As the Current Pulls the Fallen Under

by Daryl Sneath

  The hut was no bigger than a garden shed, a relic from years ago. I cut the engine, disembarked, removed the helmet, and crunched my way through the snow. The door nudged open as I reached for the handle. I ducked my way in and sat beside him. Everything, like the house, was as I remembered it. The smell of minnows and burning cedar. The little woodstove and the pipe leading out. The old foam cushion on the bench, stained in spots and strangely comfortable. The net in the corner at the ready. The bucket of bait between his Wellington-booted feet. His plaid shirt rolled to the elbows. His sinewy forearms. The suspenders of his bibbed snowpants. The little radio tuned to the CBC on the shelf above my head, the volume barely above zero. A framed picture of Rayn in her canoe on the Heron. One of a younger me on a track somewhere, hands on my hips, squinting in the sun. An old one of Serra standing in front of Down to Earth the day they opened, 1968. Beyond the snap of the wood in the stove and the low chatter of the radio, only the quiet of an empty earth.

  ‘Any luck?’

  He pursed his lips, gave a nod. ‘A little.’

  I reached under the bench and felt the weight of the flat container before I moved it. I slid it out, looked down, and saw two trout laid out within it, one beside the other. Like siblings. I nodded and shoved them back under.

  ‘Nice fish.’

  He sat upright and stretched his back. ‘They’ll eat well.’

  Like a magician he produced the bottle from nowhere and handed it to me without looking. I was fifteen the first time he did this. There had been no lead-up, no libationary lessons, no warnings, no parental prodding. Just the offering, the virginal esophageal burn, and the irreligious ritual of a shared drink.

  I took a gulp and felt the warmth almost instantly. He took one, too, and said nothing. Condolences, the gesture said. We fished in silence until the sun started to dip and the sky went orange, our sign to pack up and drive home along the frozen grey river that looked more like land than water, the life within it rolling quietly and forever on beneath us as we went.

  CLIPPINGS (21)

  (taken from “Future Olympic Star Loses Duel with Mountain Lion,” nearlynews.calm)

  “It goes without saying that Vector Sorn was no duellist. Certainly not in a pugilist or swashbuckling sort of way. There is ample evidence from his too-short life to illustrate his pacifist ways. But boy, could he run—that is for certain—and he did indeed win many battles on the track. But there it is: he would not call them battles. If he were with us today and was given the chance he would correct this eulogist. He believed, and said many times, that a race is a communion of effort. Shared pain. A tolling only those who subject and commit themselves fully to can understand. As with the subjection and commitment to anything. Only those who do it know it. On this point, for him, there was no wavering. With respect to being battle-ready, phraseology aside, I will say this about the man who was not a man long enough on this earth: pacifist though he may have been, he never backed down from a challenge. At every turn he met hardship head-on. The loss of his mother and father most notably. Although, again, he would undoubtedly correct my use of the word ‘hardship.’ He would more likely call the difficulties a person endures something like ‘life’s inevitabilities’ or the ‘exigencies of existence.’ That was more his style, closer to the diction he tried to command. It should be noted, too, that he never liked to talk about how he did a thing. He just, as the god of victory commands, did it. And he would never recount encounters like the one with the cougar in the mountains unless there were reasons beyond a look-at-me masturbatory sort of reason for telling it. There was never a Vector-the-centre or a Lore-from-Sorn sort of show about him (beyond SL, of course, but that was something very different, he hopes, from the egomaniacal sort of man who talks and talks and talks and never listens). If he was going to talk about himself in any way he needed to be certain there was an audience who genuinely wanted to hear what he had to say. There had to be a reason for saying what he said. As for his time on SL, Valerie Argent was the sole reason and the singular audience. At least for him. She came to be everything. Of course he never told her this or anything like it. And I’m sure that that particular bit of not-telling was, at the moment he realized he was en route to meet his imaginary maker (avowed atheist that he was), among his biggest regrets. Vector Sorn, future Olympic gold medallist and would-be writer of incomparable tomes, is survived only by his maternal grandparents, Stephen and Serra Down of Heron River. The sage-couple on the mountain, he might call them. Two people, in his estimation, who figured out somehow what it means to live a life.”

  ~

  The assignment, morbid though it may sound, was to write your own obituary. Five hundred words or fewer. What would you say about you were you the one who was charged with saying it?

  Though I hadn’t read many exemplars, I figured a good obit should mention the cause of death otherwise it may sound like suicide. Anyway, here’s how the cause came to be: I’d been out for a long run trying to work through a problematic plot for another bionarrative assignment, the sun going down, the temperature dropping just enough to be pleasant, blissfully alone on a quiet trail in the middle of the woods, runinating (thinking while running), when all of a sudden, bam. It hit me. I’ve been here before. Or at least it felt like I had. The level of déjà vu was otherworldly. When I turned around there she was, two maybe three strides in front of me, this wild, lithe looking cat, staring me down. So what do I do? I mean, really, what do I do? What are my options here? Run? There’s no way. Play dead? A lot of good that would do should she decide to pad over for a pre-prandial sniff and nibble. Scream? What if that excites her? Enlivens the blood in her veins. So there I am. Stuck. Nowhere to turn, nothing to do. You always, always have a choice, say the pundits of free will. Well, not me. Not this time. Not at that moment. I was truly and utterly optionless. Frozen. Cock stiff.

  It’s silly to say I got away. I mean, obviously, here I am. And there was nothing exciting or story-worthy, I have to admit, about the escape. In fact it wasn’t an escape at all. The astrologists would call it luck. I don’t know what science would call it, if there’s even a name. But clearly she wasn’t interested. She looked at me, showed me how she could lick her own nose, yawned the way all cats yawn—eyes shut hard, mouth wide open in an unconscious revelation of the dental weapons within—then turned, and slunk away. Not what I expected, to say the least. Not what I remember from my childhood visits to the zoo with Max and Rayn when I’d stand there and watch the muscular pacing, the patience, the unblinking eyes fixed on me as the animal moved back and forth, the low rumble in its throat, all a declaration of my doom were it not for the bars between us.

  But there we were: no bars, no doom. Barely a story. Barely an encounter.

  Though with a little narrative extension it made for a good cause of death.

  As for what I said about myself in the made-up obit, it’s what I hope for. That I have been and will remain an enacter of the adage, ‘The readiness is all.’ That VA at least knows where I stood. Where I stand still. (Which is a problem I suppose—standing still.) That the Olympic gold medal, for what it’s worth, will be placed around my neck. Albatross or talisman, whichever it may turn out to be. That I become a good writer. (I’ve decided that’s what I want to do. And be.) That Stephen and Serra know how much I respect and admire them. And that, like them, I somehow figure it all out too.

  In the end, what else is there?

  BIONARRATIVE CLASS, QUEST UNIVERSITY: SQUAMISH, BC

  ‘It’s of the utmost importance, in the memoir genre, to tell the truth.’ Tutor Karl leaned forward on the seminar table. ‘But if the truth doesn’t tell the truth lie through your teeth.’

  Some of us nodded. Some us laughed.

  Tutor Karl crossed his arms and from that point seemed to choose one of us to address directly for each sentence he spoke, saving me—again, it seemed—for the last.

  ‘I haven’t w
ritten a thousandth of what I’ve read, which could be either understatement or hyperbole. I don’t know. But the truth remains.’ A grin. ‘Irony aside, in terms of sheer volume I’m far more a reader than I am a writer. As we all are, I expect. Except maybe Stephen King.

  ‘My point is, circuitous as it tends to be, that the purpose of this class is not to produce a dozen Frank McCourts but rather to make you better readers of your lives by making you writers of them. And it’s okay to make things up to do so. You will neither go to hell for it nor be turned to stone.

  ‘So long as you don’t look back when you should be looking ahead. The truth, remember, is not absolute, which doesn’t mean it’s unconditional. There are always conditions. The truth, and forgive me for sounding liturgical here, is resolute despite its alterability.’ He looked at me. ‘Just know what you’re altering—and why.’

  I found myself having lunch with Tutor Karl that day. Which wasn’t uncommon. Students had lunch with the tutors all the time. There were relationships—platonic (and otherwise, I’m sure)—as in all universities across the globe. But that’s not the point. Here, ostensibly at least, having lunch with tutors was at least in part about creating and maintaining an authoritativeless and egalitarian liberal arts institution. A Socratic arena of shared ideas. An intellectual gymnasium where thought—the construction and articulation of it—were the things laid bare. Instruction and learning for everyone, so the slogan might go. Even for those who would otherwise be at the helm.

  We sat down with our trays and talked.

  He started. ‘Chocolate milk. The modern athlete’s go-to drink.’

  I shrugged, pulled the cardboard spout open, and took a gulp. ‘Someone blogs a pseudo-scientific blurb about the recently discovered nutritional benefits and recovery components of a beverage that until now has been lumped in with the colas and powder drinks as ‘bad’ for you. The masses, or the few, read what is written and nod at the apparent certainty of the proclamation. The news spreads. And so a truth is born.’

  ‘As simple as that.’

  ‘As simple as that.’

  ‘What about the skeptics?’

  ‘The skeptic by nature’—I put a hand in the air—‘is reluctant at first. He takes a carton from the refrigerated unit at the back of the superstore and assesses the bio printed on the side. The ingredients, save the sugar, seem fine.’

  ‘You can’t do anything about sugar.’

  ‘It’s everywhere.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Like the sun.’

  He grinned. ‘Like the sun.’

  ‘Anyway, the protein-to-carb ratio seems right according to what the skeptic knows from what he’s read and so he nods and the truth for him is confirmed. A million and a half runners, skeptics included, boost the sales in the milk industry to such a degree the dairy farmers become overwhelmed by the demand. But it’s not in their nature to concede—effort and work being the code farmers live by—and so they wake up even earlier, so much earlier in fact that one day doesn’t even end before another begins. They shake their heads at the windfall but like all good God-fearing, down-to-earth folk they sure as hell don’t question the windfall. Make hay, so the saying goes. Hallelujah. Blow wind blow.’

  ‘The phrase sure as hell seems out of place. Off tone.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, as you were.’

  I continued. ‘So the ad agencies use Olympians in commercials and employ phrases in their campaigns like Enduro Grow and N-R-G Builder and Scientifically Formulated. The Energy Drink industry raises its pecuniary brow and sets to developing a chocolate milk flavoured version of their own scientifically formulated sugar-water and go head to head with the milk merchants. They’re better at lying—experience pays—and so their brand of truth comes out on top and the dairy farmers go back to a manageable, through-the-years-predictable level of supply and demand. Hallelujah. Status quo regained.’

  ‘Sounds Miltonic.’

  ‘Good product name.’

  ‘We could go into business together.’

  Like an ad exec pitching an idea I drew my thumb and index finger across the air in front of me in an I-can-see-it-all-now sort of way: ‘Miltonic. A tonic for the ages. A tonic for the ageless. Epic.’

  ‘Too esoteric. No one would get it.’

  ‘You underestimate the audience. People always know more than they know they know, however unconsciously.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps be damned.’

  He nodded. ‘Speaking of the damned, I can’t get past your use of sure as hell.’

  I waited.

  ‘Did you mean it ironically, the sure as part?’

  ‘There’s irony in all certainty, isn’t there?’

  He didn’t answer.

  I nodded.

  He grinned.

  We stopped talking for a while and ate.

  I took the trays away when we were finished and returned with two coffees. ‘I read your book. I meant to tell you.’

  ‘So why didn’t you?’

  ‘Why didn’t I what?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’

  ‘So why bother with the I meant to bit?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘It’s conversational.’

  ‘That’s no reason.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll start again. I read your book.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘What else is there?’

  ‘There’s what you thought.’

  ‘You mean my opinion.’

  ‘Yes. Your opinion.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be conversational, too?’

  ‘Of course. But what else is there?’

  I folded my arms and smirked. ‘Okay then. Here’s what I thought. I thought it confirmed a few things.’

  His eyes narrowed but I wasn’t sure if they narrowed because of the hot coffee or because of what I’d just said. Knowing him, it was an actor’s gesture. Always on stage. Always someone other than who he was. That was him. Tutor Karl. Karl Knotold. The Spectre.

  ‘Don’t presume to know something, little grasshopper, simply because you read a book.’

  ‘It’s not just the book.’

  I drank the coffee and waited.

  He did the same. ‘Is your pause intentional?’

  ‘You told us intention doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Are you going to make me ask?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d have to ask.’

  ‘You overestimate my intuitive abilities.’

  I drank the coffee and waited some more. ‘The book alone reveals very little about you personally, if anything at all. You call it a memoir but credit a fictional author. What is written may be true, in the loosest sense, about Karl Knotold. But you’re not Karl Knotold.’

  ‘Sometimes I am.’

  ‘Okay, but there’s no such thing as sometimes true.’

  ‘Sometimes there is.’

  I made a tent of my fingers and leaned back.

  ‘You know, a wise old sage once said—’

  ‘Wise is redundant.’

  ‘An old sage once said—’

  ‘Does it matter if he’s old?’

  ‘Okay. A sage—’

  ‘Why not say, A man once said...? Let the sagacity be inferred.’

  ‘Semper Professor.’

  ‘Tutor.’

  ‘Sorry. Tutor.’

  ‘Proceed.’

  ‘A man once said, If context is not everything nothing is.’

  ‘Smart man.’

  ‘Like I said. A sage.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘To get back to my original point: it’s the context I have which let’s me understand your book in a way I’m sure no other reader has.’

  ‘Is that so.’r />
  ‘It is.’

  He crossed his arms.

  ‘Not to worry. Your secret is safe with me.’

  He waited.

  I continued. ‘I wondered how you and Valerie were connected the moment I met you. To say you were friends was not enough. Valerie’s not someone who has friends for the sake of simply having them.’

  ‘No. She isn’t.’

  ‘At first I thought maybe you were a Jake Barnes type. In love with her but unable to show it, unable to follow through. And so you didn’t mind her having her fun so long as she filmed it for you. An on-screen vicarious sort of love. Agonizing though it may be.’

  ‘You said at first. And now?’

  ‘Now I think you’re Oz and she’s a knowing Dorothy.’

  ‘Interesting. What do you mean by knowing?’

  ‘Oz is in Dorothy’s head. He’s created by her.’

  ‘Very good. Now consider the etymology of the name Dorothy.’

  ‘You’re deflecting.’

  ‘A little.’

  I crossed my arms. ‘Okay. I’m listening.’

  He looked up and gestured with a believer’s hand above his head. ‘Dorothy, the name, means a gift from God.’

  ‘That fits. I’ve often thought she’s the only evidence any theist would ever need.’

  ‘Vector, my boy. I do believe you’ve fallen. Struck with your own arrow.’

  I leaned forward and looked right at him. ‘You’re the ghost behind Ghost. Aren’t you.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Are you nodding yes?’

  He nodded some more. ‘I’m nodding I’m thinking.’

  ‘Thinking what?’

  ‘Hard to say.’

  He looked over his shoulder, leaned in, and went sotto voce on me. ‘Listen. You know what you know. You don’t need me to tell you if it’s true.’

  I nodded.

  Not mockingly he asked me what my nodding meant. I told him it meant Just what I thought. He said thought was the best ­verifier and I told him I thought so too.