Tesseracts Twelve: New Novellas of Canadian Fantastic Fiction

by Claude Lalumiere

  He emerged with an overnight bag. He would not look at her.

  “Wait,” Natasha croaked. Her voice was low, rusty. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Wait. Can I say something first?”

  He stood in the doorway. He still would not look at her. His eyes were fixed off in the distance — at the front door, perhaps. He shook his head. “It’s too late to talk. You’re too late. I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

  “Listen, please,” she said. She clenched and twisted the bedcovers in her fingers. Her knuckles were white. “You’d want me to listen to you, wouldn’t you?” He had not heard her, or was ignoring her. He walked away, his receding body framed by the door.

  “Listen,” she called out. “He slept in the bathtub that night. He slept in the bathtub that night.”

  Paul stopped at last. He turned around. “What?”

  “I didn’t know anything about dogs,” she said. “So he slept in the bathtub that night.”

  “What are you talking about? What dog? Was there a dog here?” he asked. He put down the bag.

  “Come here,” she said, “and I’ll tell you the story.”

  He sat down at the foot of the bed. Natasha looked down at her hands. She could not look at him and speak at the same time.

  She started to tell him a story about a stubborn woman and her enchanted dog. When the story didn’t seem long enough to hold his attention, she added stories within the story. She told him stories of deception and betrayal, of love and lust. She told him stories of clever women, silly women, harlots and virgins and bitches, Girl Fridays and femme fatales, each one defined by how they interact with men. She told him stories about a woman who did not know what to feel or how to act because she did not want to be one of those clichés.

  She threw in a couple of parades. There were always parades in these stories; they were an opportunity for the storyteller to be especially fanciful, and they made for entertaining filler. She alluded to the exotic and the erotic whenever it seemed like he was losing interest. She talked and talked, desperate to fill that long, brooding quiet between dusk and dawn, desperate to save her life.

  The stories only had to last until sunrise, when everything would look different in daylight. And if they could not come to an understanding by morning, there was always another morning, and another morning after that.

  Ringing the Changes in Okotoks, Alberta

  Randy McCharles

  The following is a true story, though if you ask the inhabitants of the township of Okotoks, Alberta, they will deny it. Small town folk are like that. They like to keep their business to themselves.

  The Summer Solstice Fling

  Litha: June 21

  “Now,” said Mayor Abigail Smyth-Jones in her this is serious business voice, “on to the Summer Fling Festival. I understand that the catering has been confirmed and that the Wild Welsh Trio has agreed to provide music and organize the Participation Dancing.”

  “Yes!” growled George Stromley, rising from his seat and hammering the table top. “About the Summer Fling!”

  Terry Sutton looked up from the paperback novel he was reading and scrutinized George’s demeanour. What he saw suggested that the next few minutes might be worth paying attention to.

  George rarely showed up at Town Council meetings, and when he was pressured into coming he usually sat in a sullen huff. If George didn’t own half the town he’d be dropped from the council like a rancid apple. But now here George stood in all his glory, thunder-faced and damaging the table.

  “Carter Donaldson,” George nodded at the stringy-haired scarecrow sitting next to him, “was friend enough to show me the festival agenda you handed out at the last meeting.”

  Mayor Abigail shook her head as though scolding a child. “If you had been here last week, George, you would have received your own copy.”

  “That’s not the issue,” said George, hefting Carter’s agenda and blindly prodding it with a thick finger. “There’s changes here from our usual festival. And, for the life of me, I can’t understand them.”

  When no-one jumped in to explain the changes, Terry got worried. Explaining town politics to George was one of the council’s favourite pastimes, but now even Mayor Abigail looked apprehensive. On impulse, Terry thumbed through his own agenda, untouched since he had received it — the festival was a no-brainer, after all. He found George’s bone of contention tucked in between the BBQ and the Participation Dancing.

  “A twilight run through the forest?” George shouted. “Naked?”

  “It is a summer solstice tradition,” Mayor Abigail explained, though without much courage. “Just a short run. More of a jog, really. Five, ten minutes tops. Through the trees by the river.”

  “Naked?” demanded George.

  “Is this a Blackfoot tradition?” inquired Eleanor Woodhouse, who knew more about the Blackfoot Indians than anyone and should not have needed to ask.

  “It’s … Celtic,” replied Abigail.

  “Celtic,” said Eleanor, her large, green eyes widening beneath short blond bangs. “Is that tribe related to the Blackfoot?”

  “They’re in England,” offered Carter. “They have nothing to do with the Blackfoot.”

  “Wales, actually,” said Newman Porter, the council intellectual. “And they very well could be related to the Blackfoot. It is theorized that Native Americans originally came from parts of Europe and Asia—”

  George hammered the table for silence and stared Mayor Abigail down. “Naked?”

  “The citizens will never go for it,” asserted Carter. “Some of the high-school kids, perhaps, but I really don’t think—”

  “Why,” demanded George, “would you even suggest that the good people of Okotoks go running naked through the woods?”

  Abigail blinked. “Oh, no, George. You’ve got it all wrong. No-one is going to be asked to run naked.”

  George wiped his knuckles across his brow and lowered himself back into his chair. “That’s a relief. For a while there I though you had ODed on Valium.”

  Mayor Abigail clenched her teeth. “Just the Town Council needs to do the run.”

  “Not on your life!” exclaimed Eleanor, her cheeks reddening.

  “When Hell freezes over,” said Carter.

  “What’s this all about?” asked Terry. He could think of a thousand better ways to spend a Thursday evening than imagining his co-councillors in the buff. Well, Eleanor he could imagine. “What does Okotoks care about ancient Celtic customs?”

  Mayor Abigail’s face turned almost as red as Eleanor’s. “You’ll recall during the election that I made certain campaign promises—”

  “To run naked through the woods?” George objected again.

  Abigail gave George the evil eye. “To do everything in my power to ensure a good harvest for the local farmers.”

  “Ah,” said Terry, the light at last dawning. Politics, the first and foremost cause of every senseless decision. “And I gather this forest streaking business is necessary in order to ensure the harvest?”

  “Our, uh, New Age advisor swears by it,” said Abigail.

  “I see,” said Terry. “This would be Madam Peasgoody, the Irish herbalist in that four-by-six boutique across from the Teahouse?”

  Mayor Abigail nodded. “Actually, Madam Peasgoody is from Wales.”

  “It doesn’t matter where she’s from,” growled George. “She’s nuttier than a fruitcake.”

  “A total loon,” said Carter.

  “The farmers trust her,” Mayor Abigail explained in her this is serious business voice.

  “Then let the farmers drop their drawers,” suggested George. “This is the most insane thing I’ve ever heard. Correction. The second most insane.” He shook the festival agenda at her. “After the twilight run we’re to sacri
fice a goat to some unnamed goddess.”

  “Will this be a live or a dead goat?” inquired Newman.

  “What difference does it make?” said George. “I’m not sacrificing any kind of goat, especially not to some heathen goddess!”

  Newman adjusted his glasses. “It makes all the difference in the world. Dead goats are virtually meaningless. Why, take the Phoenicians—”

  George shook his head and buried his face in his hands. “This is why I refuse to come to council meetings.”

  He had a point, thought Terry, glancing at his watch. At this rate they’d be here all night. “Look,” he said. “What’s the worst that could happen if we don’t do this nude jogging thing and conveniently forget to strangle a goat?”

  Mayor Abigail pushed the current Farmer’s Almanac across the table. “Drought. El Niño is going to fry the Prairies this summer.”

  Everyone stared at the Almanac; for most of their constituents the red and yellow weather book was holier than the Bible.

  “Okay,” said Terry. “And if we do as Madam Peasgoody suggests? What’s the worst that could happen then?”

  “We wind up looking like a collection of boneheads!” asserted George.

  “Apparently,” stated Mayor Abigail, “other communities have celebrated solstice with enormous success.”

  “I refuse to believe it. Who?” demanded George.

  Taber’s been doing it for years,” said Abigail. “And this year Pincher Creek is giving it a whirl.”

  “Bunch of loons in Taber,” said Carter.

  “Pincher Creek is worse,” muttered Newman.

  There were nods of agreement around the table.

  “Well,” said Terry, offering his most winsome smile. “It all sounds pretty harmless to me. I’m game.”

  George stared at him. “Are you crazy?”

  Terry shrugged. “It’s good politics. Besides, it’s something to do. We could use some excitement around here.”

  Though the sun had dipped behind the Rocky Mountains there was still plenty of light along the river, most of it originating from the giant bonfire in Sheep River Park, where the town residents had been flinging it up all evening. Near the riverside, the bushes gave a quiet rustle and Terry Sutton’s disembodied head poked out, his quick eyes scanning the distance to the bonfire.

  Satisfied that the crowd’s attention was otherwise engaged, he trotted out of the forest, naked as you please, and stopped at the gnarled mosaic known as the Sweetheart Oak for the collection of Jimmy loves Susans etched into its trunk. Plucking down one of the ankle-length robes that adorned the oak’s lower branches, Terry hastily dressed himself.

  Eleanor had arrived only moments ahead of him and sat huddled on the nearby bench, wrapped up tight in terrycloth and breathing rapidly. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life!” She lifted her green eyes to Terry. “How did I ever let you talk me into this?”

  “It’s for a good cause,” Terry answered cheerfully as he cinched the belt of his robe.

  Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Cause? What cause?”

  Terry smiled. “Ours. Remaining in office. Besides, no-one got hurt.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the noise of an elephant tramping out of the trees. Well, actually it was George, who snatched down one of the sweetheart oak robes and began wiping his face with it. “Did either of you see that monster deer in there?” he demanded.

  “Really?” said Terry. “With all the music and dancing I can’t imagine a deer sticking around.”

  George threw his robe onto the bench beside Eleanor and stretched his arms above his head, curling his fingers in a poor imitation of antlers. “It was a huge stag, taller than me, and its fur looked more like long, dirty hair. And its face — ugly as sin!”

  “Now, George,” said Terry. “Really. Sounds more like you saw Carter—”

  “Saw me where?” said Carter, sidling out of the trees holding an uprooted bush in front of his essentials. He hastily traded the shrub for a robe.

  George lowered his arms and pressed his fists against his hips. “It wasn’t Carter, or any of the rest of you. It was a huge, butt-ugly, stag deer … or some kind of monster.”

  “Speaking of butts,” said Terry. “You might consider putting on your robe. Poor Eleanor here is ready to faint with embarrassment.”

  George looked at Eleanor, at his own nakedness, then snapped up his robe and huffed off into the trees. “I’m going to find that deer. Then you’ll see.”

  “I’ve seen quite enough already, thank you,” murmured Eleanor.

  Mayor Abigail Smyth-Jones and Newman Porter soon slipped out of the trees and clothed themselves. All the bathrobes were either yellow, green, or blue — solstice colours, according to Peasgoody. The mayor’s New Age advisor had permitted no other colours for the Summer Fling. Eleanor had nearly burst into tears when she saw the neon-yellow table napkins.

  Mayor Abigail did a quick head count. “All told and accounted for,” she said. “Except for George — no surprise there. Has anyone seen George?”

  “He went deer hunting,” said Eleanor. “But he did do the run, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Eleanor’s telling you the naked truth,” said Terry.

  “Isn’t that George over there with Peasgoody?” said Carter. “I thought Peasgoody was supposed to sacrifice a goat.”

  Next to the festival bonfire stood a mountain of hay that Peasgoody had told them was supposed to be a Wicker Man. Of course, wicker was an expensive commodity in these parts, while hay was cheap as, well, hay. Abigail had talked long and loud about budgets, and in the end Peasgoody had granted that it wasn’t so important what the Man was made of, just so long as it burned. Terry had stopped trying to make sense of it all when Peasgoody insisted that the BBQ tables be decorated with lavender, daisies, and lilies — solstice flowers.

  And now, here was Peasgoody again, leading George with a rope about his neck into the goat pen Terry himself had helped build inside the Hay Man.

  “Has that woman got a criminal record?” asked Carter.

  “Where,” Newman demanded, squinting through his glasses, “is my goat? I went to a lot of trouble getting it. Have any of you the slightest idea how people react when you tell them you need a goat so that you can burn it alive at the Summer Fling? My reputation will never recover.”

  “Peasgoody is locking the pen!” cried Eleanor. She looked desperately at Terry. “Aren’t you going to rescue George?”

  Terry stared at Eleanor. “Rescue? Uh, sure, but, that Hay Man could go up any second. And hay burns like, well, hay. And this is George we’re talking about.”

  Mayor Abigail slumped onto the bench beside Eleanor, her face ghastly white even in the poor light. She said, “I can see the headlines now: Okotoks Mayor Commits Human Sacrifice during Public Festival. Explains She Was Trying to Make It Rain.”

  Terry looked back at the Hay Man, weighing Eleanor’s favour against his personal safety. The whole idea was vaguely insane. Eleanor hated George. Following one of their frequent altercations she would gladly strike the match herself. If he did somehow manage to rescue George, Eleanor’s brief admiration would soon become disdain for not letting the wretch burn.

  Then, all at once, Terry’s mind was made up for him as the night sky erupted with yellow light. Peasgoody, robed and wreathed, stood swaying before the blazing Hay Man, her voice raised in supplication to a goddess whose name no-one seemed to know. He imagined George screaming from what was fast becoming a funeral pyre, only he knew it was just his imagination. George’s screaming, like his yelling and his fist-pounding, would be hard to miss.

  “Judas Priest!” cried George, standing beside Terry. “Will you look at that hay burn!”

  “George?” said Carter. “What are you doing here? You�
��re supposed to be inside the Wicker Man.”

  “It’s a Hay Man,” corrected Newman. “And, George, if you don’t tell me this instant where my goat is, I’ll toss you into the fire myself.”

  George stared at them. “What the devil are you all talking about? I’ve been out looking for that stag. And you can keep your flaming goats.”

  “Did you find it?” asked Terry. “Your monster stag?”

  George’s eyes glazed over in the yellow light from the twin bonfires. “I … yes, I think so. I’m certain I did. It was … huge. Tall. And old Peasgoody was there. And a goat?”

  “Aha!” said Newman. “I knew you were messing with my goat!”

  In a sudden fit of compassion, or perhaps his subconscious was still hoping to impress Eleanor, Terry took George by the arm and led him toward the parking lot. “I’m going to see George home,” he said. “I suggest the rest of you go home, too. We’ve all had a full night. I think.”

  “I’ll see Abigail home,” said Eleanor, helping the mayor to stand. Ms Smyth-Jones was still white in the face from having witnessed the supposed end of her career.

  Where’s George?

  Samhain: October 31

  “The Autumn Harvest Frolic,” announced Mayor Abigail Smyth-Jones in her this is serious business voice, “will have a few changes. It will take place a week later than usual, on October 31st.”

  “Samhain Night,” interjected Newman, who was still looking for his goat even though two months had passed and George still rarely showed up for Town Council meetings.

  Mayor Abigail continued. “After the Corn Bake and Participation Dancing, the Town Council will take the ten-minute drive out to the Big Rock, where we will bury apples in the field. Madam Peasgoody will have a large, black cauldron…”

  Terry sat back in his chair and shook his head. Lighting candles in windows and burying a few apples in a field all sounded harmless enough. But this Peasgoody woman — what to make of her?