From somewhere in the middle of the crowd, a voice shot up like a geyser, impatient, fevered, hungry: “A THOUSAND DOLLARS!”
“TWO THOUSAND!” came a faceless reply.
“Good people,” said Dale Westin, “let’s take a moment to —”
“FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS!”
“TEN!”
“TWELVE!”
“TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS!”
“THE HAM FOR MAYOR!”
“THE HAM IS THE ANTICHRIST!”
For a moment, it looked as though things were about to spin out of control, the bids coming fast, crazed, from all directions, order slowly beginning to dissolve in a squirming ataxia of desire. But then, at a crucial moment, just as the bellowing of ever-larger sums threatened to become incoherent, one cry rose up above all else to pierce through the white noise like a rusty nail speared through an overstuffed sausage. Bidders and watchers and objectors and worshippers alike turned to see, fighting his way through the crowd with zombie resolution and holding aloft some blackened, sinewed trophy of his own, the lurching form and burning eyes of Jeff Stooley, the church caretaker. As they had done with Sister Boultbee, as they had done with Dale Westin and the ham, the crowd once again parted to let this madness pass through them and make its way to the gazebo, where Dale Westin stood, awestruck.
“Why, Jeff,” he said, seeming completely at a loss as to how to receive this man who had helped him procure the ham but was clearly too ignorant to be affected by its charms. “What have you got there?”
At this, Jeff Stooley, ravaged by guilt and shame and rye whiskey, tossed his prize up onto the platform, arcing it through the air like a sack of gold pillaged from a treasure hoard. As the sun shone on its mottled form, those near the front of the crowd recognized it — although only one woman, whose name is unknown, was able to fight through the revulsion that had welled up in her chest like molten fire to scream out and let the world know what Jeff Stooley had chucked up to a rolling stop at the base of the plinth that held the infamous pink supper.
“Good Lord Jesus!” she cried. “It’s the head of Ted Kersey himself!”
And so it was — the nose pushed in and trailing skeins of rotten flesh, the hair bristling like barbed wire, the eye sockets hollow black pits that stared up at Dale Westin with naked recognition, saying in silent doom, I can see you. With that one first scream now avalanching into a raving, deafening, uncontrolled thrum of terror and frenzy all around him, Dale Westin looked deep into the dismembered head’s cavernous gaze, and smiled.
Newspaper reports of the subsequent incident variously focused on the arrest of Jeff Stooley, the culpability of the Church, or the overriding grotesquerie of the event. Its central totems and mysteries were buffered to the point of inconsequence by various sidebars, personal accounts, editorials, and outright fictions. Video footage of the grim hours following the unceremonious deposit of Ted Kersey’s head at the foot of the gazebo focused almost exclusively on the different acts of violence that the crowd thus began inflicting on one another, the final release of accumulated tension that had been haunting these normally placid and contented folk for the duration of a blighted Easter season. One cameraman managed to capture Sister Mary Beth Boultbee casting her wimple aside and clawing her way down the steps of the gazebo, heading with holy fury toward the doors of St. Ignatius. Later, when the Sister was interviewed on camera, she had precious little to say beyond announcing that she intended to request a relocation to someplace where people still feared the Lord and lived sane and wholesome lives.
Of course, the most analyzed and debated and frequently viewed piece of footage, captured by a cameraman from a downtown news channel, was the one tiny segment that gave the only hint of what might have actually happened — never verifiable due to a vantage point that was obscured by a stray foot, or a storm of fists, or a body lurching into the frame — the atrocity that many believe to have occurred, but which not a single soul in or within a hundred kilometres of Dufferin County will agree to speak of in anything more than the vaguest and most cautious of tones. The brief, infamous shot showed Dale Westin — seeming to vibrate and hum at the same low, sacrosanct frequency that had come from the Kersey Ham as he’d borne it up onto the steps of the gazebo — smiling his curious smile, raising one hand to wave at the crowd that was tearing itself apart in front of his eyes, and placing the other, slowly and with something like reverence, on the glazed surface of the ham.
Forensics detectives, holy men called in from Rome, psychics, seers, and Sheriff John Bays Jr. all saw this footage, and were given full access to the gazebo and its grounds in the rueful days after the riots had finally subsided. But although all could plainly see the great glittering leg bone of the ham lying in the dirt, nested among tattered bits of partisan signage, none could find any trace, not a hair nor a thread of high-quality silk, nor a stray molar capped in silver, of the man called Dale Westin.
5. The events of that spring gave Dufferin County and the town of Bedford a lasting infamy, a pall of the macabre that made visitors driving through on their way to their cottages shiver when passing the town square. A newly launched Ghost Walk, which concluded at the famous gazebo, fast became Bedford’s number one tourist attraction. Tabloids hounded Sister Mary Beth Boultbee — who, among everyone, was surely the most deserving of a little peace and dignity — even after she transferred to a parish in Belleville, some three hours east. The newshounds followed her there, and for months she was unable to walk to the laundromat without being photographed, harangued, accused of ignoble intentions, heresy, and witchcraft, and reminded over and over of the ugly depths of mud and blood and meat into which the church she loved had sunk. From the window of his small room in the Headwaters Mental Health Centre, Jeff Stooley watched the reporters who stalked at the gates, begging for access, for a full three seasons after he was admitted.
The Free Muskrat chose to ignore the story entirely, deeming it ghastly and best consigned to the compost heap of memory. The week after the riot, with the gazebo still lying in ruins in the middle of the square, its front-page story was about the arrival of strawberry season and what this meant for the practice of effective bear safety.
In general, the Bedford Ham Riots left so many mysteries and loose ends in their wake that events soon became tangled in a morass of confusion, hearsay, and legend, and the reality of the nightmare began to dwindle and fade. The cottagers started arriving in town to buy groceries and supplies, not wanting their precious summers tainted by morbid scandal. The provincial police wanted nothing more than to go back to forgetting that places like Bedford exist at all, save the occasional case of drunken boating or hunting without a licence, and their officers soon disappeared from town, leaving Sheriff John Bays Jr. to assure any who inquired that there was nothing to worry about, he had matters under control, and in the end wasn’t it always better if folks just minded their own beeswax, anyhow.
Yet, again, one story lingered among the locals. Although the town was eager to put the past behind it, one big question bit at them like an invisible mosquito hovering around and buzzing in their ears until they’d slap themselves ineffectually, unsure of what they’d heard.
Everyone wondered: what had happened to Dale Westin?
Speculation ran rampant as to the fate of the doomed ex-CEO from the city, who had so briefly but intensely emerged to turn the dials of Bedford’s fate as easily as one adjusts the colour on an old television to a garish extreme. Officially, the case remained open, with not a lick of evidence to suggest that he had indeed met his demise among the ham-crazed throngs of the St. Ignatius Annual Easter Picnic Auction. Some believed he had gone back to the city to find solace in the private clubs and office towers from which he’d come. Others claimed he’d taken to the woods to wander like a shaman, existing half in the corporeal world and half in the realm of the spirits, to take stock of the doings of the spruce trees and the squirrels and those lost in the forest, and to win dominion over them.
But the
popular opinion among those who’d been at the auction that day was that Dale Westin had somehow fused with the Kersey Ham, his flesh becoming integrated into the sweet honeyed meat, so that the man and his prized specimen, his symbol of country virtue, his tangible and delectable campaign promise, had become a single being some moments before the ham had been ravenously torn to shreds and ingested by those under its spell, and as such that he now literally lived within the people of Dufferin County, like a tapeworm or a deity, guiding their lives and feeding off their goodness and greed, intervening in their love lives and causing runs of good and bad luck, plenty and want. Still others, dismissing the preceding explanation as the product of a collective imagination perverted by too much Hollywood trash, were certain that Dale Westin was still hiding up at his lodge next to the Kersey farm, given over to life as the town recluse — although this theory became less plausible after, on top of a big FOR SALE sign going up out front of the padlocked gates, the town election came to pass, yielding its strange and troubling results.
In dealing with outsiders, the residents of Dufferin County had largely taken their cue from the Muskrat, forming a silent covenant that forbade open discussion of matters best forgotten. So it was nothing short of flabbergasting to the world at large when, on the night of the municipal elections, by a margin of nearly 65 per cent and with the highly unusual distinction of having garnered all of its votes as a write-in candidate, the winner was none other than — as the voters had unanimously christened it — the Last Ham. This caused chaos among town administrators, who at first saw no way to uphold the results, objecting that the Last Ham was now nothing but a leftover shank bone and a bit of attached femur, hardly fit to occupy public office. Their objections were met with silence from the townspeople: not the hush of consent, but a sharp and furious silence, loaded with the threat of wolves in captivity whose hunger has gone unanswered for too long and who are ready to make a meal of their master. After six town council meetings and much backroom discussion, it was ultimately decided that the result would stand. The incumbent, Mayor McMurrich, was allowed to retain a position as deputy mayor, in charge of acting as a liaison between the ham and the people. The bone from the Last Ham was placed in a glass box in the foyer of City Hall, where all televised press conferences, public meetings, and other matters of government are now conducted.
Last week, a SOLD sticker appeared on the sign hanging outside Dale Westin’s lodge — identical to the one that appeared, on the very same day, on the matching sign out front of the abandoned Kersey farm (and let it be said that no one begrudges Helen Kersey the money she’ll need to rebuild her life in Los Angeles). As for the buyer, the identity hasn’t yet been revealed — but there’s a rumour that says the two properties have been purchased by the same entity. They say the land will be razed and that an outdoor mall of big-box stores will go in, to service the cottagers who’ve reached retirement age and want to spend their golden years in the comfort of their winterized retreats. They say it’ll bring a new world of convenience and prosperity to Dufferin County, that it will create jobs and lower taxes, that the economy will grow like never before. They say construction will begin in the fall. They say the mayor’s office has already approved the deal.
Lehaki Sinking
Atiu crouched by the trickling stream, poking a branch into the water to prod at a huge crab hunkered in the mud. The palm leaves rustled above, scattering glyphs of light across the water’s surface, whispering a caution the boy could not yet hear. Saying, Listen: there is no luck to be found in this stream snaking in from the ocean. No good fortune in the rills cutting so close to your house, closer every day.
Viliamu leaned in the doorway, watching his son. Atiu’s knees were still knobby like a child’s, but his shoulders were beginning to grow wide beneath his T-shirt. Next month, he’d turn twelve. Twelve years since the gods had made a barter of Viliamu’s life: his wife, Syda, in exchange for a son.
A breath of wind swept scents of plumeria and hibiscus into Viliamu’s nostrils, cloaking the musk of mouldy wood and sewage that had permeated the island air for months. He breathed in the flowers’ perfume, trying to hold on to it for longer than the breeze allowed. His mind reached for other scents, all rarer now than they should be: taro fried in coconut oil, shrimp fresh from the bay, ahi wrapped in banana leaf and grilled over hot coals. Essences of the island, which Viliamu would always associate with Lehaki, no matter how high the water rose.
He felt guilt in his guts, the same pang that had clawed at him like a burrowing rat ever since he’d gotten the call, two weeks prior, from Baptiste, Syda’s cousin who worked as an aide to President Munan. For the hundredth time, Viliamu tried to smother his conscience with resolve. He had no idea what mess he might be making for Atiu to clean up. But he had to try something — that was decided — and though he could see little hope in the plan, it was still better than waiting around for men in tailored suits to come and place death in his son’s hands like a rotting fish.
Viliamu’s pocket whirred to life. He glanced at his watch. Right on time. He pulled out the old Motorola that Baptiste had given him, shook his head, and snapped the phone open.
“The plane is on schedule,” said Baptiste’s tinny voice. “Hits the tarmac at noon. Be there half an hour before that. Once you have the Under-Secretary, come straight here. Official reception will be waiting at the front doors.”
The line clicked dead. Viliamu sighed. What was there to say, anyway? That no matter what orders the UN gave, he was beholden to the island of his birth, as his father had taught him? That welcoming these diplomats to Lehaki was like laying a red carpet for an armada come to spike the loam with pox-ridden flags? That all of this was an offence to Syda’s memory?
He looked once more at Atiu mounding wet sand from the shallow stream bed to form a ring of squat, ever-collapsing castles around the burrowing crab. Viliamu would go to him now and say that the VIP man was waiting. That he would be back late, very late. There was more, much more, but Viliamu had to trust that the palms would speak it for him. They were under siege, too. He whispered a quiet prayer for his son’s future before walking over to tell him that there was canned curry for dinner, and to remember to call his Aunt Teata in the next village in case of an emergency.
The palms had been saying much to Viliamu lately. Desperate words. Mad words. They lined the road to the capital, and Viliamu listened to their hissing breath, a fevered susurrus in the breeze. They had spoken to him of a dark shape on the horizon — a bad god, a boar with blood-slick fur and sulphur on its breath, that would come singing a comforting song while sharpening its tusks on the bones of Lehaki’s elders. Now, though, the trees’ sound was wordless, a low weeping, mourning the arrival of the Under-Secretary, who sat in the back of the scuffed white jeep, clammed up behind his black sunglasses, glowering out the window in silence and flicking sand off his Armani suit. Viliamu had been hired to ferry him incognito to the capital, where they would rendezvous with Baptiste and an entourage of three. It was a covert safety measure, decided on after some of the less subtle islanders spray-painted threats and curses to the UN on the side of the Government Building. Viliamu was the perfect choice. He’d driven dignitaries for Baptiste before, but much of Syda’s family saw him as a harmless rube. Jolly but simple, a bit pitiful. They’d never peg him the dangerous type.
The Under-Secretary was from Africa, some drought-ridden, war-torn republic on the South Atlantic. Viliamu had wondered how hard it would be to go through with everything if the man insisted on talking about his own family, or asking after Viliamu’s — whether he could carry out the plan, with Atiu’s name on his lips. But this dour messenger was easy to dislike, a bored spider wearing navy pinstripes in thirty-five-degree heat, occasionally glancing at the glowing brick of his phone and muttering about the Wi-Fi.
Viliamu checked the rearview mirror to see if the man noticed him taking the exit that led away from the capital, to the island’s interior. Nothing. The wh
ole UN, they had no sense of the island’s shape on the ground, knew it only from paper maps and prepared speeches. This man had never been to Lehaki before, was here only to proclaim its demise.
It wasn’t until Viliamu turned onto the dirt sidetrack, where the palms were so thick that they smacked the sides of the car in crazed applause, that the Under-Secretary spoke up.
“Is this the quickest way to the capital?” he said, in an accent tinged with British, Dutch. His brow furrowed like a squished pudding. “I understand there are serious infrastructure issues with the flooding, but I was told that the convoy was direct. My men are waiting, and the president will be eager to receive me.” He scratched the side of his chin with a long, cola-coloured ring finger.
Viliamu smiled and kept driving, as the car bounced over churned-up mud pits and fallen branches.
“Don’t worry!” he said, thickening his accent. “Almost there. We on island time!” He laughed and drove onward into the bush, projecting the dumb confidence that was expected of him. It seemed to calm the Under-Secretary, who sat back and settled into hammering at his phone. Always the damn phone, thought Viliamu. As though the whole world were in there, instead of all around them, in the sea air and the frigate birds soaring in the blue sky and the warmth of the cursed sun.
The Under-Secretary didn’t stir again until Viliamu rolled up in front of the little cinderblock hut, cranked the handbrake, and turned to him with the pistol in his hand, telling him to put his phone down and get out of the car slowly, if he wanted to keep his motherfucking guts inside his belly.
After that there was much talk.
“We understand your position,” said the Under-Secretary, much too calmly. “But you must understand ours. My visit is just a formality.”
Viliamu sat across from the man, pistol poised, while Kolone finished tying him to the chair. As soon as they’d gotten him inside under the bare bulb and ordered him to take off his blazer and sunglasses, Viliamu started seeing details he couldn’t afford to notice. Like how the man had a long, raised scar along his left cheek, and deep eyes that didn’t waver, even when Viliamu poked the muzzle of the gun right into his nose. Or how he spoke in a dry, rational tone that said he didn’t believe for a second that Viliamu would hurt him.
Different Beasts Page 14