Shelby

by McCormack, Pete;

  Black; pumping, breathing, cold, wet darkness. My eyes opened to the blurred vision of my mother’s face and an increasing awareness of sky, wild and blue, revolving around her head like a halo. Slowly she came into focus—nose first, at which point Dad’s face joined in.

  “Are you all right, Shel?” a voice asked. I shifted my eyes from side to side—looking at all the familiar faces.

  “Son,” Dad said, “are you okay?”

  I looked at him from flat out on my back. “Hi, Dad,” I said.

  “Son,” he said again, “can you hear me?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Why?”

  Then I saw Derek’s face. “Is he okay?”

  “Hi, Derek,” I said.

  “I don’t know,” Dad said.

  “Who?” I said.

  “Should we get him on his feet?” Derek asked.

  “Who?” I said again, as they hoisted me up by my arms and dragged me towards the house.

  The moment they sat me down in the kitchen, tears poured up from my heart and into my cheeks, the overflow balancing on my eye-lids.

  “I guess she’s gone, eh?” I said. A few minutes of interrogation and a wet towel on my forehead later, I had gathered myself enough to go back outside. The masses surrounded to inquire about my condition.

  “Well, young man,” Father Fox said with a smile stretching his rosy cheeks into two red apples, “that was a divine performance. I’m considering hiring you full time. You okay?”

  “Yes,” I said, “we’re both fine, thank you.”

  “Good,” he said, shaking his head and pivoting like an overstuffed turkey towards the picnic table for another helping of hors d’oeuvres.

  The champagne was poured and everybody took a glass. Dad said, “To Gran!” and we all simultaneously repeated it. Tears aside, the mood was festive. I sat by myself on the edge of the picnic table, my heart a collage of sadness and anger, numbness and wonder. How Gran would love to be at this party, I remember thinking. And why couldn’t she be? She was only ninety-three. Of course I knew that was old, but compared to what? Had Eve done us in with her garden disobedience? Did all hatred and misery stem from such a mistake? Were episiotomies God’s grudge against the first sin? I slipped another quick glass of champagne and became acutely aware of Gran’s presence; festivity, eros, wind. I missed Lucy. She had offered to accompany me but I, in stubborn haste, turned her down. What a mistake! What could be more wondrous than discussing the relevance of existence with a beautiful woman from the city in front of a group of country folk? I poured myself another glass of champagne. Gran would have wanted my spirits on high. And so I had a fourth. After my fifth glass I stood up.

  “To my closest ally, Gran,” I said, “who taught me how little I know.” Nobody moved. Nobody even noticed. “Fuck you all, then,” I said. I didn’t mean it.

  XVI

  Who’s who in Hinterland?

  —Lorne Greene

  Guided by the revelation that awoke me at four A.M., my decision was an easy one. My confidant, my mentor, my embassy of refuge, my pal, my Gran had returned to the source and the hour was nigh for me to do the same. All that remained was the penning of a short good-bye note to my family and a letter to Lucy.

  Dearest Mom, Dad, Derek, Kristine (and Larry, see Matthew 7:3).

  Apologies for not waking you. Thought you could use the sleep. Decided to go home early. Hitching a ride into town to catch the bus home. Talk to you soon.

  Love, Shel.

  P.S. Sorry I let you all down with my education.

  Love, Shel

  Dearest Lucy:

  I’m writing to let you know I’ve decided to stuff muffing about and truly seek the source. Gran came to me in a dream tonight and said, “Shelby, I think I left the stove on.” In other words, a warm light to guide my way. USE IT!

  It would seem all enlightened men (and probably women, too, although none come to mind—Joan of Arc, perhaps?) were at one time or another called into the wilderness; Jesus Christ, John Yepes, Walt Whitman, Moses, Abraham (the desert), Gautama Buddha, Henry Thoreau, most aborigines, et al. You can now add my name to that list. I would first off like to thank you for the love you have shown me over the past few months. You have cracked open my skull to a myriad of ideas and insights. For what it’s worth, Gran would have loved you. I applaud your celibacy—but don’t fight the urge, for then everything gets messed up.

  Eternally, Shelby M. Lewis (who dropped out of school and into life. Farewell.)

  PS. Please do not contact my parents. They believe me to be taking the bus back into the city. It’s better that way. P.P.S. Maybe we could get married when I get back. (Just kidding).

  By five-thirty I was packed and standing on the edge of the porch gazing upwards to a parade of stars, considering God. If in fact the world is a mere six thousand years old, I told myself, He would have had to have created the light from the stars already in mid-flight on the way to Earth in order to make their vast distance away make any sense whatsoever. Accepting for a moment that He was capable of such playful buffoonery, I felt unconditionally protected. My first step made a crunching sound on the frozen front lawn and I thought of Neil Armstrong. Free association led me to think of Armstrong, the small cheese-making community just south of Salmon Arm, and finally, to my bag of Cheezies which I quickly devoured. At the end of the path I dropped Lucy’s letter in the mail box.

  An hour or so into the journey I strutted into Revelstoke National Park with the image of the voyageur dancing across my mind’s eye; blazing trails over pristine country, draped in furs, no roads, no bridges, no worries, trading post to trading post, free from homeland tyranny, free to celebrate good old-fashioned life. And I, their progeny, proud in the wake of Gran’s call to be doing the same. I wished I had a pen and paper to keep a journal.

  By noon (judging by the sun), the forest had thickened to the point where hiking was treacherous. I stopped, yanked off my pack sack, sat on a moss-covered log and beneath a canopy of tree branches ate a banana and three handfuls of peanuts. Taking off my tuque, I could feel the steam rising from my sweaty head. All before me was silent, majestic greens sprinkled in white, beckoning, beckoning …

  A sharp pain descended from just below my sternum, gradually increasing until my bowels burned as if on fire. I found a suitable clearing, pulled down my corduroys, crouched and let out a grunt into the wide open space. For the first time in my short life I felt part of the land, part of the cycle. A gust of wind shot up like a wet towel and cracked my cheeks, causing me to flex my sphinctre muscle so abruptly I toppled backwards into the muddy terrain. Pushing myself back up I continued the task at hand. About half-finished, I noticed a distinct lack of toilet paper and/or toilet paper substitute. As far as the eye could see was an infinite supply of prickly-needled evergreens. My legs broke into a quiver. I waddled towards my knapsack, removed Dad’s Wilderness Survival handbook, tore out several pages at random and wiped. Hurdle one had been overcome. The trek continued.

  By late afternoon, each step became a lesson in perseverance. My legs felt brittle from toes pinched by hiking boots a size too small. Looking up Footwear in Dad’s book, I was dismayed to read, Footwear is especially important … Lost in the bush is no place to get blisters from stiff boots.

  Estimating I’d travelled thirty to thirty-five miles and ignoring the limits of the human body and in particular feet, I grimaced and trudged on, the price for transcendence fully laid out.

  Recoiling out of thick bush at around dusk, I tumbled flat out onto a wondrous clearing of dirt and rock and moss. Before me was a hill descending gently towards a magical creek perhaps twenty feet afar. I threw my pack to the ground and galloped to its edge, cupping handfuls of its sweetness to my thankful mouth. Climbing back up the hill, I lay my head on my pack and smiled into the fading light, the ache of Gran’s death soothed with the remembrance of her toothless grin. I was enraptured with the possibility of immediate eternity and the opportunity to harvest my soul i
n the belly of paradise. Glancing to and fro, I marvelled at the river rocks and the lichens, the bushes and the trees as my eyes gently heavied. Indeed, I had found my Walden Pond …

  Thunder awoke me with a start. I was shivering and shrouded in darkness. Fumbling through my pack I managed to find matches, but every attempted strike was met with a far stronger gust of wind. Shivering burst into trembling. Scrambling up the hill on all fours I played braille in the dirt in an unsuccessful search for my gloves and tuque. Despair joined my battle for light. Dragging my pack and sleeping bag onto more level ground, I pulled the tent from its covering and spread it out by feel and, shortly thereafter, was able to join two metal rods together—presumably the centre pole. Confidence increased accordingly and then collapsed completely upon awareness that I had failed to pack pegs. Panic seized my chest and I scrambled towards where I thought the large tree was, in hopes that I could break off branches and make suitable alternatives. I did so until out of the night a branch skewered me in the eye with such abruptness, I fell to the frozen ground, writhing in pain, screaming and fearing death by over-exposure.

  Then came the rain—hail-like drops that stung on contact. Clutching my face, I eased down to the creek and pulled from the freezing water a large stone to be used as a makeshift hammer for pounding the pegs. I crawled back up and, numb hands dripping wet, caked with mud, draped the tarpaulin over me. From there I slipped the ties around the pegs and hummed soothing Gregorian chants to the mindset of the voyageur while my eye poured fluid. It was, in fact, in this meditative trance that I, after six or seven successful hits on the peg, pulverised my left thumb with an errant strike. Never had I been so instantly terrorised; flat out and writhing like an epilectic salamander in a mud pit undergoing shock treatment, one eye wide open in the endless darkness, the light pressure of rain drops landing upon my face via a tarpaulin that took on the feel of a body bag, I realised my days—nay, my hours—could well be numbered. Slowly the cold crept in, my screams turning to dull moans and finally silence, my body motionless as though carved from wood.

  Sometime into the night, after I’d slithered my battered body into the canvas tent for additional cover, the rain turned torrential. I could actually hear the rising streams of water forming beneath me. My toes and backside were without sensation. I cradled the hand of my crushed thumb into my genitals for extra warmth and wound up erect. All was black. All was silent. I pictured myself frozen, skin as translucent as skim milk, body as stiff and cold as marble, eyes like ice cubes in a blue tray.

  Morning arrived after several terrifying and freezing wakeups in the night. The light cast hues of orange through the tarp. My thumb throbbed and was functionless; my eye ached and had all but swollen shut. Scratching my head I discovered sap in my hair. I rolled out from underneath the covering and a chilled stream of water poured onto my leg as if it had been waiting all night for the opportunity. My blistered feet yearned for nonuse. Oddly, I didn’t cry. I didn’t even react. I lay staring at a sky so blurry and white I wondered if it existed at all.

  A stomach growl snapped me from my daze. I dug into my pack and pulled out the last apple and Dad’s Wilderness Survival handbook. It said: So you’re lost. Don’t panic. Survival is a state of mind. I screamed. Scanning further I read: When you are lost and confused, a fire will give you a psychological boost, help you relax and provide company on a lonely night. Caution: Improperly set, a small one can spread quickly and soon a forest fire is burning out of control, causing additional problems to the person lost in the bush. No kidding!

  I collapsed onto the tent only to have icy, muddy water gush all over the front of my pants. It was France, 1917, trench warfare, the enemy unsighted yet ever present, dead horses and maggots and lice, rats in their glory—and fear like a coat of red paint across the face of a pimply, young Canadian soldier …

  Then back, thinking of Gran, I sobbed, aware that my only hope was to find a way home before my organs froze. And so I packed up, prayed for strength, and followed the sun. By early afternoon I was emotionally, physically, and hopelessly lost, delirious, seeing myself as part of the food chain; being first ransacked by a pack of migrating wolves, flesh torn from my feet, shins, and then higher, my defenseless body devoured while I looked on in terror. Calming myself slightly, the new image was more gentle as through brown eyes I gazed into an empty sky as the majority ingredient of a wolf bowel movement. Too weak to know better, my feet kept moving until a vision of Gran found me howling into the echoey abyss. My link to life was broken. Lucy was all that remained. Accepting that, I refused to die. But how could I know what lay ahead?

  XVII

  Though in my fear of hell I had condemned myself to the prison house where my only companions were scorpions and wild beasts, I often found myself surrounded by bands of dancing girls.

  —St. Jerome

  “So then what happened?” Lucy asked, finishing the bandaging of my thumb.

  “Well, I calmed a little and saw myself as wolf defecation. After that the hallucinations started.”

  “Weird.”

  “Lucy, there was a moment I truly believed my legs had turned to compost.”

  “Wow.” Lucy rinsed my eye-lid. “Why’d you run from the gargoyles?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Lucy glanced up and smiled. “You should get this looked at,” she said, referring to my eye, cigarette dangling from her lip.

  “They were huge.”

  Lucy smiled. “So then what happened?”

  “So I ran until … well, twilight. Suddenly everything looked exactly as it had hours earlier, and I feared I’d travelled in a massive ellipse. About to give up, I collapsed on the frozen ground. Suddenly, and from not so afar, I heard a rumbling in the distance. With all the courage I could muster I dragged myself up and onwards. Minutes later, there it was.”

  “Another gargoyle?”

  “Hardly! The Columbia River in all its roaring glory! Next thing I know I’m walking along the Number One highway, hitchhiking for the first time in my life. It’s eleven-thirty at night. I’m fluish, frozen, insane with fatigue. The first car picks me up and this strange character out of some old movie drives me directly to the depot! So there I am, out of funds. What happens? For no reason, after a short conversation with the clerk he offers me a free ticket! The bus travelling to Vancouver arrives, I place my belongings underneath; eight hours later, here I am.”

  “Wow,” she said, taking the cigarette from her mouth, tipping the ashes in the sink.

  “I tell you, Lucy, I was looked after. I was meant to come back here.”

  “Are those tights all right?”

  “Quite snug,” I said, biting my piece of toast.

  “The pink is you,” she said, “sets off your skinny legs.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you want to talk or anything?”

  “Must you keep asking in that weepy way? I’m not two years old. I told you, I know Gran is fine. And so what if my seeking the source was temporarily halted by faulty gear? Alas, it appears the source was with me anyway.”

  “I could’ve told you that.”

  “I had a revelation on the bus trip home.”

  “I really think you should get your eye checked.”

  “Just as the chains of abuse are perpetuated through time, beyond genetic barriers, I now realise so it goes for love.”

  “Feel what you have to feel, Shel. You and Gran were so close.”

  “Would you stop! Anyway, this is about Gran. Listen: In short, there are bits of Gran’s love in me, and now, subconsciously, I’ll pass them on just by interaction with others. Isn’t that wondrous? A meets B, and B, now with a little of A, becomes C. Then C, say C is me and A was Gran, meets you, D, and D, with a little of C, becomes E, and so on for eternity.”

  “Have you slept?”

  “We are products and results of the other.”

  Lucy smiled. “I am you as you are me and you are he and we are altogether.”
r />   “In a sense, yes. And understanding that,” I said, “how sad could I be?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, ripping a piece of toilet paper off the roll and blowing her nose, “but just don’t get into one of your self-bullshitting trips.”

  “How can you say that?”

  Lucy flipped the toilet paper into the bin beneath the towel rack and shrugged. “I know you.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve never been stronger; aware for the first time that we are all equals, our destiny the waste product of another organism.”

  “Oh, by the way, I’m going on the road tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going on the road.”

  “What for?”

  “Work.”

  “What?”

  “What?”

  “You can’t. Not tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean I can’t?”

  “I mean why? Why would you do it?”

  “It’s my job, Shel. Rent. Food …”

  “It’s the money I owe you, isn’t it?”

  “Shel, I’ve been on the road a million times.”

  “It’s Frank, isn’t it?”

  “What’s Frank?”

  I grabbed Lucy by the collar. “I’m going to kill that bastard.”

  “Ooh,” she said, turning away.

  “What? You doubt me?”

  “Your breath,” she said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s bad.”

  “Always?”

  “No. Right now.”

  “It’s always bad, isn’t it?”

  “Right now! You’ve been in the woods for two days. You spent the night on a bus. Anybody would have bad breath after that.”

  “I’ll still kill him.”

  Lucy wiped my chin with her hand.