GUD Magazine Issue 3 :: Autumn 2008

by GUD Magazine Authors

  I look back at my notebook, hoping that he will be gone when I look up again. But he's still in my peripheral vision, and my brain chooses him as its point of reference. He seems stationary while my notebook, my knees, the silver-veined forest, and Rose Mountain begin pumping up, down, up, down, up—

  I force myself to look at him and the world becomes stationary once again. He eventually rolls over on his back, props his open Bible on his insteps, and begins doing uphill situps, scanning the page when his elbows reach his knees and mouthing the words as he lies down.

  "Look,” I say, “I don't mean to pry or anything, but who are you?"

  He glances up, surprised. “Why, I'm the Mennonite,” he says, with the air of somebody delivering something between a pizza and a throne speech. “I thought you knew."

  That's what annoys me the most about Mennonites. I'm always supposed to know. If I've ever actually met one before, I haven't noticed. But in the works of some of the people in my creative writing classes, they sprout like mushrooms. I never get a straight answer when I ask what Mennonites are or why people write about them, and I refuse to learn anything more about Mennonites until I do. I've gleaned occasional bits of information from such fiction; apparently they're Anabaptists. In geology, anatexis means partial melting, so I suppose Anabaptists are partial Baptists, but what does that tell me? I know that Mennonites are blond prairie farmers who study hard, read their Bibles, and sponsor film nights in Nimoka. I've also noticed their apparent fondness for cameo appearances. You can't read very far without seeing them through the windows of school buses, in classrooms, on farms, in Yukon bush camps, maybe even on the Anvil Bath—

  "All right, cut the aerobics routine! I know what you're up to."

  "So would I, if you hadn't made me lose count."

  "So this is how you Mennonites get written about so much, stalking the Prairies and the North like literary commandos. Well, you're wasting your time with me, buster. I don't make deals with gratuitous Mennonites."

  "What makes you think I'm gratuitous?"

  "Every Mennonite I've ever read about has been gratuitous. If you're so different, what are you doing here?"

  "I'm homesteading,” he says, without batting an eye.

  He's cool under pressure, I'll say that for him. Maybe they're called ‘Mennonites’ after the Mennen antiperspirant commercial that says, “Never let them see you sweat."

  "But,” I say unsteadily, “we're above tree line."

  "So much the better. I won't have to clear any trees."

  "But we're only a couple of degrees shy of the Arctic Circle, and fifty-five hundred feet above sea level. Don't you think the growing season is going to be a little short?"

  "Pah! In the 1800s, they said the same thing about Manitoba. My forefathers homesteaded on marginal land, and so shall I. We Mennonites are hardy folk."

  "Well, I don't care how hardy you are. I'm still not writing about you."

  "But you must."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm part of your artistic heritage, a sacred trust passed down from generation to generation of Albertan creative-writing teachers, like a living torch—"

  "Or a congenital defect."

  "Bite your tongue! Have you never heard the Parable of the Good Alberta Writer?"

  "No, I haven't. Nor do I—"

  "In the beginning, the settlers of the Canadian West came unto a new land, and saw that it was vast and harsh. They wandered in the wilderness, and were beset by cold, and drought, and fires, and plagues of grasshoppers, and American television. Yet of their labors little was written, busy as they were with wresting their living from the soil and rock.

  "But it came to pass that there arose among them a man of divers words beautiful and powerful who spake of the frontier peoples in a voice most wondrous. He toiled long and hard over the written Word, and yea, he was Published and esteemed by wise and venerated critics. Yet when he went among his own people, he met with great sorrow, for they knew nothing of his works, but did debase themselves with perusal of the National Enquirer. But he dipped his quill anew and prayed, ‘Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they read.'

  "He gave many great literary sermons to his disciples, and yea, he was esteemed more than before, and did receive divers literary Awards, though there was no profit for him under the sun. So he said to himself, ‘Fear not, for it is written that a prophet is not without honor, save in his own country.'

  "And so it came to pass that, as he sought inspiration in his favorite wheat field, a strange shadow fell over him, and he cast his eyes aloft and beheld a great white bird descending. Its feathers shone with the gleam of a million sheets of fine vellum, and in its wings could be heard the roar of a thousand free-trade agreements. And the bird did circle near to him and did Land, and a great voice spake unto the Writer, saying, ‘Fear not, for I bring you glad tidings from my masters, the Publishing Kings of the East. They have prepared a banquet for you in the presence of their Presses, and request that you visit them, First Class And All Expenses Paid.'

  "Therefore did the Writer climb Aboard, and watch his field shrink and disappear as the bird carried him toward the rising sun. Then was he accosted by fair young women of strange raiment and offered fine spirits, but he stood firm in the face of temptation. He passed over many fields, and vast forests, and great seas of sweet water, and came unto a vast City, and its towers were as tall as a host of grain elevators, and as many as the bales in an autumn field. Then was he taken to the highest tower, even unto the topmost floor, and was brought there into the presence of the Publishing Kings, who spake unto him, saying, ‘Praise be to the Future Philosopher-King of the Manhattanites!'

  "And he saw that there had been chests prepared for him, overflowing with silver and precious gems, and that he was surrounded with shiny Vehicles, and Appliances, and all manner of precious Consumer Goods, even unto the abundance of Wheel of Fortune. Then was he applauded by many great Critics, and taken to look out the Window, and the Kings said unto him, ‘Behold your Readers! They are wealthy, powerful, wise, and esteemed, for it is written that if you can make it Here, you can make it Anywhere. Your Readers shall be as many as the grains of sand on the beach. We offer you the whole world, and on one condition only: you shall be the voice of the Manhattanites. You shall write of the Yuppites, and the builders of pink granite towers, and of the wealthy daughters of Israel who do seek to translate by surgery the flesh from their noses unto their breasts.'

  "Then the Good Writer was sore afraid, and greatly tempted, but he stood fast, saying, ‘But I do not wish to write of these things. I wish to write of Mennonites in Central Alberta.'

  "And the Publishing Kings were greatly vexed, and called for their seers and sages, saying, ‘Tell us all there is to know of these things, that we may assess their market potential.’ But the sages could find no knowledge of Mennonites in all their audience, nor did their market know aught of the place called Central Alberta, whence the Writer had come. Thus was the Good Alberta Writer put once more aboard the great white bird, and carried homeward as he had come, First Class And All Expenses Paid."

  The Mennonite's eyes mist over in adoration. He hasn't done so much as a leg lift during the whole story.

  "But I don't want to write about Mennonites. I don't know anything about them. I'd just be selling out in my own way if I did."

  "Oh, no,” he says. “You don't have to write about us that much. We want to be in your story, not of it."

  I fidget, and scan the valley, the mountains, the mine; I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched.

  "No,” I tell him at last. “It's silly and pointless and you can't make me do it."

  "Ah, I think you'll find otherwise,” he croons.

  I hear the sound of a plane engine above me and look up. The sky is filled with parachutes.

  Ffft. Ffft. Nowhere to run.

  Ffft. Ffft. Tidy, smiling blond people with spray bottles on mist setting, settling inexorably toward the
ground, partially-baptizing as they go.

  He says, “A cat's tail follows it wherever it goes, you know.” Ffft. Ffft. “Do you really think you're fooling anyone, hanging out in your artsy cafes and watching your movies at the Plaza? Your neighbours were Mennonites."

  "But—"

  "Your friend from the next farm over!"

  "But—"

  "Your substitute teacher in fifth grade!"

  "But they never said they were! They seemed just like everyone else!"

  "You were raised beside a town founded by Mennonites, on a farm founded by Mennonites, in a cruciform house facing a twostorey barn with a ground-level rear entrance and a rail-mounted manure-collection system!"

  "No!"

  "Because YOU are a Mennonite!"

  "Noooo!” I howl, in my best Elephant-Man voice. “I am not a Mennonite! I am a human being!"

  "Put us in!” call the Mennonites.

  "But—"

  "In! In! In!"

  "I can't!” I howl.

  "You will!” they chant.

  "No, I can't write about you the way you want. Not now. Not even if I wanted to. You can't make just a brief appearance. You're the subject of my story, the driving force of my story, the antagonists of my story, even, according to you, the protagonist of my story. Of, of, of, of, of!"

  The Mennonite pauses and glances around him. “You know, I think I see an interesting outcrop over there,” he says.

  The wind shifts, the mist vanishes, the parachuters divert their course. Within minutes, the Mennonites are gone, leaving nothing but my fear that if I ever write a word of this, I'll never be published in my hometown again.

  Lacerta—a Constellation Named by Johannes Hevelius by J M McDermott

  observe the individual freckles for they twist and wander like phytoplankton on wet, black skin beautiful Mira does something nasty pulsates, they say, around a white dwarf and Johan burning in beer in Dantzig

  Johan seeks rebirth below the Southern Cross he stops to run his finger down the pagan sky sketch this thunderbolt's elbows call it Lizard and damn the dead mythologists that never knew a skin from skin these starry southern sirens had no song after all lost men dove to fill the gaps in the scales

  Display by Beth Langford

  No one goes to the museum to see animals.

  The taxidermist knew this. The one who sculpted a guilt-struck burrowing owl hunching up his shoulders and a pelican wise as grandfathers.

  And a notched-beak gull, chest out/head up like a proud conqueror, and a thick-legged hawk sneaking up on its prey for Hallowe'en. And a little falcon's wing, thrown back, became her dress. And a snowy owl, wings open against a hanging light, joyous in the cold wind from the air-conditioning vent—

  wheeeee

  Facts of Bone by Tina Connolly

  Jules stripped to her underwear, dusted herself with powder, and stepped into the stretchy flying suit. She smoothed it around her fingers, careful to line up the yellow dots on her knuckles, careful to leave no gaps or bubbles around her palms. Her ritual for suiting up was rigid. Enough could go wrong in the air ... but some things she could control.

  She trudged out of the shed, holding the carry pegs of the flycycle. The wings and rotators spread awkwardly out behind it, the right wing scoring the dirt. She poked her earbud in as she walked, settled the braced helmet in place. The worn path was muddy and her feet grew heavy.

  She was studying the cold grey sky when her sister's voice came on in her ear. “What's the weather report?"

  Jules squinted to the north. “Looks like rain later. Where are you this week?” She stepped into the flying gear, settled the padded harness. Chute cord at her shoulder, battery light on full. Check.

  "Pallister,” said Marnie.

  "Where's that?"

  "Big grimy city in Saeland."

  "Yuck.” Wireless on, routing the data from her goggles, her suit, to the cycle company, who were trying to improve the precision of their equipment. Something Marnie had set up. The money would offset a bad harvest—heaven forbid.

  The wind cut across Jules’ cheeks. She rocked back, shifting her feet to the pedals, then rocked forward and off the cliffs. The spring wind buffeted her, flicking her with spray from rain and river, pungent with the acrid odor of the eiddar flock. A cursory check of the cliffs to start, then she turned her attention to the wider area.

  "What's for today? Just checking on the egg-laying?"

  Jules did not answer.

  "Dammit. I don't want you going after those poachers. I've got my city rep working on them."

  "I don't see her out here on the cliffs,” said Jules. Her goggles zoomed in on the forest on the other side of the river. Even this early, before all the trees had leafed, there were too damn many places to hide.

  Jules swung back to the first nook, leaning against the turn. The eiddar she called Speckly Grey Mom was awake and active, plucking down from her chest to fill her nest for the eggs. Responsible harvesting didn't start until after the eggs had hatched, but poachers didn't give a damn about responsible. There was comfortable silence in her earbud as the two sisters worked, a continent apart, one tracking birds and the other foreign currency.

  Jules was checking on White-Bib Mom—she was displaying unusual plucking behaviors—when a spray of rocks exploded next to the nest.

  She spun back out to face the forest, and then another something whistled by her ear. There was a huge tearing noise, and her left leg was suddenly far below her right, and then both legs were overhead and the whole flycycle was hurtling toward the ground. Jules rolled with it, righting her head, and pulled the ripcord at her left shoulder. The chute opened and jerked her and the machine up, and she pulled her legs up from the pedals so that when it finally crashed she could roll away from it on the ground.

  It all worked like it had the other time she'd crashed, except this time she had just enough time in the air to look off into the forest for the poacher. She saw something—a flash of color—and anger confused her body. The cycle landed, tilted forward, and the wrong kind of instinct made her stick out her right arm. It skidded in the wet ground and there was a flash of pain as it broke, then broke again, pinned under the curving control bar. As she blacked out, her sister's voice seemed to be crying in her ear.

  * * * *

  But she might have imagined that. The next thing she heard was Marnie's calm, dry voice repeating something about an ambulance being on its way, and she'd better wake up for it, because family property or no, if Jules thought Marnie would give up her career for the daily gamble of a life tending dirty birds, she was seriously mistaken.

  "I do well enough,” mumbled Jules. “Got my own crappy flat, don't I?"

  "So you say.” Relief was clear in Marnie's voice.

  With her left hand, Jules disentangled chute ropes from her head and then struggled to rock the cycle bar off her right arm. After the initial shock, there was surprisingly little pain. The adrenaline kicking in.

  "Stay where you are, Juliana. Let the professionals do it."

  "I don't see any professionals.” Her arm was a funny shape, an S curving in front of her. She sat back down in the reddened mud and cradled her arm in her lap.

  It was not bleeding. She touched one of the curves, expecting to feel the end of a snapped bone. But instead her arm was smooth to the touch.

  She ran her fingers along the bone from the wrist to the elbow, tracing the S the whole way. There must be internal bleeding or swelling, she thought, because her forearm felt like solid bone—bone that had always been in the shape of a doubly-broken arm.

  * * * *

  The nearest hospital was forty miles from her cliffs, a long building with a rick-rack of roofs over a warren of underground rooms. After the tests, she was pushed in a wheelchair down a succession of ramps and lifts until she was put into a bed deep below the surface. The hospital seemed to press her under its thumb.

  She lay flat on the firm bed and wished for her own down mattres
s, a luxury too costly for the hospital. She looked at the ceiling for a long while. She didn't seem to be able to do anything while her arm lay heavy and twisted at her side.

  By the time the surgeon came in, she knew the ceiling intimately. The doctor's eyes were black and glassy like her birds', and he had a thatch of black hair that stuck out around his ears. “Are you comfortable?” he said. “As much as possible, that is."

  "Will you tell me what's with my arm? No one will say. Is it infected?"

  He did not answer.

  She swallowed. “I need it to fly."

  "It's not infected.” His hands on his electronic clipboard were still. “It's an extremely rare genetic disorder. The immune system is working imperfectly. It's trying to fix the damage done to the bone. It sent signals to knit the break back together, but it over-compensated, turning tendon and flesh to bone as well. The break in the arm most likely triggered it."

  Jules could not make sense of this. “I broke my toe when I was ten and nothing happened."

  "Adult onset. It's rare enough that no consistent pattern is identifiable as to the trigger, except the patient is always past puberty, sometimes well past. You were flying?” His body was still, the muscles taut like a watching creature's.

  "I'm a gatherer, and yes, I flycycle. I'm perfectly competent. I wear a full latex suit and I don't take risks."

  "I'm sure you don't. But the dangers are serious for someone with this disorder. Once triggered, the trend is irreversible. It may be wise to consider a new career."

  Jules did not want to think about that. She went on the offensive. “What can you do for my arm?"

  He held her gaze. “Perhaps nothing.” Then he turned away, holding the clipboard behind him with both hands, tapping it. His thumbnails were gnawed halfway down. “The difficulty is that any attempt to remove the excess bone may trigger further outbreaks. Attempting to reshape the arm may make it worse."