy at the Lake stood to greet us, his face unsmiling.
Why have you come here? he said, his eyes brown, his black brows straight.
In his hands he held upright his red canoe.
When we squatted at his feet, tired from our journey—
the Boy at the Lake said,
I am the Boy of this Lake.
This is my Red Canoe.
My stories are not your stories. You have no right to them.
We looked up at him then, and began to get ready to leave.
The Boy at the Lake nodded and said, Not this time. Not this place.
Even though we forgot to thank him,
in the end, he gave us his Red Canoe.
We never saw him again.
The Tale of the Girl Who Slept with Spiders
Cobwebs criss-crossed her purple-brown lips,
strands grey-white, sticky lifted, her trembling
hands to morning shadows, dew outside, signs
ankh, amulet, revenant, her words held,
rubbed, stored, cast away, ashes on the wind——
What star is that who burns so bright above?
This the Beggar Boys chanted, lock and key.
In the courtyard of Perimeter, found:
one leather satchel, the finest calfskin
pockets for a set of locksmith tools, gone.
Let all evil die and the good endure
And Bramah said, Grandmother, this is my favourite of all your stories.
And Grandmother just laughed and coughed.
And the Beggar Boy said nothing at all.
The Things They Discover About the Old Oak Box
No kick or thump to dint that wood frame.
No matter how many openings done,
on nights of the full two moons,
if opened by Bramah or the Beggar Boy
any number of finds to tumble out:
one ruby ring, bartered for glass and salt.
One gold spoon, sent to a Guard of the Fifth,
during the time of the Excise Inspection
he never bothered much with them, then
and Grandma laughed, stroking the plain box lid
You best mind your Ps and Qs around this—
Inside the Old Oak Box, the Beggar Boy Finds Another Map
His fingers touched each word, thumb edge rubbing
parchment, a red wax seal, insignia.
His index finger mi
ght find messages—
He kept his eyes on the markings, black script.
His hands held a torch, unwavering.
And Bramah read out loud:
geometric and geological
Giza or Romania
mass distributed, thin shells floating
geoid with a sphere
projected to the closest point
those last land surfaces
survival a calculation
digital mainframe degrees
40 52 North
34 34 East
We will sing of Mercator and no more.
We will urge you to find the exact centre of the earth.
And from there, look up, and from there the Seasons,
all our calculations, memory, an arrow
hurtling toward a set of distances——
Inside the Old Oak Box, the Beggar Boy Finds a Document
From the Medical Records of———in the year 2050
Barrios, camps, Outside Perimeter:
Bramah and the Beggar Boy Page 9