macblaze.ca

4:8

It was at this very moment that —

Well, it always is at this moment, isn’t it? Whatever other moment could there be? Since the days of good old Quintus Horatius, the moment has been seized, grabbed, fondled, mutilated and spindled, but it’s always been there. After all, where would the moment have gone? The man said seize the moment and it wouldn’t have been a very clever thing to say — it would have been downright silly — if there weren’t a moment to seize.

And which moment would it be if it weren’t this one? It always is the moment right in front of one, isn’t it. Silly would inadequate to describe the situation arising from someone attempting to seize that moment or even the other one. It wouldn’t be there for the person to seize, would it? It would be somewhere else, wouldn’t it? Can you picture the poor, misinformed fool wildly grasping at the wrong moment? It would be a more farcical sight, more extravagant and foolish, than Tartaglia trying to climb out of a pool of mud while the other characters “helped.” It would be more exaggerated than Pinocchio’s nose after he tried to explain away the magazines under his bed. It would be as impossible to imagine as the the antics of a long-haired cat having a bath after living in a barrel of peanut butter for a day. It would simply be utterly impossible.

But in any case, the moment was or is upon us, within our grasp, and not in any way past, and in that precise and ever-present confluence of time, space and events, the one rat in all of Alberta, which had been living comfortably in the cool confines of the temple basement and was alone and destitute and friendless beyond all reason, was awoken by the horrifying sight of another giant rodent looming out of the gloom, reaching toward his cozy nest with its enormous claws and terrifying teeth.

The rat, whose name was Ezekial, quite understandably screamed. At the top of his tiny little lungs. At high B (although he was a bit flat due to the fright).

And the sound of fear and despair reverberated round the dark cellar.

 

4:7

When Meredith got back to the truck the rain had slackened off a bit but she was still pretty wet when she slid into the driver’s seat.

“Well? Did you enjoy your…” She stopped suddenly as she stared at an empty passenger seat. There was no sign of the beaver.

Meredith wondered what to do next. It was still raining hard enough that visibility was pretty low, but the thought of wandering around town calling out for the beaver didn’t appeal to her. People thought she was a crazy old spinster already; no need to make it worse with seemingly psycho behavior. And that went double for popping into the cafe or tavern and asking anyone there if they had spotted a domestic beaver poking its nose into things.

Meredith took a deep breathe and leaned back into the bench seat, resting her head against the sliding rear window. I knew this was a bad idea, but would I ever take my own advice? Nope, stubborn as all hell, even if the only person arguing with me is myself. She glanced at her wet and disheveled hair in the rear view mirror. Huh, I guess actually am that crazy old lady.
Then, with a sigh and a smile, she opened the truck door again. Might as well seal the deal and see if anyone saw the little bugger wandering around. I sure can’t leave him here in town. Probably get run over or wander into Clyde’s place and get made into sausage. Meredith stepped out into the rain, pulled her hood back on and headed for the cafe. Maybe someone there had seen him.

 

4:6

The sides of the dusty box were partly crumpled from being shoved under the furnace vents. It was a lucky thing the whole place hadn’t gone up flames years ago, but then again, it was unlikely the furnace had seen much use in the last decade. The old temple had been uninhabited for much of the time, and then the Eco tour people had moved in but kept themselves to the upper floors during the summer months.

It was obvious that the basement hadn’t had many visitors, and the old galvanized gravity furnace was tucked in the back under the lowered floor of the sunken auditorium. Anyone over the age of 12 would have to stoop over to get back there and that, along with the cobwebs and dirt, made it a less than desirable goal for potential explorers.

The box was around behind the furnace, crammed between the dank walls and a large square pipe coming out of the furnace and making a right-angle bend to run into ceiling above. From where the beaver stood, he could barely read the faded labels on the side that declared the box a remnant of the old Gainers meat-packing empire that had dominated the market back in the 70s and completely disappeared from the landscape after a series of violent strikes in the 80s.

It wasn’t sealed; the box lids were simply folded shut, and no great care seemed to have been taken to keep people out. But the beaver knew this box was what he was looking for: it was beyond imagining that it could be anything else.

The beaver sneezed from the dust before he smiled and trundled over on all fours to this tantalizing bit of history.

 

4:5

The box was old, discolored and distorted from exposure to water and sunlight. It had once, long, long ago, been used to ship banana from the far-off tropics to customers around the world, but now was filled with papers and mementos of several lifetimes.

(Author’s Note: Have you ever wondered how much you can write in a half hour if no one leaves you alone? Well, now you know…)

4:4

Edward had been feeling a bit weird for the last few days. He’d been craving chocolate and had the urge to prance around in a gaily covered vest. He’d managed to resist most of the worst impulses — except for that unfortunate moment on Sunday when he’d clucked like a chicken for that little girl in the park. And that awkward incident involving a lamb and some melted chocolate. It had taken the rest of the day to get the wool and chocolate out of his fur.

These things usually didn’t happen to him, and he wondered if he’d been working just a little too hard. Maybe that vacation had better be sooner rather than later. A few more stressful weekends like that one and he’d be ready for the looney pen with with the rest of his lop-eared cousins.

But he felt better today. It had probably been the cabbage rolls: he was just getting too old to stuff himself like that.

4:2

Edward shook his head. What an odd dream. I wonder who that girl was? And why ever my subconscious would think I would want to work with that beaver, I have no idea. I couldn’t come up with a more ridiculous idea with a bottle of vodka in me.

Edward sat under a juniper shrub atop the small rise on the edge of the park. As he watched the people come and go, he was planning and thinking of the next steps. Number one was to corner the bloody rodent and get some straight poop out of him because this was borderline ridiculous. Number two was to get out of the city because he would bet his fuzzy white tail that this was just an offshoot of the problem. What he needed to do was find the head and remove it.

Then maybe a well-deserved break: somewhere nice and quiet, free of uppity beavers and intrusive humans. “Yeah, sure,” Edward snorted. “Maybe Greenland or Antarctica!”

Edward rose and gave his hindquarters a little shake. “Time to be about it,” he informed the shrub, and he was off across the grass, headed for downtown.

4:1

Rowan stood at the graveside and wiped yet another tear from her face. It had been a long, fantastical journey, and suddenly it seemed to be over. She never would have imagined that in just a few short years she would have grown to love the odd band that had formed as a result of her small favour for Gareth — or how bad she could be made to feel when an unwarranted tragedy like this struck.

Edward had become one of her dearest friends over the course of their journey. She realized that he had brought more to her life than anyone else ever had or indeed could have. The debt she owed him was unrepayable. But as she stood there in the rain she knew it couldn’t be over. Somehow, in some way, with the help of her friends, her family, with the love of everyone she had met in these few short years, right here and right now, she vowed to continue his quest. That was the least of her debts, and from this day forward she would dedicate herself to keeping the small but heroic bunny’s mission alive.

She had just been returning from the archives when she had heard on the van’s radio of the tragic and mysterious event that had occurred the previous night in the Colorado Rockies. She knew immediately it was them. It would have been too much of a coincidence as Beaver, Gareth and Edward had left just three days earlier for the U.S. on the trail of a woman named Caroline. And with what Rowan had discovered in the old records, it was a sure thing that this mysterious woman was not only the key to uncovering the last details of the slowly unraveling plot, but also the lynchpin that would allow them to finally and irrevocably dismantle it forever.

But now that chance was gone, and all that was left was to start again. Edward’s specialized knowledge and unique talents would be sorely missed, and Rowan felt a bolt of fear and longing as she realized she would never again rest her head on his soft back and discuss the nature of the universe or the shifts in time and place that had slowly and inexorably brought the rabbit to her.

For a moment she stood, lost once again in her own mind. The cataclysmic flow of anger, sorrow, fear and selfish indignation transported her away from the cold and wet grave site and into a hell unimagined before, sweeping her onto the shores that had been built with the love and trust of her friends. And she knew that shore would always remain, proof against the raging torrents of her worst emotions and self-doubt. Built with love and patience it could not be struck down; it would be the true monument to the fallen.

She cast her eyes down to the wet and sodden ground where three fresh graves had been dug the day before. The long plot in the centre was flanked on both sides by the two smaller ones. Tears welled up in Rowan’s bloodshot eyes as once again she read the inscription etched into headstone that joined all three freshly disturbed mounds of earth.

Here Lie
Edward,
Gareth
and
The Beaver

They met their doom on a dark, wet mountain ridge; mortally wounded by unknown assailants and left to die. They left the world a better place and will forever stand as symbols of the spirit of cooperation between omnivores and herbivores in our never-ending war against the meat-eaters of our times.

Long may their battle cries roar.
April 1, 2013

Happy April Fools’ Day

 

Who’s Who
…so far

The Author
***
Narrator
the Agency

***
Man & his machine
The Machine
The Maintenance Man

***
Weird people in New York

***
Meredith
The Mayor
Barney
The young Beaver

Incidentals:
old Johnston
Esther the cafe owner

***
Gareth
The Beaver
Edward (the rabbit)
Rowan
Caroline
The Mysterious Man
Gareth’s father

Incidentals:
The taxi driver

3:30

It’s a little know fact that beavers and rats harbour a vast enmity toward one another. It may seem odd, given how closely related they are, but nonetheless it is an unavoidable fact that if a beaver and a rat meet there is absolutely no chance the encounter will end peacefully.

Of course there are no rats in Alberta. For decades the Alberta Government and a small team of rat catchers have dedicated themselves to eradicating rats wherever and whenever they try to sneak across the border. Of course, that means, for a few short moments in and time and space, there occasionally is a rat in Alberta.

And Magrath is close to the U.S. border. Isn’t it.