macblaze.ca

2:10

The sun was coming through the small high window on the east side of the room when it happened. It was a peculiar time of day when the light bounces off the brass work and seems to turn the normally chocolate-brown woodwork into an auburn plane of luxurious tones and textures. All the pipe work takes on a playful gleam as it moves the light across the room and turns the otherwise dour and serious decor into a playful wonderland.

I remember it clearly. It had been months since I had been up early enough to see it. Or, more properly, had been up and clearheaded enough to understand what I was seeing. Such are the joys of a philosopher’s existence. And a philosopher I was, or else how would I be able to deal successfully with such turmoil. It had been a quiet week: the world was calm, the machine sedate and the wine immoderate. It was thus that I knew a change was in the wind. The karmic flow demands a certain rhythm, and my pleasant sojourn here was obviously not providing sufficient modulation.

So things broke.

I was contemplating the intricate pattern of brass-and-copper tubing that formed the mainstay of the house’s internal functions. I had often thought this room must have been designed with a philosophic soul such as mine in mind: the sheer magnitude of the mechanical works would boggle any lesser mind, yet this room occupied one of the best spaces in the whole keep. High, warmed by the sun, out of the prevailing winds and with views both with and without that would simultaneously stun and inspire any but the dullest of minds.

As I stared up towards the ceiling of the room the I saw a tiny fountain of steam begin to slowly, and then with ever more pressure, escape the confines of one of the larger brass couplings on the main incoming conduit. I stared at it in fascination as the superheated water vapour moved in and out of the ray of morning sun that had played such a large part in my early day-adventure. Taken as a whole, as an objet d’art, it added an unimaginable dimension to the previously stately procession of light and colour. Of course it took only a few moments of increasing pressure build-up before the tiny leak was screaming like the mythical banshee. But yet, for just a few more moments, I sat and stared, frozen, like the equally mythical victims of the aforementioned banshee. Soon enough, though, I came to my senses and decided to put philosophy aside as a matter of prudence and turned my attention to the problem that the presence of a leak presented. If action was too soon taken, all the press of the keep would grind to an ignominious halt and the creature comforts, such as they are, that make this existence tolerable would cease to be. A fate, let me assure you, that would be indeed worse than death.

At that point I determined I would have to act to counter this undesirable outcome. So I turned quickly to the mahogany wardrobe set in an alcove on the only wall free of mechanical works and, in a manner some might consider hurried, withdrew a large #7 spanner. Implement I hand I hurried to the base of the wall now spewing out clouds of angry vapour, not unlike the emissions of a miniature wyvern trapped in a cylindrical river and attempting to wrest itself free. I hiked up my morning coat and hoisted myself into the pipe works, attempting to avoid, as much as I was able, the more thermally intense metal pathways.

As I came within reach of the hissing and wailing geyser I had to bring my coat up over my head as the heat was so intense that it would scald my face. Reaching one arm through the maze of pipes, I held my body solidly against the works and braced my feet as high as I could to gain as much leverage as possible. With my left hand I fitted the spanner on the control fitting and quickly threw my weight against the handle. I needed to slow the flow enough to be able to effect repairs. As I strained upward, the fountains of inflamed steam slowly dwindled to spitting and spatting dribbles that, while still scalding to the touch, were at least negotiable.

I attempted to transfer the wrench to the voluminous pocket on my morning coat, but in my doing so, the moisture left behind by my sojourn in the spray caused my grip to slip, and the spanner fell to the stone floor. I am proud to say that at this point I exceeded the standard of intemperate eruption that had been set by my former tutor upon discovering that I had not only failed to do the assigned work but had in fact caused his closeted indiscretions to come to the attention of my father. To be fair, I had had to do much more work to ensure my father’s wrath would land upon my tutor than had originally be assigned to me. But alas, he had not deemed the exchange a fair one. Nonetheless, I was rid of his odious presence for the price of one extremely inventive and highly improper disquisition. As I said, I hold myself quite in awe of the fact that, in that moment, dangling high above the floor, soaked to the skin, my best coat probably ruined, and under the threat of an impending forced rustic existence, I managed to do the old sod proud. He’d finally taught me something useful.

Well, to move forward, I managed to extricate myself and, once on the ground, took the opportunity to acquire such materials as I would need to patch the never sufficiently be damned leak, recover my abused spanner, and once again set off to repair the damage. Suffice to say, after several more aggravating setbacks, I was once again bracing myself and pulling on the spanner, this time towards myself as I allowed the steam to flow once again through the tubing, repressuring the system, and thus allowing the machinery to regain its previous robustness and, I should hope, ensuring myself a much more pleasant day than had seemed feasible scant minutes earlier.

A few moments later I stood on the ground, bedraggled and aching in not a few unusual areas of my body, and anxiously watched the formerly Vesuvius-like region of the wall and slowly unknotted the tension that had seemed to creep into every nerve of my body over the previous hour. I could hear the gears and hydraulics slowly begin to resume their comforting patterns and sighed softly to myself. If this was morning, I am well shut of it, I thought. And then I said aloud to the room now brightly lit by a morning almost passed, “I need a drink.”

2:9

Meredith glanced in her back mirror to see whether Barney was still following her. She’d invited him to use one of her spare rooms on the third floor while he was in town. He was a man of great passion and grand ideas, and she would be glad for the company for a while.

It was a bit odd, though, that he seemed to already know so much about her, but it was a small town and people did talk, didn’t they. The town was feeling a bit better the last little while. The dollar was up and lots of people had been traveling south to shop in Great Falls. Everything seemed more prosperous, and it was time to check whether there was any interest in outside investment. Hunting was good around here, too, and the gas industry was booming. There was no reason that Magrath couldn’t see an influx of people, and of much-needed money. Meredith mused that she might even rethink her long-deferred B&B idea if there was enough traffic.

Barney certainly was a godsend if he could do half of what he thought he might. And if not, well, no harm done. Nothing succeeds if nothing is started, her father used to say.

Meredith turned off the gravel road and bumped over the washboard that had been forming all summer. Time to get that graded before I bounce myself into the ditch. She slowed in front of the house and stopped by the old outhouse. Barney’s old land yacht stopped behind her. He stepped out and turned 360 degrees, eyeing up the house, yard and outbuildings.

Meredith shut the rusty door of the pickup, leaving the keys inside, and called to the gawking man in her front yard. “Come on inside and make yourself comfortable. I’ll put on a pot and make up your room. And then you can bring your things up whenever you want. No standing on ceremony; make yourself at home.”

Barney smiled at her and nodded. “Make myself at home,” he repeated.

2:7

Rowan gazed out the smudged window glass at the people sitting on the small cafe chairs and tables crammed on the sidewalk. Two young women sat sipping cappuccino and chatting. They were obviously of Chinese descent and had a look about them that seemed to tell a story of strong family tradition and a prescriptive lifestyle. It was nothing you could really put your finger on except their sense of style: designer glasses, t-shirts, hair pulled back with the odd Asian-inspired accessory. All of this seemed to tell a story of a family both integrated within North American culture and yet strongly tied to an older, stricter culture.

Two tables down sat a young man with two small children. He was sipping a large cup of coffee while they slurped away at a couple of Oranginas. He seemed to be enjoying his day out, amused by the girls’ antics and bemused by the clouds overhead. Obviously trying to balance kids and me-time, Rowan smiled to herself.

She turned her attention back to her own empty cup and scraped the last of the foam out with her spoon. Should I have another? she wondered as she slowly turned her head toward Gareth and his father.

2:6

When Rowan was 14 years old she had been madly in love with the blockbuster movie star du jour. He had been a tall, muscular young man with the devil-may-care attitude that so many of the young rich and famous affected. She had the requisite posters on the wall and had even gone so far as to join the Tiger Beat-sponsored fan club so she could get regular updates and ’personal’ notes from what she considered to be the most beautiful man in the world.

This future husband had a habit of drawling. His heavenly voice was laconic and slow, and no word was safe from his iconic mispronunciation. It was charming, it was sexy, it was sooo mature, and Rowan decided then and there, much to her parents’ dismay, that this was how really beautiful and famous people spoke.

By the time she was 16 she knew better, but by then it was so much a part of her high school image she didn’t dare change. By the time she was 18, she didn’t care much about the schmucks she went to high school with. And then Carmen, whom she was head-over-heels in love with, thought it was endearing. It actually got worse.

After the Carmen episode she resolved to give the drawling accent up once and for all but found that she couldn’t. Oh, she often started out en amour in a normal fashion, but as soon as she got distracted or excited she’d forget and slip back into the drawl. So now she lived with it and even used it for effect. People she didn’t know often underestimated her, and those she did could see the cutting undertones as she employed her drawl to jab pins in people’s expectations.

2:5

Meredith stood in the kitchen and surveyed the table. The kids would be back from skating in a bit and the ham was in the oven. The rosemary-roasted potatoes were filling the room with a sufficiently warm and cozy smell, and she had the mugs of hot chocolate all ready for the milk warming on the stove. Everything was set, and she supposed it was time for a bit of a break.

Meredith wandered into the big sun room off the kitchen and sank onto the cushions on the bench. This was her favorite place for breakfast because the sun streamed in the east windows and she could curl up with her coffee and enjoy the warmth. Lately the beaver had taken to joining her. They usually sat in companionable silence and watched the sun rise, but this morning he had watched her for a few minutes and then asked a most unusual question.

Thinking back, Meredith now wondered why she was more surprised by the nature of the question than at the fact that the beaver had spoken to her. Until this morning he hadn’t said a word, although he was quite a good communicator — much better, in fact, than most of the people she’d had to work with over the years. But it  seemed natural that the beaver would speak when he had something to say, and not when he didn’t. Showed a lot of sense in her books. Wise old beaver, she thought with a smile. Wise old young beaver.

This morning the beaver had broken the spell by gazing at her with his soft brown eyes and asking whether she felt ready to talk about it yet.

“About what?”

“Barney,” he said softly.

Well, hadn’t she made a fool of herself then. The noise she had made. Why, it sounded more like a choking Pekingese than anything a proper adult should make. Meredith frowned at the memory. Today of all days, why would the beaver bring that up. No one’s business but her own and certainly not something she was prepared to discuss with a guest in her house.

But was he really a guest? A few times over the past week Meredith had found herself thinking of the beaver as family, thinking of the future again. It had been cold for a bit, dipping down to minus 35 at night and not much better during the day. Today was the first half-decent day in a week, and she’d been planning on getting out with the kids and stretching her soul. The one thing that could make her antsy was being inside too many days in a row, and there weren’t many chores or excuses to drag her out on bitter days. But somehow having the beaver around had changed the tenor of her days. Watching him waddle across the yard from the shop in the mornings and sharing the morning sun with him took the edge off the stir-crazy.

He usually spent the afternoons on his own, sometimes at the house but usually back in  the lodge he’d constructed up in the shop, doing whatever beavers-of-an-unusual nature did. It was a comfortable arrangement.

This morning, though, she awoke ready to go, feeling the temperature rising and anticipating some time out in the fresh prairie air. Then the beaver had spoken. And here she was, still cooped up in the house while everyone else was out and about enjoying the day. Even the beaver had gone for a walk, leaving her immersed in her own thoughts. She was strongly inclined to think some distinctly uncomplimentary thoughts in that beaver’s direction right now. Very uncomplimentary.

2:4

Rowan stood by the coffee bar and and pondered the panda bear in her latte. Whenever she glanced across the room she could feel the waves of tension, fear and anger emanating from Gareth and his dad, but she thought she could sense them evening out. Certainly the body language seemed a bit less frantic than it had five minutes ago.

It’s funny, she thought, I never worried about other people’s relationships all that much before. Rowan snorted and reflected on all her rows with her own parents. I suppose I never had time for other people’s issues with all the crap I thought I was dealing with. She shook her head like a sneezing cat and stared hard at the cinnamon-tinged bear. Christ, next thing you know I’ll be asking for Gareth’s help. Wouldn’t that be a hoot.

Rowan had liked Gareth for a long time. They’d first met in the playground when one of Rowan’s nannies had been looking to distract her from a particularly bratty mood. That had only lasted a few weeks before Father had found better ways for them to spend their time. But she remembered Gareth as a skinny kid with a lot of energy and little sense. “Seriously, who lets a kid hang from the crossbar on the swings?” But Gareth was often unsupervised, and fear seemed to be a foreign concept to that version of him. Things certainly have changed, haven’t they, she mused.

Rowan glanced at the tall, lanky figure gesturing at his father. He seems so balanced between this new fear of everything and that old energy. I wonder what it’s like to ride that wave? I certainly couldn’t do it; but I guess I’m lucky I don’t have to. In the back of her mind Rowan wondered why she was even here. The idea that somehow she was out of place, out of step with events, tickled her in a way she just wasn’t comfortable with. Just what was Gareth to her anyway?

With a stab of her spoon, the panda disintegrated into foamy white turbulence. Rowan picked up the cup and sipped the bitter-and-sweet liquid. Then she grabbed her iPhone and settled back to catch up on some Bejeweled. I guess I’ve got some time to fill.

2-3

Well, the beaver thought, I guess I’d better get the background. He picked up the tattered Hilroy and flipped through it until he came to the first page that mentioned Magrath.

Wednesday, May the twenty-second, nineteen hundred and eighty-five

Well, I blew into this piss-ass town about 12:15. Just in time to see the hayseeds and hicks shuffle their way to the local food trough on main street. I figured that was as good a place as any to find Mayor McCheese. Probably stuffing his pasty face with deep-fried buffalo chips or whatever passes for local cuisine in this hole.

And lo and behold, who was sitting on his fat ass right by the counter, making moo-eyes at the tackily dressed waitress behind the till. Well, to make a long story short (and probably more interesting than anything real involving these clods), Mr. Mayor was ’dee-lighted’ to see me and invited me over to the office to chat about the cesspool he’s forced to put up with.

Christ, I have no idea why the suicide rate in places like this doesn’t exceed the birthrate. Maybe humping’s the only thing that makes it better.

So it looks like I’m here for a few weeks at least. Mayor McStupid bought the line and is putting me on the payroll. It’s not really worth the time, but it will cover expenses while I get on with it. I mentioned this Meredith McGrath woman and got a bite. Seems she’s in the habit of picking up strays — now there’s a stupid idea if I ever heard one — and she frequents the scuzzy taverna at the hotel most Thursday afternoons.

So I’ll plug my nose, take a room in the putrid hotel and arrange to ’meet’ the ’meat’ tomorrow afternoon. And hopefully somewhere in this pus-ridden burg I can find a cup of coffee that doesn’t taste like petroleum byproducts.

Ordo ab chao,
Barnabas

2-2

Edward stood outside the beaver’s apartment and composed himself. He hadn’t realized until about five minutes before just where this was all leading him to. “It’s strange,” he maundered to himself. “You think you are on top of it all and so you act, and not five bloody minutes after you commit, you find out the one piece of knowledge that might have made you hesitate. This beaver is really getting on my nerves.”

The wind was picking up, and the fur around Edward’s tail was starting to lift and flow. He shuddered unconsciously. “Well.”

“Well,” he repeated. As a third “Well” left his lips, he started forward, hopped up to the front door and twitched his whiskers at the knob.

The door opened and two young men exited, talking excitedly about the game and oblivious to the small rabbit at their feet. Edward hopped inside the closing door and proceeded up the stairs to Gareth’s apartment.

As he settled on his haunches outside the door he heard a slight noise from within. Moments later the door opened inward, the beaver standing tall on his back legs, one hand on the knob and one hand over his mouth in an exaggerated moue of surprise.

“Why, it’s a little bunny!” the beaver exclaimed.

“Knock it off,” Edward replied.

“Ah. You’ve come to some conclusion, I take it? Think you’ve got something figured out, do you?” The beaver stepped back and made way for the rabbit to enter the apartment. “Mind the hardwood, and no pooping on the floor,” the beaver instructed cattily.

Edward hopped into the living room. “I take it you’ve arranged to be alone?” he queried the smirking rodent. “No one here to witness our ’meeting’ of minds?”

The beaver’s tone dropped a few degrees. “Meeting? Well, I suppose it’s not a chance encounter, but I hardly think your barging in can be considered a meeting. Why don’t you just state your business so I can be about my own, sans poop.”

“I suppose you could look at it that way, if you were to believe this an avoidable event. But you and I both know it’s not. It took me a while to piece it together. Years in fact, but now that I have, I admit to feeling bit foolish to have been so clueless for so long.”

A genuine smile lit up the beaver’s face. “I had been wondering just what was distracting you so. I always assumed you were just putting this little tête-à-tête off because you were busy with other strands.”

“No, unfortunately not,” Edward said settling onto the couch. “While I have been occupied, it’s always been a bit of mystery to me just who or what was imposing such odd conditions on events. I had taken our last brief meeting as an effect, not causative at all. Still, no harm done. These sorts of things will always wait.

“But now, my watery woodland friend, shall we discuss … Gareth, is it? … and just what we are going to do with you?”

“Gareth is outside your scope, bunny,” the beaver barked. “Completely a side issue and you know it. Let’s just stick to what’s relevant and get on with it.”

“Fine,” Edward sighed, “but I think we will find Gareth has more standing here than you imagine. You of all creatures should know it’s impossible to separate these things.” Edward eased back into the cushions, twisted his ears forward in an effort to look grave and met the beaver’s eyes with a willful stare. “So let’s talk about Barney, then.”