Good night.
In their pens the ostriches sit, a clump of feathers, on their scratched-out ground nests.
Egg opens the gate of each of the pens. Two of the ostriches run into the dark. Three of them sit, listless. One runs in a circle.
Stupid birds.
Egg goes right to the gate of the barn and opens it and tells her Papa that the ostriches are loose and out he goes. Easy peasy.
Egg goes to the back wall, where Albert’s things are stored, and opens the suitcase and puts her comics inside.
She holds Anne Frank to her chest.
She takes the matches. Strike and flare. The comics curl and blacken with red hot edges. She throws the notebook on the pile as the embers hiss, darting upwards. There are no answers. There is no sense to it; her scribbles did not change anything. Her stupid story of the Japanese-Canadian family on the ostrich farm will come to ashes. It does not matter. The world will burn. Let it take all the pain, all the grief. Let it end for there is nothing more. Albert is dead, there is no Heaven for him, and everyone lies. Egg steps back as the suitcase bursts into flame, sparks leaping into the air.
The fire lives and breathes, choking her, the heat like the surface of the sun. It hurts. She climbs up to the crawl space, the smoke curling black and thick. Egg sits, tucking in her legs. She sees the beams in the far wall blacken, a seam of seething red. She hears the crackle of flame.
The burning man. A sacrifice. So Kathy can be free.
Egg thinks of one-eyed Kitty and the Callard’s toffee tin and Superman with his Fortress of Solitude. Cotton-cloud candy and Dalmatian Blue who always says “Safety first.” She thinks of the burning monk, the girl on the napalm road, and Anne, wings spread, angel-feathered.
Fire. Albert was right after all. The flames of the Ouiji were the answer.
If she dies, she’ll take the uglies with her, the black spots melting in the uplifting air. She will fall into the well and it will be over with. It will be nothing, at last.
…
Through the hiss and the roar of the conflagration, Egg hears Kathy calling her name. The embers fly upward like a buzzing horde and the fire, the ripple waves of heat, how the flames claw up the planks like some living, writhing creature.
Egg stares at the devouring shades of orange, the bright flash flare as the beams groan and shudder. Her eyes burn as she draws herself tighter, the air blisters, and it’s like her skin is being torn away.
“Egg!”
Kathy is there, by the side slant roof, the ladder holding her, but the roof, eaten away by the flames — she cannot come any closer.
“Egg!” Kathy screams.
No no no, this is not part of the plan. Egg sees Kathy, as she tries to climb onto the side roof, that burst of flame as her arm breaks through the wood, a wince and fumble as Kathy hangs onto the ladder.
Kathy looks afraid.
And then Egg knows. Kathy, she will try, she will die trying, always to save her. She will make herself weak so that Egg can be strong.
Kathy would do that for her. Because she loves her.
Kathy reaches, arms stretched out. “Help me, Goddamnit!”
It’s not fair, this life, the meanness, the daily tests that we cannot help but fail. The flames cackle, a mocking howl as Egg whimpers. No, she cannot do it, she cannot be strong.
The flames whip around her. The whirlwind.
But Egg.
She can be Egg.
She rises. She can feel the scorching heat, the oily soot-ash against her cheeks. No. She will show them. The girl with the bat’s wings, she will fly, faster than the speed of light, over the hoodoos and coulees that surround Bittercreek, over the barren flat plains, over the jagged-toothed Rockies. Damn the old trestle bridge, the wars and famines, and all the disasters of Biblical proportions. Damn the beasts of Revelation, the fear and the terror of the Bittercreek gang, Leviticus and Romans too. Against the whirlwind, she will be herself. Egg runs towards the crawl space window, through the thick, blackened air, she jumps across the side shed roof into her sister’s arms. Kathy grabs her in a dizzying embrace, a clashing fall as the ladder topples back, the sudden smack of cool earth, the wisp of a cool dewfall night.
Mama rushes forward, the strangled cries twisting in her throat. She clutches Egg, her grip almost hurting. Her face is streaked with tears, her eyes still wild and bewildered. She grabs Egg by the shoulders and stares into her face.
“My baby.” Her Mama’s eyes, shining through her tears. “My baby.” Mama holds her. She will not let Egg go.
“Egg.”
Mama looks up and Egg follows her gaze. Her father staggers towards them, clothes singed, his face smeared with ash. His hands go to Egg’s head, stroking down her hair.
“Egg, Egg . . .” It is all that he can say.
…
Egg lies in her bed, wrapped up in her favourite blanket. She can barely keep her eyes open but the feel of Kathy’s hand, stroking back her hair, is comforting — she can’t quite let go. Her hair is still damp from the bath and she wonders if she will have to pee. Everyone knows that if you go to bed with a wet head, you will pee during the night. On the walls of her bedroom, Egg sees the reflected lights of the fire truck. The wheels grind against the rough stones in the drive.
The red flashes pull away.
Kathy is all shadows. She must be angry, Egg thinks. She can feel the tremor through the bed, Kathy’s hand gripping the sheet.
“Why did you do it?” Kathy’s voice is rough, abraded. Egg can hear her biting down at the end.
There is a strange, choking noise in the dark. Finally, Kathy says, “You can’t leave me, you know. And Nekoneko, she’d be lonely.”
Egg sits up. Her sister is weeping. Kathy, who never cries, who takes on all her battles, who puts up her dukes and never backs down. Kathy, who hates the weak, who would keep her secrets until the day she dies. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Kathy chokes.
Egg wants to tell her that there are no sorrys, it’s not her fault, it’s nobody’s fault at all, and it hits her that maybe this could be true. “It’s all right,” Egg whispers and strokes back Kathy’s hair. Kathy sobs, tears damp against Egg’s shoulder, a body shudder that breaks down all the sadness, all the grief. Her sister loves her. And even through her tears, Egg knows that she has done something right.
May
Egg sits on the steps of the library, her bookbag beside her. She looks to the empty playground as the late afternoon sun crawls over her shoulder. Today is Kathy’s basketball day. Today the scout has come all the way from the east. Kathy is inside the gym, practising with her team. Egg takes a deep breath. She must be ready just in case her big sister needs her. The bright yellow school bus for the Sand River Scorpions pulls up at the parking lot with a rattle and a whinge. Egg can tell it is the Scorpions because of the long red spider-thing stinger painted on the side of the bus. The girls scramble out of the bus, wearing their jackets of white and red. Their crest is a scorpion’s tail, curved like the fancy swords in all the novels with wizards and elves and dragons. Egg is fascinated. They huddle in a circle, hunched, a low chant which builds, exploding into a “Scorpions — Sting!” with fists raised, a jumping jack. But Egg thinks that they are not so much different than the Bittercreek team. Egg checks her watch. She loves the heavy feel of the metal on her wrist. Papa’s watch but she is just borrowing it. She is going to make a sundial for her science project but this ticktock is good enough for now.
…
When Egg steps into the gym, the booming echo hits her like a wave, the chatter of the people in the bleachers, the high-pitched whistle of the referee. All of Bittercreek is here, along with a good chunk of Sand River for the basketball finals. Egg sees the sign — Bittercreek Eagles versus the Sand River Scorpions. Principal Crawley and Ms. Chapman sit in the first tier of seats. Vice Principal Geary staggers by the rear doors, as Coach Wagner paces the line. Where is the scout? What does a scout look like?
Egg
searches the court. Her breath is high in her throat.
She sees her sister. Kathy runs down the court in that sideways stride. At the end line, she shakes out her hands, her fingers flexing. Egg calls out to her, waving her arm as high as she can. Kathy waves back, her finger pointing towards the bench. Egg takes a seat by Coach Wagner. Kathy has saved her a special place so Egg won’t miss anything.
The Scorpions’ captain, with the name Thornton emblazoned on the back of her uniform, walks to the side court, hands on her hips. The other team looks bigger, taller, but Kathy has told her that size is not everything. Equal and opposite may not be so equal and opposite. Egg spies someone standing by Principal Crawley’s side: a small white man in a canary-yellow bow tie, his suit a herringbone grey. Could it be the scout from the east with a scholarship in his back pocket?
Tweetie Bird, she thinks.
Kathy and the Scorpion captain stand at the centre. The tipoff, Egg remembers.
Bittercreek blue and Sand River red. At the blast of the whistle, the players gather like a fist and then an open palm: clutch and then scatter. The crowd roars as the ball goes into play, back and forth, a feint, and dribble.
Egg’s stomach crunches up.
A hand cups her shoulder. Egg looks up to see Evangeline smiling at her. Evangeline, in a dress of purple violets. Egg thinks of Albert. He would have loved to see his sister take on the Scorpions for the championship finals. Egg straightens her back, her throat constricting. Yes, that would have been nice. Albert is gone gone gone but Papa’s back in the house, fixing up the ostrich barn with Jack Henry, and Mama has poured all the whiskey down the drain. Mama still cries but her hugs are tighter now.
Egg holds the tug at her chest. She thinks of blue whales and bumblebee bats. Heroes and dragons and Damsels Fair. She thinks of Rumpelstiltskin who wanted to be known and loved. She wants a world with Anne Frank in it.
Egg looks over the crowd. She sees Mrs. Figgis, whose brother was killed in Burma, Ms. Chapman, with her Russian novels. Martin Fisken squirms on the bench, his ear twisted by his big brother Doug. By the doors, little Jimmy Simpson bounces on his toes; his gait reminds Egg of the penguin’s walk.
It makes Egg wonder how Bittercreek can be so small and so big at the same time. A kaleidoscope’s twist will always surprise you. Against the universe, the Earth is a tiny speck but somewhere out there, Raymond makes his way in the world. Mrs. Ayslin, too, without her sunglasses.
A cheer ricochets from wall to wall. Kathy has just landed her first basket. Egg screams as loud as she can, “Go, Kathy go!”
Kathy beams at the crowd; she has heard Egg’s call. Egg waves and Kathy catches it. She nods, giving her a thumbs-up and a smile. With the scout in the stands, she must be all butterflies but still she has a moment for her sister.
Next September, her sister will be up and away, but away is not forever.
Nothing is forever. That’s what Newton says. Her notebook was lost in the fire, but she can start a new one.
The red and blue uniforms dart down the court. Sand River on the defensive! A tall player in red, the one with the long blond ponytail, bodychecks Kathy with a slam to the gut but Kathy is up before the ref can even call a foul. With two steps and a jump, the ball is back in Kathy’s hands. She sprints down the court, but Egg can see the point guard on her tail. Egg wants to scream Look out, Kathy! but Kathy jumps, twisting slightly, her elbow tucked under the throw, releasing the ball in a snap as she shoots up and out. Egg stares at the ball turning, the arc of its orbit.
The ball spins. Egg stands on her seat.
One shot and everyone watching.
Egg holds her breath and stretches out her arms. Like bumblebee bats. Like wings.
Acknowledgements
It is no small thing to believe in a book. I am grateful to all at Goose Lane Editions, especially my editor Bethany Gibson for her truly heroic efforts. Thanks to my family who have supported me for all these years (in Toronto and Vancouver) and my wonderful readers: Ilana Landsberg-Lewis, Terrie Hamazaki, Susan Mazza, Moni Kim, Andrea Chow, and Bo Yih Thom.
To my communities:
Tanya Thompson, Heather Hermant, Melina Young, Tina Garnett, Jennifer Marie Mason, Hiromi Goto, Nozomi Goto, Aruna Srivastava, Ashok Mathur, Sharon Proulx-Turner, the late Tiger Goto and his introduction to the Desert Wind Ranch (I learned everything about ostriches from the Rossmans — thank you! — so many years ago). To all at the Stephen Lewis Foundation for their encouragement and their own passionate work — Joanna Henry, my fellow Tater Crapauder, I am looking at you. Special thanks to Wayson Choy at the Humber School for Writers Summer Workshop, and my agent, Margaret Hart.
Linda Chen for knitting and New York.
The story of Egg originally popped up in Aritha Van Herk’s Creative Writing Class at the University of Calgary — I tip my hat to my friends and colleagues.
Ilana, Zev, and Yoav, you have given me so much.
Without Bo Yih, I would not have finished this book.
I would like to thank the Canada Council, the Ontario Arts Council Writers’ Reserve and Works in Progress, and the Toronto Arts Council for their financial support.
A Special Note on the Musical
and Literary Accompaniment
May I humbly acknowledge the different inspirations that have contributed to Prairie Ostrich: Elton John’s “Rocket Man,” David Bowie’s “Space Oddity,” Cat Stevens’s “Oh Very Young,” and Nancy Sinatra’s “Bang Bang,” along with Giacomo Puccini’s “Sola, Perduta, Abbandonata” and “O Mio Babbino Caro.”
Books inspire books and stories are built on stories. I first read Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl when I was struggling through my adolescence. Prairie Ostrich owes so much to that budding writer of the Secret Annex. Charlotte’s Web came much later in my life, but E.B. White made me love spiders. From the Mixed-Up Files of Basil E. Frankweiler to A Wrinkle in Time, I am beholden to so many novels, short stories, and poems. Thank you, all.
Author photo by Bo Yih Thom.
Born in Japan, raised in Canada, Tamai Kobayashi is a writer and screenwriter. She is also the author of two critically acclaimed story collections, Exile and the Heart and Quixotic Erotic, whose vivid, electric prose drew high praise from readers and critics alike. Prairie Ostrich is her first novel.
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