We lived on the street in the village for a while, me and Chelo and the other men, until the winter rains came. Yalai invited Chelo to live in her house for a while. She had heard how he tried to see his mother, but his stepfather beat him and his mother did nothing. Yalai did not want me there, but Chelo did, so she let me sleep on the floor in the main room and let the other men stay, too. Chelo slept by my side. He clung to me close like a child for the first few days, and then he stopped talking for a while. None of us spoke much, together, anymore.
A lot of people came through the village that winter. The war was ending, they said. They said that everyone was now “Citizens of the Prosperity Zone.” They meant that the warriors from the north had made this land part of their country. So, when the New Year Moon was new, the villagers lit firecrackers and made the beast they call Dragon, which is their way to chase away the Little-Men that the war had made.
Yalai gave the dragon-men money to do this in her house. Also, she only cooked beef now. No pork. No civet. No bush-meat of any kind. I understood. She was telling us that she did not need us anymore. But I know she really meant me, and the same for anyone who was with me. She wouldn’t tell me to my face. She would only talk to me if I was with Chelo or someone else, and then she would talk to all of us at once. She never spoke to me as a person. Bile sat in my throat when she talked without looking at me.
I left. We all did, but only Chelo stayed with me afterwards. After that, Yalai turned the house into a shop with rooms to rent. She bought and sold with the boat-men and she made a place for people to eat and sleep, but only if they had money. The war was over, and people were travelling again.
Then there was talk of yellow-capped men in the forest. Even when people began to talk about the new logging-camp they were building, I never saw one of the yellow-caps until I went to their camp. They flew in with their helicopters and began logging. I sold my bow and I sold the skin of Leopard-Cat, and I sold my good knife. I bought good down-lander clothes and I hired a truck to take Chelo and I to the new camp. Fletcher was dead. Yalai wished I was dead. The man I thought I would be had never really been.
But I still lived, or so I thought, so I became a logger like the rest of the men from the longhouse. Chelo followed me, like he always did. Even when we walked into the camp for the first time and we saw that they had built it right on top of Spirit-Tree Hill.
It was the hardest thing I ever did, walking into that terrible mill. That mill made of white planks of the lauan tree cut from the tallest tree on the hill. From Fletcher’s tree.
Walking through the doorway, Chelo behind me, I could hear the Little-Men buzzing like biting-flies. All those deaths, all those vengeful spirits. They filled the air. They filled me. But I was dead; just as dead as they were, and it no longer mattered. They did not see me and they did not hear me. I had become nothing more than an arrow, flying blindly in the dark.
“Keep the cover down until you’re ready to serve it. I don’t want any flies getting on the chicken,” says Balthazar as he hands me the tray. I nod. He trusts me now, and doesn’t watch me as I go out the door.
Between the dining-room and the kitchen is the pantry. There is a door there to the outside, to the garbage-hut and the path down the hill to the sties. Instead of walking past it to the dining-room, I turn into it with my shoulder. The latch is undone by my hip and it opens out, the long spring chiming against the frame. Flies are so thick they darken the air. They swirl around me in the hot afternoon sun like Little-Men in the darkened dormitory. I run, holding the cover on the tray with my thumbs.
Halfway down, my polished leather shoes skid on slick roots in the track. I fall, but catch the ground with one hand. Sauce slops out of the side of the tray and the lid nearly comes off. I stop, catch myself with my breath and remember who I am. I rise, balancing against the weight of the tray. My next footfalls are clean, precise, quick as Mouse-Deer’s, stepping from root to root until the track flattens out and I am again by the sty.
I empty the tray over the fence. The pigs come running, crowding together, jostling as they wolf down the chicken-parts whole. I hear the little bones crack as they try to fill their mouths, trying to keep one another from getting any. Their squealing is the squealing of beasts proud of themselves, glad to be taking their fill.
From behind the board, I get out the other tin, the one I put there last night. Everything is in it and ready. All I need is the lighter, the one Raul dropped when I hit him. I try it out. It is small, but the flame is high, and I feel the flame bite at the callus on my thumb. I grin. I am ready.
By the time I make it back, Balthazar is looking for me. He is coming out the door, wiping his hands on the towel in his belt. When he speaks, his voice is a whisper so loud it might as well be a shout. His eyes are wide with anger and fear. His open hand quivers in the air like the head of a snake about to strike. I know he wants to strike me, but he is afraid to.
My grin is fixed. I say “Sorry, brother. I must go. I will explain later.” Cursing, he lets me by. He does not see the flies swarming around me, blacking out the edge of my vision. I go in. I push the tray through the double doors into the cool air of the dining room. I turn the bolt and pull out the key, letting it fall to the carpet. I turn and almost lose my nerve when I see Chelo. He is there, saying something to a Company Man. He looks like a boy at missionary-school, talking sweet to the Missus Murphy. There is a smile on his face that falls when he sees me watching. But it is too late to save him.
I let the lid fall as the lighter flares in my hand. I rake the flame across the detonators and throw the tray onto the table, laughing with relief as Leopard-Cat springs into the room. Sparks fly from short fuses. Dynamite scatters, rolling on the table, falling into the company-men’s laps. They rise, but they are caught here in my net.
I close my eyes and I breathe out for the last time. Around me, Pig is screaming as Fletcher’s last arrow strikes its prey. They will work for us, now.
penny
DOMINIK PARISIEN
For Sophie
There is no magic in the world
but this: her, sowing copper-plated dreams on concrete and gravel.
She divines by a flick of her wrist, by the ring of coin on ground
when none watch, thinking, Investments in folklore
profit everyone.
At night she dreams of rusted coins melting
into grasping hands, of bloodstreams thick
with wishes.
thought and memory
CATHERINE KNUTSSON
Every morning, the two ravens Huginn and Muninn are loosed and fly over Midgard; I always fear that Thought may not wing his way home, but my fear for Memory is greater.
—the Sayings of Grímnir
And, for our odd news item of the day:
Reports have been coming in from all over the city of a pair of ravens dive-bombing unsuspecting pedestrians. The birds appear out of nowhere to attack the heads of people walking by, only to vanish again, taking hair from those attacked with them. Wildlife officials have been called and are currently investigating.
Now, for the weather . . .
The ravens return at noon, Odin’s hour, bearing several strands of hair. They drop them at the feet of the crones and wait, their black eyes glittering as the old women rub the strands between their gnarled fingers, breathe in the scent, put the hair in their mouths, chew.
The first spits the hair into the fire. “Not good. Not good,” she mutters as her sisters do the same. She turns to the ravens. “You must go back. It is not him.”
The ravens cackle and shuffle. They don’t want to go back into the middle world.
“You must,” the second woman says as she turns her moon-stained eyes to them. “You must find him.”
The ravens whisper to each other and nod before taking wing.
The three women watch as the ravens disappear into the mist.
“They will not find him,” the third woman says.
“You have seen this?” the first asks.
“No.” The third woman crouches by the fire and tries to warm her hands in vain. The ice is coming. She can smell it. Its chill cuts what little warmth is left in the fire. “I have not seen it, but I can feel it.”
“Perhaps you will be wrong,” the second woman says, turning to the loom behind her. She sits, taking a moment to settle her ragged dress around her, before reaching into her basket for the last skein of thread. “They must find him soon, or we will have no thread to weave.”
“And then,” the first woman whispers.
“And then.”
“And then.”
Celia sits by the old man. She should be doing her rounds, but she’s tired. She’s been working double-shifts as often as she can because she needs the money. This old man who’s forgotten himself, he needs little attention—one of the few—so she takes a moment to sit by his side and maybe, in the process, warm up a little bit. The winter is cold this year, colder than any on record. What happened to global warming, she wonders. Maybe the scientists were wrong after all.
The old man stirs from his sleep and smiles at her. “Hello, my dear. You’ve come back.”
She jumps. This is the most lucid thing he’s said since he arrived ten days ago with no identification, only a tag in the back of his worn coat that read “Woidan.” The hospital assumed it was his surname, but no one’s been able to locate his family. There’s only one Woidan in the phone book, and they don’t know who the old man is.
“Do you know where you are?” she asks the old man.
He smiles. “In the middle, of course. I must go up, you know.” He takes her hand. “Up.” His startlingly blue eyes glance towards the ceiling. “Up.”
Celia smiles. “No, no. You don’t want to go up. That’s where the really sick people are.” She stands, stretching her tired back, and turns to leave. She must get back to work. If she’s found here, sitting down, she’ll receive another reprimand, and she can’t afford for her hours to be cut back.
The old man catches her hand. “Have you seen my birds? I always have them with me.”
“No,” she says. His hands are cold, and she shivers. He smells odd, like fallen leaves. “No, I haven’t seen your birds.”
She brings the old man dinner. She shouldn’t; it’s an orderly’s job, but it’s getting cold, and besides, he has no one else.
He’s sitting up, brushing his long, white hair which flows into his thick grey beard. If he was wearing red, he’d look just like Santa Claus. Snow is falling outside in soft, thick flakes, and Celia can almost imagine a sleigh pulled by reindeer arriving at the window, with the old man bundling in to disappear into the snow-thick night.
Pea soup, minute-steak, mashed potatoes. The same fare, day after day. The man doesn’t seem to care. He wolfs down his dinner and pushes the plate away. Celia takes a napkin and dabs beads of gravy from his beard.
“Thank you, my dear,” he says. “Did you know I once had a tree?”
“A tree?” Celia says. “What kind of tree?”
“I don’t know,” the old man says. “I seem to have thoughts, but I don’t remember what they are. If I had my birds, I’m sure I would know what that means.”
“Birds?” Celia says as she sets the man’s medication in his leathery palm. “There are parrots in the patient lounge—did you mean those birds?”
“No, no,” the man says, shaking his head. “Those are silly creatures. My birds were . . .” His voice breaks off as he abruptly turns his gaze to the window.
Celia pours him a glass of water. “Your medication, Mr. Woidan. Time to take it.”
He blinks at her. “What, my dear?”
“Your medication.”
“Oh.” He pops the pills in his mouth and chases them down with a swallow of water. “What were you saying?”
. . . the longest cold snap in recent years continues, plunging temperatures to below-normal levels and breaking records all over the country.
In other news, the bird attacks have continued. A representative from the Department of Wildlife suggests that pedestrians in the downtown core wear hats, for it seems that the birds are attracted to hair, particularly that of older men. There have been no serious injuries, but anyone attacked is asked to contact the Department of Wildlife after visiting their family physician.
The ravens return, landing on the branches of the tree that should not be covered with ice. The deer cluster at the base of the tree, pawing at the frozen ground in vain as they try to reach the tree’s roots. The old women watch the deer and feel sorrow in their hearts, for the ribs of the deer are visible under their mangy coats.
The ravens descend from the tree and drop hair at the feet of the women.
The first woman holds the strands up. “These look promising.” She hands them to the second, who sniffs them and shakes her head.
“No good,” the third says. “You must try something else.”
The ravens nod and take to wing. They will try something else.
The snow has stopped. Celia pulls her cardigan tight around her and steps into the old man’s room. He’s singing.
She pauses by the door to listen.
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Remember me . . .
Remember me . . .
Remember me . . .
He looks puzzled as he repeats the line, then goes back to the beginning of the chorus and starts again, only to falter at the same spot.
“What comes next?” he says as he looks at Celia. Tears fill his eyes. “Do you know?” he says. “Do you know what comes next?”
Celia takes a seat on the edge of his bed. “Remember me to the one who lives there, for she once was a true love of mine.”
“Ah yes,” the old man says, letting his eyes drift closed. “That is the version here. I know another one, but that will do for now.” He hums under his breath as Celia leaves, her footsteps falling in rhythm to the old man’s tune.
I’d like to welcome Mike Salinger, a representative from the Department of Wildlife. So, Mike, what can you tell us about these bird attacks?
Well, Dee, we’re still compiling information. It’s not unusual for ravens to attack people at this time of year, but the continued attacks from this pair—we’re pretty sure they’re a mating pair—are highly unusual.
In what way?
Well, they seem to be targeted attacks. Ninety percent of the victims are men over the age of sixty-five, and of those men, all of them have long beards.
So, bearded men are the targets. And what’s the Department of Wildlife’s plan to deal with these marauding ravens?
In normal cases, we wouldn’t do anything, but in this instance, clearly there’s something else going on. We’re hoping to capture one, or both, of the birds so we can do testing to see if there’s another issue involved.
Another issue—such as disease?
Well, we’re not quite at that stage yet. It could simply be a learned behaviour.
So there’s no need for the public to worry?
No, none at all.
Thanks very much, Mike. Now, on to other matters—the weather. Deaths among the homeless population have skyrocketed thanks to this arctic winter snap, and there’s no end in sight. . . .
The old women watch the grey sky above the dying tree. No ravens.
“What shall we do now?” the third woman asks as she turns from the loom. “I am almost without thread.”
“We shall cut our hair,” the second woman says. “That will do for some time.”
“But not forever,” the first woman says. “The tree is dying. The world is freezing. Perhaps the end is near. Perhaps we should just let it come.”
“But we must weave wyrd,” the third woman says. “Even through the end to the other side.�
�
“What if there is no other side?” the first woman says.
“Hold still, sister,” the second woman says as she stands and presses her shears to the first woman’s hair. “We will make another side if this one comes to an end, even if we have to create it with the last of our hair. It, at least, will grow again, if nothing else will.” The scissors creak and the first woman’s hair falls free, spiralling to the ground in a shimmer of silver. “And now, mine,” says the second woman.
“Wait,” the first woman says as she claps a hand to her bare neck and stares at the sky. “There—don’t you see them? The ravens return.”
The other two women turn to watch.
“No,” says the second woman. “Only one has come back.”
“Which one?” the third woman says, clutching her heart. “Which one?”
The raven alights on the dying tree and bobs to the old woman.
“Thought,” it croaks. “Thought has returned.”
“That means memory is lost,” murmurs the first woman. “He was always certain memory would leave him first.”
The three women bow their heads and do not issue a charge to the remaining raven.
Celia stands in the snow. The whole world is thick with grey mist. Snowflakes land on her cheeks, stinging her skin. The world’s coming to an end. She can feel it.
Above her, birds turn lazy spirals in the grey. She can barely make them out between the falling snowflakes, but they’re there. She can hear them calling to each other.
She should go home, but she can’t seem to make her legs move. The cold has frozen her in place. There’s nothing to go home to now. The bank has claimed the house; her husband left with the children. So she stands in the snow and hopes it gives her courage to either walk, or remain here, staring at the sky all night. Others in the city have died; why shouldn’t she? They say it’s a painless way to die. You just go to sleep, though she wonders how anyone could ever really know that. It’s not like the dead have memory, or could talk about it, even if they did.
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