Wandering the Earth: A Selected Stories Sampler

by Michael Bryson

  It happened.

  I used to trace the explosion of our triumvirate to that event. I used to blame that Sunday afternoon, but it wasn’t that way. That Sunday afternoon we tried to stop time.

  When Maury returned from touring with the punk band, he had a swastika burned into his left forearm. Branded into his flesh.

  He made no attempt to hide it.

  “It ain’t nothin’, man,” he said. “It’s a joke.”

  We were on our way to a party in Parkdale. I didn’t say anything more about it. I didn’t believe him.

  At the time I had a steady girlfriend named Tina whose parents didn’t approve of me because I wasn’t Italian, and I hadn’t been Confirmed. Looking back, my time with Tina was one of the most beautiful periods of my life. I loved to startle her with a kiss on the ear when we sat in movie theatres. She would nibble on my bottom lip when we necked. We spent most of our time together in the library studying, each determined to go to a good university, get a solid education, launch a successful life. We talked about sex, but we didn’t do it. It scared me. I simply wanted to be safe with Tina. Away from Maury’s darkness. I wanted to be redeemed, purified.

  Our relationship survived into the first year of university — until Tina found someone who would sleep with her. She cancelled our dates. She stopped returning my phone calls. Her brother told me the news. I started drinking then, drinking like I hadn’t in years. One Friday night I got thrown out of the campus pub for leaping over a chair and arguing with a bouncer. Drunk, I roared into the night, wandered into a residence keg party, and found myself with Jessica, an eighteen‑year‑old blonde beauty, first on a couch, then gliding down the hall. To her room. Her bed. Her body.

  Jessica came from a Westmount family in Montréal. She was studying French literature, but she wasn’t doing well in school. She suggested a weekend trip to Florida, and I agreed, but when we got there I couldn’t leave our hotel room.

  I had a breakdown. Everyone agreed.

  “A minor psychotic episode,” my doctor said. “Learn to relax.”

  My parents thought it had to do with Tina. Bob, I think, knew better. He drove out to visit, and we sat in a coffee shop, smoking cigarettes, talking sports.

  I threw myself into my studies, did my best to learn the intricacies of supply and demand, a system within which the whole adds up to the sum of its parts.

  I met my wife through the first job I had after graduation. I landed a post with an accounting firm. Norma was a painter. Revenue Canada had trawled her tax returns for irregularities, and she came to our firm for help. I met her in the lunch room. She invited me to one of her shows.

  She was the first person I told about Gloria. We were into our second year of marriage. Maury was arrested for a murder in British Columbia. I saw the story on the TV news and froze. Norma asked me if something was the matter, and I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t respond.

  I froze.

  “I know that guy,” I said. “We were pals.”

  I’ve talked a lot to Norma about what happened. About the way things were. About my guilt, and my feeling of helplessness. When I try now to think about Maury, Gloria, Bob, and myself, I can’t focus. I feel like I’m caught in a wind storm, a tornado. Spinning beyond control.

  “You’re out of it now,” Norma says. “You’re with me.”

  She’s wonderful and calm, but I’m unable to move on.

  Norma and I went to the zoo recently. Every weekend we go for a walk in a different part of the city. Norma takes her camera and snaps images for future paintings. It had been years since either of us had been to the zoo, so I packed a picnic, and Norma loaded a fresh roll of film into her camera. As we stood watching the lions sleeping in their pen, it started to rain.

  Norma said she had a dream about Gloria.

  In the dream Norma was walking through a park. She came upon a bench. On the bench was a young girl. When Norma approached her, the girl vanished. Norma said she had had this dream three times in the previous week. “I’m thinking of painting her,” she said.

  “There’s rainbow,” I said. It was a big one, broad, beautiful, and deeply hued.

  ###

  The Book of Job

  And the Lord said unto Satan, Whence comest thou? Then Satan answered the Lord, and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.

  “Where have you been?” asked Crow.

  I couldn’t lie so I told him.

  A jet flew overhead.

  Crow stared high into the blueness long after the plane had left.

  He said, “I asked you a question.”

  “And I answered it.” I was mad at him and he was mad at me. He wasn’t known for his patience. I’d had enough.

  He tried to sweet-talk me.

  “Please,” he said. “Please, Prince. Tell me again.”

  I wasn’t having any of his sugar but I couldn’t lie.

  “I have been abroad,” I said. “Wandering the earth.”

  Crow smiled. What I told him he already knew. He’d heard the rumour I’d been shacked up with Jennifer, locked in her attic playpen, stirring her stew all the time I’d been away. “I’ve been overrun by love!“ he wanted me to say. But I hadn’t been with Jennifer. Not in body or dreams.

  “If not Jennifer, who?” asked Crow.

  “Not who, where?”

  “Where?”

  “Abroad. Across the earth I have wandered.”

  “The Wanderer,” said Crow. He’d expected me to tell him more. When he wanted to he could squawk right loud. It had been so long since I heard him squawk I’d forgotten he could move the earth and wind. The earth and wind shook with his noise. He started to tap his beak up and down. I thought he was going to launch into song.

  But he didn’t sing.

  “Tell me your story, Prince. Start at the end and don’t stop until you get to the beginning.”

  “Haven’t you got things backwards, Crow?”

  “Sing. Sing in the way I said.”

  I didn’t feel like fighting, so I took my orders from him.

  The end. A great sunset. The deepest red. A feeling greater than love.

  “Stop!“ yelled Crow.

  I knew what was bothering him. It bothered me, too, but I couldn’t lie.

  A feeling greater than love.

  “Stop!“ yelled Crow.

  He flew at me, beat his wings against my face.

  “You have been gone too long,” he said. “You have lost your mind.”

  “No, Crow.”

  “You sing ridiculous things.”

  “I cannot lie, Crow.”

  “You need medicine. You need a thousand days in a dark cave.”

  “No, Crow.” I wanted to hug him. We had history, me and him.

  He’s the one who sent me away. It started in Saskatchewan with a cherry-red Chevy. A convertible. Miles of road, prairie, sky. My hair loose over my eyes, loose in the wind. I had a woman in Winnipeg waiting for me. I had Led Zeppelin full-blast loud in the tape deck. My throat hurt from singing over the engine. I hadn’t seen another car in over three hours when suddenly there was Crow. In the middle of the highway. I thought he would take off and fly over the car — look down on me, soaring, and we’d scream like Robert Plant together — but he just stood there and I had to swerve. I jumped out of the car, ran back.

  “Crow! What are you doing?”

  “Same as you. Came out of the void. Waiting to return.”

  “I mean on this road!“

  “This road is a good place to die.”

  His talon reached into his feathers and pulled out tobacco.

  “Smoke with me.”

  He walked off the road, onto the land. He hopped onto a boulder, turned to face me. “Got a light?”

  In the car I found some matches.

  “That’s a buffalo you’re sitting on,” I s
aid.

  “I know it,” said Crow. He once said he’d eaten buffalo with Poundmaker but he’d only told that story twice. Once to me. Once to a girl named Pauline in Sault Ste. Marie. He told me one night after we’d drank six bottles of whiskey. He told me because he’d told Pauline. He told her to stop her from jumping off a bridge. She was seventeen and Crow was in love with her. It’s been a long time since then. She has three kids now, two ex-husbands. Crow hovered over her house all last winter. Her kids set out bowls of Cheerios. She watched him out of the window but she didn’t come outside.

  Since the beginning of time Crow has been out of love for only seven days.

  Once I asked Crow, “How many children do you have?” The ground shook for a fortnight.

  “You are all my children,” said Crow finally. The ground had stopped shaking. Crow stood slyly grinning amidst rubble, smoke, flames.

  “Didn’t you know?” he asked.

  “You’re a hit with the ladies, aren’t you?”

  “Ka.” He leapt into the sky, unhappy. I didn’t see him again until I nearly ran him down on the highway.

  The end. A great sunset. The deepest red. A feeling greater than love.

  Maybe you see what upset Crow?

  I knew what was bothering him. It bothered me, too, but I couldn’t lie.

  A feeling greater than love.

  That day beside the highway became a night. As the stars appeared we cast our light into the universe. Told stories. Crow in Paris boxing with Hemingway. Crow in Berlin, sprinting against Owens for the gold. Crow with Muddy Waters in Chicago, playing the blues. Crow high, following glacier trails. High over clouds in thin air. Below: Beaver dams, canoes, fallen trees, open land. Mackenzie agitating for rebellion. Horse buggies, two lanes widen into four. Crow in the beginning. Emptiness, the void. The bang. The emptiness filling with matter. Rivers of stars falling like tear drops. Rolling galaxies like continents splitting into solar systems, comets, planets. The earth cooling green and blue. Crow seeing Crow in his first tree. Crow seeing Crow laugh, the world shaking. The sky opening. Flowers budding loud as oceans. Crow sees the tower, the pin that holds the city to the lake. The tower shines. The suburbs rise over the horizon.

  “Crow, do you know the meaning of love?” Hummingbird once asked him.

  Ain’t nothin’ but pain in your heart.

  “Oh, no,” said Butterfly.

  Crow chased her from Algonquin to Costa Rica.

  Crow on the roadside. Left wing dragging. A line of dust stirred loose. Crow limps, claws a trail forward. Pauses. A dust cloud rises. A transport. Wheels shake, rocks fly. Crow stoops. Waits. Leaps. A flash of black across the windshield. Brakes scream. The air fills with smoke. The truck swerves. Crow spins higher, higher. The truck disappears. Crow laughs like thunder and the sun drains fire, burning holes in the sky.

  Crow craves coffee. Crow wants to take in a hockey game. See the girls on Queen Street. Crow wants to have his bell rung. Crow wanting the new fashions, the new sounds. Digital toys. Monica. Crow wanting Monica, Monica not wanting Crow. There was always Angela. There was always Katrina. There was always Margaret.

  It was three in the morning when Crow told me about Rachel. “Her love is the biggest I’ve ever seen,” he said.

  I should’ve paid more attention. I closed my eyes.

  “Listen, Prince. Her love’s the baddest.”

  I could still hear him but he’d started to fade.

  “It’s the best,” said Crow.

  I was so tired, everything turned a shade of purple.

  “Prince, are you paying attention?”

  I wasn’t. He came to the important part.

  “This girl’s more than the others. This girl — “

  I fell asleep.

  Half an hour later Crow was still talking.

  “Prince! Prince!“

  I stood up suddenly. I was ready to fight.

  “Prince! Prince!“ he said. “I waited on this highway so I could tell you about the limits of love! So I could take you to the outer reaches of the universe! So I could tell you about the capacities of the heart! Quantum physics is nothing besides this, man! Einstein was a third grade dropout! What I have to say will take you through the bend in space-time! You must listen with a still heart! You must listen with a cool, open soul! Ready yourself for a tidal wave of knowledge!“

  “Give me a break,” I said.

  I dropped to the ground, fell onto my back. I closed my eyes. Opened them again.

  Crow stood on my chest, shaking his head.

  “I have a challenge. You must accept it or I will poke your eyes out.”

  He leaned toward me, placed his beak on my right eyelid and pressed gently. I didn’t need the reminder. I’d never seen him like this. He was a fury and an iceberg.

  “What will it be?” he asked.

  “What is the challenge?”

  “Do you accept?”

  “What is it?”

  He told me: Rachel would love him forever. Of this he was sure. I was challenged to dissuade her from loving him. Until I answered this challenge I was cursed.

  The end. A great sunset. The deepest red. A feeling greater than love. A voice we all know speaks to each of us and we laugh. Massive waves of laughter crumble the land, flood the oceans, fill the empty spaces. The difference between big and small diminishes. The difference between here and there disappears. The difference between now and then Is erased.

  Then POP!

  The whole thing starts again.

  “You will be cursed,” Crow said. “Cursed to wander the earth.”

  He was gone when I woke.

  I had a woman waiting in Winnipeg and a car parked by the highway.

  I forgot what Crow said to me.

  I forgot about Rachel.

  I forgot I’d heard Crow curse.

  “Wheels, give me speed!“ I said. I turned the ignition.

  Wendy! I thought. That was my woman’s name. Wendy, I’m the morning sun on my way to you!

  “Damn that bird,” I said as I rushed across the prairie, the air turning dusty.

  Then dustier.

  Then just dust. A sandstorm.

  As I crossed the Manitoba border the engine seized. The car rolled to a stop. I curled into a ball on the back seat and tried to keep my ears clean of the Saharan winds.

  Sixteen inches of sand lay piled around the car.

  But I’d forgotten the curse.

  “Crow,” I thought. “You trickster.”

  I was more hungry for Wendy than ever. I wanted her lips on mine, her arms around me. I could feel my loneliness spread, a thousand ninjas beating me from my shoulders to my knees.

  Still I didn’t remember the curse.

  I started to walk.

  I stuck out my thumb.

  A farmer in a tractor pulled over.

  Years later I would say, “That’s when I started to wander.”

  “Strange storm, that,” the farmer said. “Never seen the likes of it before. You?”

  “No.”

  His name was Ezekiel and he claimed to have wrestled angels. He dropped me at a truck stop ten miles down the road. I ordered a coffee and dropped a quarter in the payphone to call Wendy.

  “Baby!“ I said. “Sugar plum! Sweet cheeks! Bella!“

  At the sound of my voice she hung up.

  I tried again. She let the phone ring.

  I tried once more. No answer.

  I sat down at the counter and made eyes at the waitress. She had a nametag. Doris. The farmer was gone. By now my loneliness had spread from the rims of my toes to the tips of my ears.

  I said, “Tell me something, Doris.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything, Doris. Anything.”

  Doris was about thirty. She had knowledge, something special. Everyone does. I wanted to discover hers.


  “Won’t she talk to you?” Doris asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your baby sweet cheeks on the phone.”

  “No.”

  “You must have done something wrong.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “A woman knows.”

  I was no saint, sure. But I’d been right true to Wendy.

  I decided on a different tack.

  “Married, Doris?”

  “Been there, done that.”

  “Recommend it?”

  “Works for some.”

  “He do you wrong?”

  “We all have faults.”

  “His worse than yours?”

  “Seemed so.”

  “Regrets?”

  “I’ve had a few.”

  “Any lately?”

  “None I care to confess.”

  “What are you doing later, Doris?”

  “Got plans for me?”

  “Can you take me down the highway to my car?”

  “What’s your name, Jim?”

  “Prince.”

  “No, Prince. I won’t take you to your car.”

  I felt a great and sudden need to sleep.

  “Do you have a backroom here, Doris? Somewhere I could catch a nap?”

  I didn’t wait for an answer. My head bounced off the counter. I collapsed onto the floor. Asleep.

  Then POP!

  The whole thing starts over again.

  Crow flies out of the void. Coughs up blood. A river starts to flow. Crow flies, scratching at the void. The void tears, buckles, breaks into fragments. The fragments spin into planets, stars, comets. Crow looks for a place to land. His wings are tired. The void is a big place. He’s flown from one end of eternity to the other. He sees a blue dot in the void and flies towards it. It’s far away. He flies and flies and still it remains a small blue dot. As he’s flying Crow closes his eyes and tries to sleep. He falls through space and wakes with a headache. He’s on the blue planet. Earth. He doesn’t know how to leave.

  I won’t tell you everything that happened next.

  Eventually I got back to my car and found it stripped. A local mechanic told me he’d take what was left off my hands. It was the only deal going, so I took it.

  My loneliness and lust had inverted. Became a cavern in my chest. I thumbed my way to Wendy’s. My key wouldn’t work. I knocked. A man answered. A man six foot eight, three hundred pounds. He offered to separate my head from my torso. I left the neighbourhood with a hollow feeling in my heart and a hole above my left eye that took thirteen stitches to close.