The Bear Truth

Posted in Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , on January 6, 2012 by javedbabar

[The following is a transcript taken at the village circuit court.]

“There were mud flecks and wet smudges around my cabin. No respect for private property, bloody brats. The builder was on a two-week holiday: skiing-snowboarding-snowmobiling, and paragliding-canoeing-mountainbiking, all readily available in ‘Super, Natural’ British Columbia. I was annoyed with him for not finishing the job before taking off, but recreation comes before creation here. Bastard builder.

“During construction often there were things out of place, but nothing untoward. Things blown about – could be wind. Things distressed – could be sun. Things softened – could be rain. But the day the builder left there was evidence of tampering, someone trying the door. The handle was jarred from being forced too far, and hinges loosened by a jolt. Someone was trying to get into the cabin!

“The next day all the flyscreens were torn. Their slides were jammed and runners twisted – dried insects revealed, their corpses falling apart. And upon the glass were wet nose probing and stiff hairs. So not a brat after all, it seems, but a beast. Now to figure out the nature of this furry felon.

“The third day, the walls were battered. Something had to be done. A monkey I realized would not have behaved in this way. A famous experiment at Berlin Zoo had shown that they were methodical. They would have picked off the batts, one by one, and stacked them up nicely. And a dog would have just humped the walls or pissed on them, not tried to destroy them. So it was certainly a bear.

“The fourth day’s target was the floor. The usual entry points had proved invulnerable. Now, like great generals before him: Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Saddam – the bear was trying flanking manoeuvres. He was broadening the battlefield and busting boards. Dunes had appeared across this beige expanse of tongue-in-groove desert, but the invader had been repulsed.

“The fifth day was another day of vertical thinking, but this time, higher up. A torn-off maple branch had been used as a lever, prying off a roof panel. But the position of the snowstop had limited leverage. There may have been further jumping on the roof to mimic the effect of an avalanche, but the roof was built for a Coastal Range snow load, and didn’t buckle.

“The sixth day, the bear tried to trick its way right under my nose. My firewood is cut and bagged for the year in 100 lbs bundles. The bag I chose seemed heavier than usual, and there were no hard edges or clacking sounds. Something’s up, I thought, and left the bag right there. Later I heard canvas tearing, a burst of sneezing, and something padding through the dust.

“On the seventh day, I was relaxing in front of the fireplace, sipping Hoffmeister beer, when I sensed something was awry. Smoke was swirling in the firebox where there’d been none before. And it wasn’t just swirling, it was forming. Flames were stretched out, concentrating into sharp points, and clawing. There were sudden sparks, and the glass door flew open, raked marks on the soot inside. A plume paw reached out of the firebox towards me. I slammed shut the glass door, damped down the flue, and watched the claw rake ashes in anger and disappear.

“This was clearly a declaration of war. I realized I must be on the battlefield now, always bear aware. So at the beginning of the builder’s second week of holiday, I decided to initiate a programme of ‘Super Cultural’ lifestyle additions. First up was a camping stove. My pot of local veggies was soon ready, but something didn’t smell right. Gas was escaping unburned. It held a sweet, sweat stench – that of a dirty jungle animal. I quickly turned off this smell of bear. I would rather go hungry.

“My eco-friend from the City came up on the ninth day, and helped to install a 200 watt polycrystalline solar panel on the roof. However, even when the sun was shining all day, quite enough to run a bush hot tub, no power was generated. No photons could reach the carbon, for it was blocked by an earthly constellation, the blackness of the Great Bear.

“The most basic need of the human body is water. So on day ten, I banged a drain onto the edge of the roof, set a pipe off it into a barrel, and laid down layers of grass, charcoal and gravel. A simple filter to remove traces of bird and bat shit. After a hot day’s work I took a long, cool mouthful of the blessed holy water. But its gamey undertaste of fur-dripped liquid made me retch.

“Day eleven I called BC Hydro. They came and hooked me up that day. With the latest technology, I would surely be invincible. I put sensors all around the cabin. That first night I sat back smugly, only to have one sensor trip off, then another, then them all. How could that be? The transformer was humming strangely. I laid my hand upon it, and a shot of juice tore up through my arm – sharp tingles like stiff hairs were pushed through my veins.

“I’d been struggling to survive for twelve days now, and realized I needed access to emergency response. Telus sent an engineer immediately to fit hard-wired certainty. No more shifting signals. I saved the numbers of RCMP, Dow Security, and Pony Espresso. I was ready for anything. The phone rang – my first caller. ‘Hello,’ I said. There was a moment of silence and shuffling. Maybe it was a test call or wrong number. Then came a pop, scrape, grunt, and growl.

“There must be others like me, harassed by bears. But where could I find them? Thirteen days alone, I said to Shaw, who immediately sent someone to fix me up with broadband. He added wireless for free. Tucked up in my loft bed, I searched for bear tips. One website in particular – Unbearable Bear – gave advice on the local area. I emailed the webmaster, who responded immediately: ‘Why don’t you ask me yourself? I’m downstairs on your desktop.’ I was too scared to sleep, and frozen in a terrible trance. What happened after that I can’t remember.”

“Is that the end of your statement, Mr. Mehl?”

“Yes it is, sir.”

“You have nothing to add – or detract?”

“No, sir.”

“And you are saying this under oath, you recall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is your truthful explanation of why you were found by Mr. Collins – your as-yet-unpaid builder – within his house? Upon returning from his holiday, he saw that you had broken down the front door, ransacked his freezer, were naked and smeared in honey, eating Very Berry cereal straight from the box, listening to the Elvis Presley single ‘Teddy Bear’, watching Grizzly Adams on cable, viewing pornographic materials on barebear.com, having scat in his bath, eaten his goldfish, and were about to escape with a bagful of domestic goods – to get you through hibernation, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you seriously expect me to believe that?”

“Sir, you must know something. I was living in a delusion, always thinking that the bear was breaking in. Then I realized the truth of the matter, that the bear was breaking out. I could no longer hide from myself. For I am The Be..!”

[The transcript ends here. Neither the judge nor court recorder survived the incident. The guard is still in a coma. The suspect escaped, and Lucerne RCMP and Lilly Tribal Police have broadcast an All Points Bulletin for his capture. Also present in the courtroom – it is believed for behavioural analysis – was an adult brown bear, which was sedated and later released by rangers into the Upper Lilly area.]

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Eve

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, World Myths with tags , , on January 5, 2012 by javedbabar

Foolish kids, thought Dave. What were they doing out on Christmas Eve? They must feel like iceblocks, standing there at the side of the road with their thumbs up. At least he had a reason to be out – he was a washed up guy going home from his shift. He passed the kids without really looking.

But then in his mirror, he saw how their shoulders fell as he passed them, and how they hugged closely. Goddam it! Something about those gestures touched him. He turned the truck and went back for them, and told them to jump in the back seat.

“Oy, tank you,” said the boy. “Ve ver cold dere.” The boy’s accent was unfamiliar, maybe Eastern European?

“Yoy, tank you, Sir,” said the girl. Was she Middle Eastern?

“No problem,” said Dave. “Are you heading to Lucerne?”

Neither of them spoke immediately. In his mirror, he saw them exchange quizzical looks, and then the boy said, “Oy, tat’s great. Lucerne.”

“How long you been on the road there?” said Dave.

Again the silence and quizzical looks. “Oy, ve say half-hour.”

“Well, it looks like there’s a blizzard coming. Let’s see if we can get you safely home before that.” Dave threw on a dance playlist from his glory days: Heaven 17, The Orb, Faithless. The blizzard hit hard, as if summoned by these rousing tunes. They pushed on through swirls of snowflakes.

When they reached Lucerne, Dave said, “Ok, where shall I drop you off?”

There was hesitation, before the boy said, “Oy, just here is fines.”

As the girl got out, Dave noticed her heavy shape beneath the layers. She was pregnant! That explained their strange behaviour. But it wasn’t for him to pry. He wished them well and drove off. But in the mirror, he saw it again. Their forlorn postures, and close hug. Goddam it! He turned and went back. He said, “You haven’t got anywhere to stay, have you?”

“Ve vill find where,” said the boy. “Tank you.”

“Look, with her condition, I’m not leaving you out in the cold. It isn’t much, but why don’t you stay at my place? There’s just me there.”

The boy hesitated, but the girl spoke up. “Yoy, tank you, Sir.”

They only made it half way up the Meadows. Dave had never seen snow come down so hard and fast. There was no way the ploughs could keep up. Rather than getting stuck further up, he stopped at Martin’s farm. Even there, the driveway was impassable. He tried to call Martin, but service was down. He pulled up at a barn. “Look, I’ll walk up to the farmhouse. You two stay in the truck. I’ll be back soon.”

Dave returned with Martin. But as they approached the truck, Dave exclaimed, “Goddam it! They’ve gone!”

Martin saw the barn door was ajar. “Ah, there they are.”

They went inside. The girl was lying on hay bales, panting.

“My God!” said Martin. “The baby’s coming. Look, you keep an eye on them here. I’ll call for help on the landline.”

Dave watched as the girl gave birth naturally, assisted by the boy. It was intense. He’d never seen a newborn before. Golden and shining. Maybe every birth was holy like this. It was just the labels we put on it that made it seem foolish, unwanted, or a burden somehow.

But he also knew that this birth was special. There was sudden flashing everywhere – like a rave in his glory days – as three huge snowploughs appeared. All the cows in the field gathered around the barn. The horses snorted and donkey brayed. Mt. Negra rumbled.

What all of this meant, Dave didn’t know. Nothing was certain in his life these days – he had recently lost his wife, his health, and his home. He was living on the edge of the world. But of one thing he was sure. That this morning, he had witnessed the birth of someone he had long been waiting for.

“Can I hold the baby?” he said.

“Yoy, of course, Sir,” said the glowing mother.

It was impossible, he knew, but it felt like the child spoke to him somehow. She said, “I am here for you.”

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Workins

Posted in Alternative Energy, Classic Sci-Fi with tags , , on January 4, 2012 by javedbabar

Amand waved to her little sister on the training roundabout, and smiled. Ah! Those were the days, she thought, so carefree. Her sister was only two but could keep going for ages. She seemed to enjoy it; it was still a game for her. Have fun while you can, thought Amand. It won’t last long.

Amand’s pace slackened when she’d lifted her hand to wave at her sister, so she now pushed harder. Despite her extra effort there was no perceptible change in The Wheel’s speed. The other seven children must have been pushing steadily, so her lapse was absorbed. It would have been different during the evening shift. With only four children working The Wheel, a quarter reduction would have showed – or at least annoyed the other workins.

“Amand! Pssst! Amand!” came a voice from behind her.

“What is it Samanth? You know we can’t talk now.”

“Can I come and see your rat tonight? I’ve heard he’s got really fat.”

“I’ll have to ask my dom,”  said Amand. This referred to a dad who had become a mom. Its opposite was a mad. Neither were her real parents. They had been appointed by The State.

“I’ll come at four, just after dunch.”

Amand’s shift ended at two. She ate dunch – the only meal they were allowed each day – with her family, and then went to the shrine. Every home had to have one, containing either a carved or a living rat. She fed the rat some wholemeal bread. It’s teeth nattered so nicely. Nat-nat-nat-nat! It was hard to believe that people used to kill rats once. Millions of them, even in their own homes. It was good the State had banned killing animals.

Her grand-dom said that a long time ago, animals were used for work. They even had something like The Wheel that was turned by cows. Imagine that! Cows instead of children turning The Wheel at the village centre, pumping water, making power, grinding grain! It was too funny to imagine.

Samanth came over to see the rat. She fed it red cabbage. Nat-nat-nat-nat! Amand mentioned about cows turning The Wheel.

“My grand-mad told me too,” said Samanth. “But she said it was horses.

They had seen neither animal. They were kept only in temple-zoos.

“So what did all the children do?” said Amand.

“I’m not sure. I think they just played.”

“What? All day?”

“I guess so,” Samanth shrugged. “My grand-mad said there were too many children. No one could feed them anymore. That’s when The State said that children had to become workins. They had to work to stay in the community.”

“What if they didn’t want to work?” said Amand. She rubbed her hands, which were sore from pushing.

“Well, they didn’t get any dunch. They’d eventually get hungry and go back to The Wheel.”

Something got into Amand that night. A kind of fury. Even though it was evening shift, she pushed harder than ever. The other workins looked at her strangely. They whispered from all sides asking her what’s up, but she ignored them. Then instead of pushing, she started pulling backwards, working against the others. They were surprised and slackened off. So without really meaning to, Amand pulled The Wheel backwards.

The village lights dimmed. People came out to see what was happening. Workins not on duty ran to help with The Wheel. But because of the dimness and general confusion, they pushed the wrong sides of the handles, and worked with Amand rather than against her. There were no longer four, or even eight, workins at The Wheel. Each handle had three children, so there were 24 of them pushing hard together.

The Wheel accelerated, spinning in the wrong direction. All the gears worked backwards. Nat-nat-nat-nat! They reversed their linkages, magnifying The Wheel’s effects. It started here in the centre of the village, but spread throughout the system. As the children ran around together, laughing, they felt that they had broken the cruel fist of history. They had twisted it around its own back. They were playing – what children should do – and not working!

The Wheel locked without warning, and they were all thrown off. They banged their heads together and bruised their limbs. They landed in a jumble. The next day Amand was back at The Wheel. This time she was chained to it. Despite her little sister waving to her from the training wheel, she couldn’t wave back.

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Secret Buyers

Posted in Lucerne Village, Uncategorized, World Myths with tags , , on January 3, 2012 by javedbabar

Every spring their shacks went up. What they did all winter was anyone’s guess. But they returned with the bright buds and birds, sitting in an assortment of trailers, tents, and shanties, each with a sign saying “Secret Buyer”.

Some of them were third, even fourth, generation buyers. The old families were well established. They bought only secrets that were ripe and ready to be told. Many new buyers, who came from the City chasing a quick buck, bought their secrets early. The people who sold them never reached the end of their thoughts.

Suzi had a secret that she’d kept for years. Ever since she could remember. It’s not that she didn’t want to sell it – it’s just that she didn’t fully know it yet. It was developing.

Her brother had sold some secrets last year, and got enough cash for a new skateboard. He hadn’t told their parents because they were religious. They didn’t believe in selling secrets. Her brother was going again today.

Suzi went with her brother to the buyer. He sat in a white tent with a heater on high, surrounded by steel boxes. “What’s in the boxes?” asked Suzi.

“That’s where I keep the secrets,” said the buyer. He had a bushy brown beard and yellow teeth shining somewhere within it. “It’s a long journey from here to Holland. They have to be well protected.”

“Why do you send them to Holland?” she asked. “Don’t people there have their own secrets?”

“Yes they do. But they are not very good secrets. You see Holland is flat. There’s less excitement, and nowhere to hide. Here there are mountains to play on, and valleys to sneak into, so there’s lots of great secrets.”

“And how much do people pay for secrets?”

“Well Suzi, that depends.”

Suzi froze. How did he know her name?

“Don’t be shocked,” said the dirty banana shape moving within the beard. “I bought your brother’s secrets last year, so I know your name.”

What had her brother said about her, she wondered?

“Children’s secrets are always the most valuable, because they’re true. Adults lie about theirs, to make themselves look better.”

Her brother wrote his secrets on a piece of yellow paper. The buyer read them slowly, nodding, did a quick calculation, and wrote $160 at the bottom of the page. Her brother nodded enthusiastically. The buyer folded the paper and enclosed it in a steel box. He counted out the cash.

“Do you have a secret for me, Suzi?” he said.

The way he said her name again – hissing. His yellow banana-teeth. His birds nest beard. She wasn’t sure why, but she turned and ran. She knew that she wasn’t yet ready to sell.

There were so many rumours about secrets. Some people said that you should never tell them, because the moment you did, they were gone. Others said that it was your duty to share what you knew with others. She’d heard there was a factory making secrets in the Industrial Park without zoning. That the village was trying to introduce a Pay & Tell scheme. And the rumour that intrigued her most was that there was one secret, so secret, that if it was told then there would be no more secrets. This made her both want to tell her secret, and also not to. For what would life be like without secrets to tell to your friends?

Suzi told her mother that her secret was bothering her. Her mother suggested that she go to church and tell it to Father Joseph. He was surprised to see her, for she usually only came in with her family on Sundays.

“Yes, child, how can I help you?” he said.

“Father, I have a secret. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Do you feel like telling me?” he said. He could see she was nervous.

“I’m not sure I can say it.

“Well why don’t you write it down?”

Suzi wrote down her secret.

Father Joseph read it and went pale. He sent Suzi straight home. He put her secret in a metal box and booked an urgent courier to Rome. He knew this was going to happen one day, for it was written in Holy Scripture. He thanked God Almighty that the secret had come to him before it went to the other side. For he knew that “Secret Buyers” really worked for someone else, whose price was your soul.

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Yam Men

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, World Myths with tags , , on January 2, 2012 by javedbabar

Michael saw the rise of the Yam Men from the beginning. But there was nothing he could do. He was just a kid – a naughty kid who didn’t like Math much – who was offered a new cookery programme. “A man should know how to cook,” his father said. “You never know what kind of trouble you might get into. At least you can eat.”

The classes took place in the school’s commercial kitchen. Michael spent the first ten minutes looking at people’s distorted reflections in gleaming steel units. Mr. May said, “We are going to chop and mash today, so everyone, please wash your hands.” He showed them the proper way to do this – you run hot water at full blast, reciting “O Canada, We stand on guard for thee,” twice while rubbing and rinsing.

He handed out large knives, and told them to each take a yam from a cardboard box. It was a simple instruction, but for some reason Michael didn’t want to do it. He held back his hand. “Can I use an ordinary potato, Sir” he said, forcing a cheerful tone. “After all this is Spud Valley.” Mr. May’s eyes seemed to flash lilac as he said, “This recipe requires these special purple yams, Michael.”

So Michael put his hand into the box without looking. He felt for a lumpy tuber. At first there seemed to be nothing there, but then he grasped one. It seemed to jump right into his hand.

Michael placed the purple leather-coloured, torpedo-shaped lump on the cutting board. It had little growths, like tiny limbs. The Yam rocked and settled itself into place. He put both hands together on the large knife and pushed down hard. He wasn’t sure what happened next. There were squeals all around the kitchen. It seemed that everyone had cut themselves. But when they looked at each other’s hands, there were no injuries or blood. Just cleanly chopped yams, shining purple inside.

They finished the job, boiled them for ten minutes, mashed them with salt, pepper, and butter, and took them home. They were delicious. “Almost like eating meat,” said his father.

The rest of the cookery course was less eventful. Mr. May never again mentioned yams. But he encouraged their consumption of ordinary potatoes, which he said were a different species. He promoted the MAC diet: MACaroni cheese, MACkeral, MACDonalds – with roasted, boiled, and fried potatoes respectively – and he suggested that they visit Scotland to eat MacMACaroons.

Other classes also got weirder. In music they tried a new instrument the school had just purchased – the tuba (pronounced tuber said their music teacher). In English class they played word games. “If someone threw a root vegetable at you?” said their teacher. “Would you yammer?” In Religious Studies, they discussed the Jewish yamulka. In Chemistry it was polyamides.

And the strangeness spread further. Instead of going to garage sales at weekends, Michael’s dad said that he was rooting around. The Mayor, who was also a farmer, began to campaign as the Y’amor (to appeal to both youth and Quebecois, he said). People asked for their sandwiches with Yamonnaise. When friends asked about his birthday, even Michael couldn’t help saying, “The second of Yam”. There was pressure everywhere, on everyone, to use the Y-word. And the streetlights were changed to produce a purple glow.

In spring, people removed their winter gear and revealed more skin. Everybody was sunburnt and more leathery than before. And despite no longer wearing clunky boots, or carrying skis, their gait remained the same. They walked around stiffly, as if they had no joints. Lumpy masses of purple-browned flesh roamed the streets.

There were peaceful protests from the yoga crowd, who occupied the supermarket car park. Then they chanted together at the Farmer’s Market. It was unnatural to be that stiff, they said.  People were meant to be flexible, and fluidity was a sign of good health. They were supported by members of the Tai Chi, Karate, and gymnastics communities.

Their campaign had some early success in the village, but soon their battle was lost. For all along the Valley, farmers were building special hothouses, amending their soils, and making egg-sized holes. Michael got a farm job that summer, working with his friends on a planting crew. Their bodies became stiff from bending over, and their skins burnt purple from sun exposure. As they dropped seed yams into holes and covered them over with dirt, they heard small cheers.

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White Rock

Posted in Mystical Experience, World Myths with tags , , on January 1, 2012 by javedbabar

Zanu fell into the forest clearing. At its centre was a giant white rock, which glowed in the sunshine, like a turnip at night. It didn’t seem real for a moment – more a ghost stone, or a movie prop, but as he drew closer, he saw crags and shadows. When he touched the rock, his hand went straight through the surface, and he was unable to pull it back. His groping fingers felt nothing. He tried for an hour to extract himself, and screamed and shouted, but no one came. Eventually he fell forward in exhaustion, and was enclosed by the rock.

Everything was white within. There was no ground or sky, or trees around him, just blankness. His body adjusted to the cool, but his legs began trembling, unsure what they were standing on. It wasn’t a surface. It was like a thickness, somehow heavy enough to support him. But where did it stop?

There was a flash of golden. Where had it come from? Maybe he wasn’t inside a rock after all. It could be a thick mist, with yellow leaves falling around him. There were balls and fragments of lustrous light. Brightness in this blankness made him cheerful.

But immediately he felt a sharp blow to his ribs, and was shoved from the back. He fell forward, but onto what? Zanu’s smile became a grimace. People kicked him, and he heard their muffled voices, but couldn’t make out any words. He rolled into a ball, and stayed there, floating in nothing. More than anything he needed to be brave right now. But there was nothing he could do. His bawling filled the blankness and hurt his own ears. Maybe he passed out.

Then a person appeared – literally appeared – as if the mist changed form into a golden being. And this was no ordinary person. Zanu knew an angel when he saw one. She was twelve feet tall with golden skin and hair, and transparent wings. She said something unintelligible, then lifted him, held him close for a moment, kissed his forehead, and placed him back in the blankness, except this time on his feet.

His eyes adjusted. There was a mango tree with one ripe mango dangling high up. This was the source of the golden light, as if that mango were reflected in misty mirrors all around. And then he saw translucent forms of people crowding around the tree, grasping for its fruit. Some people fell and got trampled, like Zanu had earlier.

“What are they doing?” he said to himself, but his voice was transformed and boomed out everywhere. People stopped and stared at him. Uh-oh.

A fat boy said, “We’re trying to get the mango. Can’t you see?”

“Well why are you all jostling each other?” said Zanu. “Why don’t you try together?”

“You must be joking! With them? I don’t trust them.”

“How do you know they won’t help you?”

The fat boy stopped to consider this, as if he had never thought of it before. He said, “They won’t. We all want the same thing. There’s only one mango. And I’m called Adam, I was the first one here. I deserve it.” He looked smug, but then worried. “Look, if you help me get it, I’ll give you half. How about that?”

Zanu agreed, but said that they would need to include the other people too. The more players on their team, the better. And that’s how Adam, Brent, Christi, Deva, Ethella, Fong, Giovanni, Harriet, Indi, Javek, Klim, Luqman, Moldy, Nilesh, Ooty, Patsy, Quru, Rachel, Selim, Tanya, Uriko, Victor, Wilhelmina, Xipe, Yosy and Zanu each got a slice of golden mango. They swore that it was the sweetest thing they had ever eaten. Each slice was a smile. And the next thing they knew, they were all lying in the forest clearing beside the giant white rock.

For thirty years, Zanu dreamed constantly of his experience in the White Rock. He had turned it round and around in his head, but it was still mindboggling. How had it happened to him? And why?

One day, he woke a little later than usual, brushed his teeth, had a glass of water, and opened the door to get some air. As he stepped outside, everything disappeared. He turned back but the door, and the whole house, was gone. He was floating in blankness. He had the feeling of being in the White Rock once again, but this time there was total darkness. The words of the angel came back to him now, intelligibly: “Next time, you’re on your own.”

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