Tesseracts Twelve: New Novellas of Canadian Fantastic Fiction

by Claude Lalumiere

  “Of course,” said Terry. “Thank you.”

  “The ceremony is about to begin,” announced Newman Porter, striding smartly toward them in his trimmed and brushed rent-a-tux from All Occasions on Main Street. Terry had asked Newman to be his best man, and Newman had strutted around town like a prize rooster ever since.

  He stopped dead when he saw the amulets around Eleanor and Terry’s necks. “My God! Those are pysanky eggs!” He squinted. “But they’ve got runes!” He stared at Peasgoody. “Can pysanky eggs have runes?”

  “These ones can,” said Peasgoody.

  Newman opened his mouth to debate the issue, but Peasgoody stopped him by raising her hands. “I have something for you, as well.”

  “For me?” Newman’s eyes went wide, and he took a step back.

  “I feel bad,” said Peasgoody, “about what George did to your goat. It was cruel and unkind.”

  “Well … yes,” mumbled Newman. He hadn’t spoken of his pet goat since George had roasted it for Christmas dinner. He hadn’t spoken to George since, either.

  Peasgoody reached into a sack near her feet and came back with a giant, white egg. It was larger than an ostrich egg. Newman was immediately intrigued and gladly accepted it.

  “It is a gift from the Goddess,” said Peasgoody. “Care for it well, and it will care for you in return.”

  Newman tapped at the shell with the tip of a finger. “This is too large to be real,” he said. He tapped again. “Only it is. This is real eggshell.”

  Peasgoody smiled and walked away.

  As if on cue the music for the Wedding March began. Newman gaped at Terry. “We’re supposed to be at the podium!” Newman tucked the oversized egg under one arm like a football and clutched Terry’s elbow with his free hand. Terry smiled at Eleanor as he allowed Newman to drag him away toward the altar.

  As they approached the back ranks of folding chairs they found George and Carter still arguing, their words growing louder and their gestures more animated. Nearby guests were abandoning their seats for vacant chairs elsewhere.

  “Don’t do it!” pleaded Carter.

  “I know what I’m doing,” George insisted.

  Terry pulled away from Newman’s urgent tugging in order to confront the two. He noted that George had a painted egg in either hand and that Carter was trying to wrest them from him. This was childish even for George.

  “Could you two take this elsewhere?” Terry suggested. “The wedding has started.”

  “George wants to hurl eggs at Peasgoody,” complained Carter.

  Terry stared at George. “At my and Eleanor’s wedding?”

  George raised his hands and blurted: “She’s done something. Bonfires and bells!” At that moment he must have tightened his fingers, for the egg in either hand burst, splattering yellow-brown goo all over his and Carter’s suit jackets. There was a stink of sulphur and ammonia. Miraculously, none of the spoiled yolk struck Terry or Newman.

  “Pee-ew,” cried Carter. Stumbling backward he knocked into George who in turn tripped over the egg basket, smashing a dozen painted eggs, also rotten, and knocking himself and Carter on top of the mess. The two men squirmed in the slippery puddle of putrid egg, unable to breathe for the bad air. Eventually they stumbled to their feet and ran toward the river as fast as their legs would carry them.

  Terry turned to Newman. “Eleanor invited them. Not me.”

  Newman sniffed at the broken eggs, then sniffed again. “Weren’t these eggs rotten a moment ago? They aren’t rotten now.”

  Terry pondered whether to inspect the broken and crushed Easter eggs or to continue on to the podium, where the minister was looking at him with impatience bordering on outrage. It was then that he noticed that the shell of the huge egg under Newman’s arm had a crack in it. “Newman, I think…”

  Newman staggered as enormous hunks of eggshell fell away, leaving a small, newborn animal shivering in his hands. Apart from a confusion of legs and a coat of grey fur, Terry couldn’t make out what the animal was. “That’s not a goat, is it?”

  “No,” said Newman, studying the beast. “I believe it’s a grey hare.” Sure enough, two long, fuzzy ears popped up and turned left then right like antennae, followed by a bewhiskered nose that twitched theatrically. Newman petted the animal’s soft fur and smiled. “And now it’s my grey hare.”

  This time it was Terry’s turn to grab Newman’s elbow. “Then let’s get you and your hare up to the podium. I’m getting married!”

  Apart from some splashing and angry shouts from the river, the ceremony went off without any further ado. Terry and Eleanor exchanged their vows and the best man’s rabbit was no fuss at all.

  The Rise of the Holly King

  Beltane: May 1

  Sheep River Park was turned out in carnival fashion. The Okotoks Youth Marching Band was in full swing, playing “The Happy Isle” in a crash of trumpets and drums. Children ran and shrieked in a game of tag, trailing helium-filled balloons in their wake. Young couples walked along the glades, hand-in-hand, with flowers in their hair. Near the cookhouse a group of farmers and their wives engaged in the time-honoured tradition of square dancing. Off toward the river an archery tournament was in progress.

  Terry Sutton and Eleanor Woodhouse climbed out of their shiny new Toyota Matrix station wagon and surveyed their domain.

  “It’s a good turnout,” suggested Terry.

  “Yes,” agreed Eleanor. “Who’d have thought the town would get so excited about celebrating so obscure a festival as May Day?”

  “May Day?” said Terry. “I thought we were celebrating your election as mayor.”

  Eleanor laughed. “I think the only one celebrating that is Abigail. I’m sure she secretly wanted to lose.”

  “I don’t see our ex-mayor here anywhere,” said Terry. “She may be the only one not celebrating today.”

  “Isn’t that George’s Christmas tree?” asked Eleanor.

  In the middle of the park a huge pine tree lay on its side. A crowd, mostly kids, stood in a loose circle around it.

  “It is a tree,” said Terry. “And a big one. What makes you think it’s George’s?”

  “I don’t know,” said Eleanor. “Just a feeling I have. Let’s go over and see what Peasgoody is up to now.”

  Within the circle of onlookers, Madam Peasgoody stood off to one side while Newman Porter and Sheriff Winslo hacked at branches with hand axes. Dry pine needles and shrivelled flower petals flew in all directions.

  Newman straightened and wiped his hand across his forehead. “This is hot work,” he said.

  “George’s tree?” asked Terry.

  “Yup,” said Newman.

  “Does he know?”

  “Nope.” Newman went back to swinging his axe.

  In short order the two men succeeded in removing all of the branches on the lower fifteen feet of the tree. Then Madam Peasgoody opened a bag and drew out several long ribbons. She tied them to the tree at the base of the remaining lowest branches, alternating red and white ribbons. Then Newman and Winslo, using a thick rope, levered the tree upright, its base sinking into a newly dug hole. When it was done, Newman pushed on the tree to straighten it while Winslo hammered shims into the hole near the tree’s base for support.

  When they were done Newman and Winslo stood back to appraise their work while Madam Peasgoody walked around the tree throwing flowers into the breeze. The ribbons fluttered around her like long skinny flags.

  Newman whispered to Terry: “Carter Donaldson says Peasgoody was up at midnight gathering flowers by the light of the moon. Do you believe it?”

  “It all looks pretty innocent to me,” answered Terry. “Is it some kind of May Pole dedication?”

  Newman shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Terry stared a
t him. He couldn’t remember the last time Newman said he didn’t know something.

  When she was done, Peasgoody invited people to take a ribbon end and dance around the tree. Someone in the crowd pulled out a flute and began a cheery tune.

  “Come on,” said Eleanor, taking Terry’s hand. “Let dance around the May Pole.”

  Peasgoody smiled when they approached, joining several others around the tree, most of them no more than ten years old.

  “The red ribbons are for the boys,” she said. “And white for the girls.”

  They were short a boy, so Newman got roped into dancing as well. He put up a fuss but in the end looked eager to give it a go.

  With the flute marking a steady beat, the eight dancers kicked up their heels and pranced around the pole, their ribbons twining together, drawing them all closer to the tree with each revolution. After a dozen or so orbits, the dancers all crashed into each other and fell laughing onto the grass.

  Terry was still frolicking in the grass with Eleanor when a shadow fell upon them. Terry looked up into George’s frowning face. “Are you and the new mayor having fun yet?” he asked.

  “Yes, we are,” Eleanor answer before Terry could say anything. “You should try it, George. It might help if you loosened up.”

  “I am plenty loose,” George said. “And I’m ready to meet Terry on the field of battle.”

  “What field of battle?” demanded Newman.

  George swung a big stick through the air, and from Terry’s perspective on the ground it looked very menacing indeed. “Softball,” said George. “I challenge Terry to a game of softball.”

  “Er,” said Newman. “Don’t you need nine people on a team for softball?”

  “Terry can pick his team,” George said. “I already have mine.” he pointed behind him to a crew of large, mean-looking men. Terry recognized a few of them from the High River YMCA. The others he didn’t recognize.

  The flute player stopped playing and silence descended on that corner of Sheep River Park. Terry finally decided what to say: “I guess I accept.”

  It took a while to find eight people willing to play against George and his minions. Eleanor immediately volunteered, of course. As did Newman, though he insisted he could neither throw nor catch. Carter Donaldson wasn’t tough enough to play on George’s team, so George appointed him umpire. The two teams drew straws, and George came up first at bat. He gave the five-pound length of white ash a few practice swings, then stood at the ready. His stance included a deep scowl and repeated spitting.

  Terry stood on the pitcher’s mound, squeezing the ball in his hand and flexing his arm in an attempt to limber up. He’d never been much good at baseball. As a pitcher he fairly stank. George, on the other hand, had once led the Okotoks High softball team to the regional championships. He would likely hit Terry’s first throw straight to Pincher Creek.

  “Batter, batter, batter, batter,” Newman shouted from the catcher’s position.

  “No talking,” said Carter, taking his role as umpire a little too seriously.

  Absently, Terry lifted his free hand to touch the pysanky-egg amulet Peasgoody had given him at Easter. It was supposed to be for protection, but maybe it was a good luck charm as well. After all, Eleanor had won the election, and Terry’s car dealership was booming.

  “Are you going to stand there all afternoon?” George shouted.

  “Batter, batter, batter, batter,” Newman repeated.

  George turned and waved his bat. “I’ll batter you if you don’t shut up.”

  “No talking,” said Carter. Then louder: “Let’s play ball!”

  George spun back into position and made ready to slam the ball to Montana.

  Terry wound back, took careful aim at Newman’s glove, and pitched. He tried to watch the flight of the ball, but all he saw was George’s evil grin. Terry could swear there was drool leaking out of the side of George’s mouth.

  From the edge of his vision, Terry saw the bat begin its swing. He anticipated the sound of the wood and the ball connecting, but, in reality, what he heard sounded somewhat softer. Then the bat flew out of George’s hands, the ball fell to the plate at his feet, and George collapsed in a heap.

  Carter was at his friend’s side in an instant. “I think his nose is broken,” he shouted.

  Newman flipped up his catcher’s mask and raised his right hand in a high five. “He’s out!” he cried.

  Carter stood and jabbed Newman in his shoulder pad. “You can’t call outs. That’s my job.”

  Newman just grinned at him. “Then do your job.”

  Carter looked down at George, lying still in the dirt, blood streaming from his nose staining home plate red. “He’s out,” Carter shouted, then in a softer voice, “out cold.”

  A cheer went up from the crowd.

  As the ambulance drove off with George, Newman walked up to Terry and Eleanor. “Looks like the battle’s over.” He shook Terry’s hand. “To the victor goes the spoils.”

  “There are spoils?” asked Terry.

  Newman grinned. “If you ask me, sending George to the hospital is spoils enough.”

  “I feel kind of guilty beaning George in the head like that. I was sure my throw was over the plate.”

  “If it makes you feel better,” suggested Newman, “you can send him a fruit basket. Anyway, you’re needed over by the cookhouse. Madam Peasgoody has another May Day tradition ready for us.”

  “Really?” said Eleanor. “This day has been wonderful so far. I can hardly wait to see what’s next.”

  Outside the cookhouse Madam Peasgoody had a small fire going beneath the cauldron Terry had last seen on Halloween atop the Big Rock. Then it had held dry ice and root beer. This time the flames were real flames and some kind of broth was simmering.

  Terry and Eleanor watched as John Robin and his wife Mary jumped over the cauldron together.

  “I know this!” said Newman. “It’s supposed to be good luck. Couples who want to have children jump over the cauldron together. Nine months later they’ll have a healthy baby.”

  “Uh,” said Terry.

  “I thought our romp in the woods last night was supposed to…” Eleanor began, but then fell silent.

  Madam Peasgoody beckoned for them to jump over the cauldron.

  “Shall we?” asked Terry.

  “We shall,” agreed Eleanor.

  Terry took her hand, and together they jumped over the cauldron.

  Everyone clapped and cheered, and then a new couple stepped up to take a turn.

  “Well, if that doesn’t do it I don’t know what will,” said Eleanor. “A roll in the hay by moonlight followed by a leap over a cauldron. That has to count for something.”

  “You were hay-rolling by moonlight?” asked Newman.

  Terry was spared from answering by a commotion near the parking lot. They all looked and saw a crowd of people moving toward them, laughing and shouting. Carter Donaldson was in the group and ran toward them.

  “You won’t believe it!” he shouted.

  “Believe what?” Newman called back at him.

  Carter ran up to them and stopped, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

  “Believe what?” repeated Terry, when Carter just stood there, gasping for air.

  Finally, Carter straightened up and looked at them. His eyes twinkled. “You won’t believe me if I tell you. You’d best see for yourselves.”

  Together they all watched as the crowd neared.

  Madam Peasgoody stepped up beside them and said: “My, my. This is a surprise.” Her expression suggested that whatever it was, she approved.

  When the crowd was almost upon them, it parted to reveal a woman with incredibly long blond hair riding a white pony. Terry realized three important
things all at once. First: the hair was fake; a wig of some kind. Second: the woman was Abigail Smyth-Jones, until recently the mayor of Okotoks. And last, that beneath the cloak of false hair, Abigail was naked.

  Beside him, Newman let out a long whistle.

  “You know,” said Eleanor. “I don’t think Abigail took losing the election well at all.”

  “Well, said Terry. “A lot can change with the seasons. Perhaps the Goddess will be kinder to her next time around.”

  Wonjjang and the Madman of Pyongyang

  Gord Sellar

  1. Working Hardly

  “Then…”

  —right uppercut to the chin—

  “…tell me…”

  —left hook to the temple—

  “…the goddamned…”

  —a finger in the little bastard’s good eye—

  “…passcode!” Wonjjang finished the sentence with a backhanded slap hard enough to break a normal man’s neck.

  His enemy, of course, was no normal man: though less than four feet tall, Kim Noh Wang, the Madman of Pyongyang, was North Korea’s last uncaptured criminal mastermind. He wheedled: “Wonjjang, Wonjjang … we’re brothers! Don’t you realize that? We Koreans are of One Blood!” Wonjjang could hear the extra-big, bright-red lettering on the phrase “One Blood,” though he was only half-listening. The rest of his attention was directed downward, through the smoggy air. Far below, Khao San Road was a mess, stir-fried noodle stands and racks of snide T-shirts thrashed to pieces, their scattered contents lit by the setting sun. Hastily commandeered tuk-tuks and taxis barrelled away into the dusk in every direction, and panicked Western backpackers were scattering into the neon-lit Bangkok evening, like monkeys at the sound of gunshots.

  Blastman, with his American-flag cape billowing behind him in the wind, hurled balls of electricity from each hand and vomited gouts of lightning into the crowd of Kim’s hirelings and desperate Thai recruits. It was amazing what a few false promises could do for recruitment in the developing world, especially under a junta: a couple of anarchist monks and a squadron of ladyboy-terrorists in glittering gold miniskirts and bustiers had blockaded one end of the street and were advancing. The ladyboys shrieked hatefully as they scattered to avoid Blastman’s attack.