macblaze.ca

4:11

The beaver went back on his haunches. The rat went backwards out of the box. And the contents of the box went pretty much everywhere as it overturned.

“BLESSED Garfinkle!” shouted the beaver as he swung his small brown arms, trying to regain his equilibrium. “What the hell’s the matter with you, you vile stupid rodent? Are you trying to kill me?” he finished between taking big gulps of air.

Dropping back to all fours he took a menacing step forward, fur bristling until he looked twice the size. “Get your scrawny carcass out here where I can see you,” he growled, realizing he sounded not unlike a rat terrier he had once met in the south of France.

The was no movement.

“I said, GET. YOUR. SCRAWNY. ASS. OUT. HERE. Right now!”

Still no movement and nothing but a lot of silence.

“I am not crawling any further under this disgusting furnace for the sake of a rat,” he muttered to himself and took a small step toward the scattered papers from the overturned box.

He started scooping the papers together and then grabbed the ratty box and dragged it toward himself. He kept an eye on the darkness behind the furnace and occasionally thought he saw some movement.

“I hate rats,” he mumbled to himself. “Only good thing about this job was there weren’t supposed to be any rats. And what do I find? Stupid rat.”

Eventually the beaver got everything collected into the now much less than sturdy cardboard container. It could hardly be called a box anymore as the one side was torn down to the bottom and none of the tape seemed to have any adhesive left. He dragged back out from under the low ceiling, keeping half an eye on the space where he had last seen the rat.

“Now what?” he called aloud to the darkness. “Am I supposed to just leave you there?”

Silence.

“Stupid RAT! I’ve got better things to do with my time than deal with slimy-tailed flea-bitten vermin…”

Nothing

“Aargh!” The beaver let out a strangled growl and divided his attention between the treasure at his feet and the hidden foe lurking in the shadows. After a few moments of this mutter-filled tableau the beaver glanced down to the top sheet of paper, where the phrase “Last Will and Testament” caught his eye. He grabbed the sheet and turned to read the rest of it. Of course at that moment, the rat, mangy and hungry and very, very frightened, made a break for it, heading straight for the beaver who stood between him and some sort of freedom.

An observer, had there been any, might have quipped ’bowling for beavers’ at the results of Ezekial’s rash choice. But alas, there was no one there to see the resulting collision except a small family of spiders, which frankly didn’t care.

 

4:10

Rowan sat on the couch and sipped the glass of cold water Gareth had fetched for her. Her fingers left patterns in the condensation on the sides of the glass, and she spun it in her fingertips, drawing spirals that quickly disappeared, the moisture coalescing into drops that ran down the sides and then soaked into the beer coaster as she set the glass down.

She glanced up at the art on the walls of the tiny living room. Ink sketches framed in cheap cardboard mattes that they had obviously been bought in and a small watercolor of a coastline with the requisite waves and sailboat. Rowan wondered about that one. As far as she knew Gareth had never been within a thousand miles of the ocean and she certainly didn’t picture him as the sailing type, all avast and avant and hoisted aloft. Sailor-speak was probably the only thing more ridiculous than her southern drawl.

On the shelf by the kitchen was a collection of small figurines. She leaned over and observed that they were the animal figures her mother had once said came from Red Rose tea. A few were worn and old looking, but to her surprise quite a number looked new. She stood up and moved to the shelf unit to have a closer look. As she did, she detected the faint scent of tea. Rowan picked up the tiny beige owl and sure enough, it had tiny granules of black tea stuck to its base.

As Gareth came into the room she turned to him. “I didn’t know they still made these things. I thought they were all my grandma’s age.”

Gareth stopped, looking a bit confused, and then his eyes came to rest on the collection of figures and he smiled. “Ah, you’ve discovered my secret.” He walked over to stand by Rowan and gazed down at the motley group of animals and assorted odds and ends. Rowan was suddenly conscious of the scent of Gareth as it mixed with the faint tea. “I started collecting them when I was just a boy and my grandmother gave me this one to try to keep me quiet.” He picked up a small brown monkey. “They’re Wade figures. They have been giving them away since the ’60s. I don’t have the complete collection, but I’m working on it.”

He turned to look at Rowan and grinned sheepishly. “They remind me of Gramma.”

Gareth turned back to the living room and flopped bonelessly on the ugly forest-green easy chair. “So, what do you want to do now?” he inquired.

 

4:9

Waiting. It’s something we all do, something most of us hate. But occasionally, just every once in a while, the waiting is what makes something worthwhile. The anticipation, the building pressure combine with whatever chemicals your body pours into your cortex, producing pure, unadulterated joy when the moment finally arrives.

This time, however, that perfect storm of events wasn’t in the cards. Nope. Not in the cards at all.

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.