

# SPECIMEN

## & Other Stories

## by

## Alan Annand

Copyright _©_ Alan Annand 2015

Published by Sextile.com at Smashwords

Specimen & Other Stories

© Alan Annand 2011

V.16032016

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher. Distribution of this electronic edition via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal.

ISBN 978-1-927799-11-6

### Table of Contents

Bananarama: Reformed meat-eater embarks on a 15-day bananas-and-orange-juice diet, with surprising side effects.

The Date Square Killer: Mild-mannered hit man finds love, social justice and the meaning of life in non-random acts of murder.

River Girl: Middle-aged bureaucrat takes a detour on his morning jog that leads him to an unexpected rendezvous with Fate.

Specimen: A wealthy butterfly collector visits his twin brother, warden of a penal colony, who is building his own unique collection.

The Bassman Cometh: My night with Margaret Atwood: Hapless university graduate student in 1975 ruins famous Canadian author's poetry reading.

The Naskapi & the U-Boat: A German U-Boat in WW2 visits northern Quebec to install a weather station, but a native family compromises their secret mission.

### Introduction

Cormac McCarthy once said, " _I'm not interested in writing short stories. Anything that doesn't take years of your life and drive you to suicide hardly seems worth doing._ " Indeed, like many other novelists, for me the short story form has been more of a diversion than a devotion, sort of like a marathon runner taking an occasional jog around the neighborhood.

These stories, however, reflect the diversity of my interests and style. Three are humorous, two involve murder and violence, a sixth is a wry combination of both. Two are autobiographical, the other four pure fiction. Two are set in my native New Brunswick, two in my adopted Toronto, two in remote climes as divergent as the tropics and the Arctic.

Ultimately, this collection is an appetizer. If you like some of these, perhaps you'll enjoy my crime novels, all of which feature heroes and villains with a wry sense of humor and a lust for adventure in all its forms.

~~~~~~~~~

### Bananarama

Many years ago, inspired by the stellar example of the Buddha, and a bizarre association with one Wild Bill Periwinkle, an American New Age writer I'd met in the backwoods of New Brunswick, I decided to become a vegetarian.

It was a sensible thing to do, although desperation played a part. After years of struggling to make it as a writer, I was ready to emulate the virtues of any good role model, and since Wild Bill had already carved a niche for himself in the publishing world, I figured that if it worked for him, it might also work for me. According to Wild Bill, if only I'd free my body from the bad karma of all those hapless animals sacrificed for my dining pleasure, my luck would turn, and I too could soon see my name on a book jacket. Equally important, Wild Bill explained, there were also significant health benefits.

"After years of eating meat, the heavy mucus coating in the colon thickens to the consistency of truck tire rubber, becoming a host of putrefaction. As noxious debris seeps through the bowel wall, the capillaries to the colon suck up these toxins and distribute them freely among the organs and tissues of the body."

Wild Bill took a long draw on a skinny joint and passed it to me. He was a normally reticent fellow, but as soon as he had a lungful of ganja smoke inside him, he became as gabby as a talk-show host on amphetamines.

"Thanks to years of encrusted fecal buildup, some colons under autopsy have measured nine inches in diameter, with channels no bigger than a pencil through which one can barely pass a rabbit pellet, never mind the super-sized leftovers of yesterday's fast food meal. I'll bet you didn't know, Elvis had 60 pounds of this crap jamming up his exit route."

"Is that why he died on the john?" I said.

"To rid your body of all that intestinal gunk, and pave the way for a better life, both now and in your next incarnation, you've got to undergo a cleansing diet," Wild Bill told me in his most seriously spiritual tone.

It seemed like a worthy goal, and although I'd followed Wild Bill's advice on any number of other quasi-mystical regimens that had failed to manifest any noteworthy benefit, I was always game for another adventure in consciousness-raising. According to Wild Bill, it was simply a matter of faith and perseverance before my colon would be running as clean as a mountain stream.

The program was deceptively simple, as outlined in _The Canadian Whole Earth Almanac_ , a copy of which Wild Bill loaned me as proof this wasn't just another of his crazy ideas, but was in fact endorsed by one of the flagship publications of the counter-culture. In the best New Age tradition, with a strong bias for all things cosmic, the diet would start on the new moon and finish on the full moon. Fifteen days, in which I should eat no more nor less than nine bananas a day. To wash it down, I could drink all the orange juice I wanted. And if I needed to suppress any gas resulting from the consumption of enough bananas to feed a small tribe of monkeys, I should add three cardamom seeds to this daily regimen. That's it, that's all.

This being my first diet, I decided to keep it simple. I'd never been one to suffer from gas, so I didn't trouble myself with hunting down the exotic cardamom seed at a natural foods emporium. Instead, I went to the nearest supermarket and bought a case of almost-ripe bananas, and a gallon of orange juice. The checkout girl looked at me kind of funny.

"Do you have a pet monkey?"

"Yes, but he's a naughty little primate, and I frequently have to spank him. Do you love animals? Maybe you could help. What time do you get off work?"

She hurriedly gave me change and turned her attention to the next shopper in line. I shouldered my case of bananas and headed home.

My first day went something like this: two bananas for breakfast, three bananas for lunch, three bananas for dinner and one banana for a late-night snack. The first couple of days went fine. I liked bananas and they seemed to like me. I noticed, however, that despite all this volume, my bowels seemed to have gone on strike. Maybe they were just trying to adjust to this pH-neutral food that was so good for them that they didn't know how to deal with it, somewhat like the aboriginal peoples who didn't get it at first that the arriving colonists would, contrary to all the initial evidence, eventually improve their quality of life, turning them from itinerant hunter-gatherers into business-savvy casino operators.

Finally, on day three I had a bowel movement that should have prompted me to get a photo and/or a witness to register it for the _Guinness Book of World Records_. It was the size of a banana-colored anaconda, and took several flushes of the toilet to banish it to the netherworld of the sewage system. My inner monkey got quite a primal fright in seeing this snake-like phenomenon so up close and personal, but after it was gone, I felt distinctly lighter in all respects. Maybe I was now on my way to cleanliness of body, soul and spirit, just as Wild Bill in a temporary lucid state had prophesied.

Around day five, I began to suffer gas attacks the like of which World War One trench soldiers had never experienced. At first it was just a minor thing, a bit of intestinal bloating, followed by a relieving wind that smelled distinctly of bananas. It had quite a sweetish odor, actually, and in the volumes being emitted, quickly precluded the need in my apartment for incense to mask the odor of stale kitty litter or the catnip my feline friends were fond of smoking day and night.

I rushed out to the nearest health food store and bought a hundred grams of cardamom seeds. I didn't have anything with which to grind the seeds to a powder, so I just gobbled a handful. An hour later, I lay doubled up on my bed, nearly paralyzed by terrible stomach cramps.

Meanwhile, it was obvious that the cardamom seeds had none of their desired effect, and by day's end I was discharging gas almost continuously, at an industrial rate of production. My lower bowel had been transformed into a banana methane factory.

I called my girlfriend and cancelled our usual Friday night date. She was miffed but I preferred not to explain. On Saturday night I skipped a movie I'd planned to see with some buddies. I didn't go to church on Sunday morning. I missed classes on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. On Friday, however, I had a test in American Lit 409 that was so important I couldn't avoid it, so by hissing wind all the way to the class, and then completing a multiple choice questionnaire in record time, I made a beeline to the washroom where I cut loose a wicked one that nearly blew the door off the stalls. Temporarily deflated, I retreated to self-imposed solitary confinement in my apartment. Ironically, my reading assignment for the weekend was _Gone With the Wind_.

_Whatever doesn't kill us makes us stronger_ , Nietzsche said, but he never had to go through this. Suffering in the name of a good cause, however, I maintained a stiff upper lip and a flaccid sphincter. Four more days and my colon would be ollie-ollie-toxin-free. Although I desperately craved pizza, beer, potato chips, pork rinds, salted peanuts – anything but the sweet mush of another banana – I hung tough. God in his wisdom had something good for me at the end of all this, I believed, my faith as unshakeable as those Kamikaze pilots who rode their planes down to destruction with what they called a divine wind at their backs. Trouble is, when I looked over my shoulder, the wind at my back was nothing short of diabolic.

The hiss of gas was a constant background noise. My upstairs neighbors called the utility company to complain about a leak. When a technician arrived with his gas monitor, I told him to go ahead and check the place, I was just going out for a walk. I hurried across the street and into a cemetery where I hunched behind a gravestone and liberated some bowel steam. Squirrels in the trees above swooned like canaries and hung from the branches with sick expressions on their furry little mugs. When I returned to my apartment half an hour later I found a note from the utility man saying everything was fine with the gas lines, but maybe I should empty my garbage can, which was overflowing with rotten banana skins and empty orange juice cartons.

On the afternoon of day 15, the full moon, I was down to the short strokes on this inhuman diet, which by now I was convinced must have been dreamed up by Hanuman, the fierce monkey god of Hindu cosmology, as some bizarre rite of evolutionary progress. No dessert until you eat your vegetables, and no rebirth until you eat your fruit. I was counting, if not the hours, then certainly the bananas. 131 down, only four more to go. I could do it. Before me lay only dinner and a bedtime snack, and then one last night's restless sleep, during which I would toss and turn and billow the bed sheets with enough banana methane to heat a house.

The doorbell rang. It was Wild Bill, come to town for his once-a-week grocery run, during which he invariably dropped his wife off at the local health food store while he popped around the corner to shoot the breeze and share a joint with me. As was his custom, it was already dangling from his mouth, his lighter cocked in his right hand ready for ignition. As he ambled in, he said, "Whew, that's some funky-smelling shit, man, you need to open a window and vent this place out." But before I could say, wait, don't light that up in here, he flicked his lighter and a tiny flame erupted in a fiery cloud of gas.

They said the blast was heard a dozen blocks away. A fire truck was there in minutes, followed shortly thereafter by a hazardous materials unit and an ambulance, and later by the police and the arson squad. Wild Bill and I were released from the hospital that evening, after criminal intentions had been ruled out, suffering only minor burns incurred at ground-zero of what the haz-mat team called a low-concentration methane explosion of organic origins. I returned to my apartment, whose broken windows had been temporarily sealed with sheets of plastic. I opened two of the windows to create a cross-draught and set a place for dinner at the kitchen table. I pureed one banana in the blender to make soup, ate two more normally as the main dish, and diced the last one to eat for dessert. Exhausted but full, I went to bed.

Aside from the diabolic wind, I slept well, and on awakening to the smell of rotten banana skins, I emptied the garbage and swore that occult vegetarian diets would no longer be a part of this writer's lifestyle. From this day forth, I resolved to revert to my omnivorous ways. With the dawning of a new day and a new lease on life, I hastened off to my favorite breakfast joint and ordered one of everything on the menu – eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, grits, beans, cereal, muffin, hash browns, toast, and a big pot of coffee.

Recognizing a ravenous man when she saw one, the waitress asked me, "Do you want a fruit cup with that?"

After a moment's hesitation I said, "Yes, but hold the bananas."

~~~~~~~~~

### The Date Square Killer

Ken liked it at the Mercury Café. No one there knew he was a killer. He could drop in for a coffee and a date square and sit in one of their dumpy club chairs and read the newspaper. No one would be talking business – explaining to him their beef with someone, and asking him how much it'd cost to have their beef turned into hamburger.

It was a slack day and he had time on his hands. He took out his mechanical pencil – a beautiful red Pentel he'd taken from an accountant who'd borrowed far more cocaine money than he'd budgeted for – and worked on a Sudoku puzzle. It was a beginner's level because he wasn't that good with numbers and if he got frustrated and started to hear the voices of his grade school math teacher echoing in his head, terrible things could happen.

As he worked on his puzzle, he nibbled on a date square. He patronized the Mercury Café because of their perfect date squares. If she weren't dead, he could have believed his mother had made them. They had just the right amount of date filling, husk-free and not too sweet. They stuck together perfectly, so he could hold one in his free hand and eat it until it was gone and it wouldn't fall apart on him. Some of these other places, you needed a whisk broom to finish the damn things.

He was sitting in his favorite chair in the back corner when these two kids came in. The guy was maybe 21, 22, but looked like he'd got stuck in high school mode and couldn't squirm out of it. He had a skateboard in one hand and a can of Red Bull in the other, tats up and down his arms and calves, wearing a T-shirt and a pair of those ridiculous baggy pants that came down to just below the knee.

There was a girl with him, she looked maybe 19 but stretching for a few years beyond, like she couldn't wait to graduate from being a kid and turn into a beautiful young woman. She wore a sleeveless white cotton summer dress, briefly translucent as she was framed in the sunny entrance, and had a thick tangle of blonde hair that obscured her face.

They stood at the counter while the guy ordered a couple of coffees from the barrista. End of the afternoon, the place was pretty busy and the good seats in the front half of the café were already taken, so after they cased the joint and came to the same conclusion, they walked into the back and sat on the old sofa that was kitty-corner to him.

The guy propped his skateboard against the sofa and put his feet on the coffee table. The girl sat beside him, but closer to Ken, keeping her knees together and smoothing her dress around her thighs as she settled in. Her tanned legs were the color of coffee ice cream. She carefully removed the lid from her takeout cup, took a brief sip and grimaced at the heat. She blew on the surface of the coffee and Ken noticed how pretty her lips were, pursed like that, as if she were blowing a kiss.

"Are you coming to Mom's birthday party?" she asked the guy with her.

"I dunno. I want to go to a party in Oakville."

"That skank you met on Facebook?" she said.

Annoying rap music erupted from somewhere inside the guy's pants. He pulled out a cell phone and said, "Whazzup, bro?"

It turned into a long conversation, something about a girl that the caller had a hardon for, but it was apparently going nowhere fast...

Ken knew the feeling. Women didn't dig him. It was like they had a sixth sense, they looked at his hands and knew he'd done so many bad things with them, and they couldn't stand the thought of him touching them, and they ran away as fast as he appeared on their horizon. He could write a book about unrequited love.

"Are you finished with that section of the paper?" the girl asked him.

Ken looked at her. She was looking at him. Her eyes were like emeralds with lights behind them. He was blinded, like a raccoon in the middle of the road, and a Jaguar bearing down on him. _Whump_. That was the sound of her tires running over his heart.

"Uh, yeah. Help yourself."

She took the newspaper, the Entertainment section, and began to read the cover story.

Ken looked at the numbers on the Sudoku grid and couldn't make sense of anything. His mind was like one of those paperweights that had been shaken, little snowflakes cascading down upon a landscape vaguely familiar and strange, hiding his tracks so that he wasn't sure how he'd actually got here or how he was going to get home again.

The guy was still talking on the phone. Ken couldn't believe how rude he was, ignoring the girl beside him. He understood from their three-line dialogue they were probably brother and sister, not boyfriend and girlfriend, but still. People with cell phones didn't deserve to have friends, or family for that matter, if they were going to behave so badly.

Some days when Ken was in a bad mood he made lists of people he would kill for free. People who abused and abandoned their pets. Drivers who didn't signal their turns. People who tossed litter on the sidewalks. Owners of very expensive cars who always seemed to have handicapped placards on their dashboards so they could park where they pleased.

He looked at her again and wracked his brain for something to say. Her beauty was a frightening hurdle, like a mountain in the distance that he wanted to climb but knew that he would run out of oxygen and die before he reached its peak.

She turned the page in the newspaper, picked up her coffee, sipped it again, and her eyes drifted briefly his way.

"Would you like a date square?" he said to her, regretting it immediately. Could he have picked anything more ridiculous to say?

She looked at him and after a moment a crooked little smile appeared on her lips. "Who you calling a square?"

It took him a few seconds before he got it. Word play. She was messing with him. He liked that. His heart started pounding like a big bass drum.

"You'd never make it as a square," he said. "Too many curves."

"The better to roll with the punches," she said.

"Anyone punched you," he said, "I'd tear their arms off and club them to death with the stumps."

"Ooh, that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all day."

"Did I...? Oh, I'm sorry. I thought I was only thinking it. Sometimes things slip out."

"Yes, I know. It's like that motherfucking Tourette's Syndrome. Don't you just hate when that happens?"

"Don't get me started. There are so many things to hate."

"You know what pisses me off?" she said. "Take a walk along Avenue Road, see how so many handicapped people seem to drive a BMW, a Mercedes or a Porsche. I'd like to line up the doctors who signed those permits and run over their legs with a bulldozer."

Ken couldn't believe his ears. It was both shocking and exciting to hear someone who thought so much like him. He stood up, but he wasn't sure whether he should walk or run away. The last time he'd expressed an attraction for a woman, she'd called 911.

"Would you like something? Date square, chocolate brownie, macadamia nut cookie...?"

"What? I thought you were asking me for a date. Now who's square?"

He stared down at her. Was she still messing with him? This was worse than Sudoku. The numbers didn't add up. She was beautiful and innocent, and he was a beast with homicidal hands. What kind of children would they have?

Ken looked from her to the other end of the sofa, where the guy was now curled up like a pretzel, still on the phone. "I wouldn't have said something like that, not when you're with someone."

She made a dismissive wave. "My idiot brother?" She looked at her watch. "We were supposed to catch up, on account of we haven't seen each other, for like a month, but he's been on the phone all this time and now my break's over and I've got to get back to work."

"Where's that?"

"The Gap on the next block."

She stood up, made the universal thumb-and-pinkie signal to her brother. _Call me, asshole_. And walked out.

Ken followed her into the sunlight. Briefly, it was like something out of a movie, where the earthlings step out of the spaceship and the new world is all bright and shiny and marvelous and they know somehow everything's going to be all right.

He saw it too late to warn her. Some idiot had left a juice bottle lying on the second step. She slipped on it and would have taken a header onto the sidewalk if Ken hadn't reached out with reptilian reflex and grabbed her bicep in his hand. He held her steady until she was on the sidewalk.

"Oh my God, your hands are so amazingly strong." She looked up at him with gratitude. "And warm."

"Thank you."

"You can let go now."

"Sorry." His mother had always said, you find what you want in life, you hold onto it tight and never let it go. He wondered about that sometimes, and why she hadn't held onto her own life, instead of spiraling down the drain in a swirl of cheap wine.

"I've got to get back to work." She pointed down the street.

"What's your name?"

"Barb."

"I'm Ken."

"Barbie and Ken." She smiled. "My friends are going to rip me a new one over that."

It took him a few moments before he got it. Was she making fun of him? He looked at her, still standing there, smiling with teeth from a dental ad, waiting for him to say something clever...

"What time do you get off work?"

"Six."

"Would you like to go to dinner with me?"

"Only if you've got a lot of money, because I am really hungry. Not to mention, thirsty."

"I have money." It had been a good month. He'd killed two guys and he had another one to do this afternoon, although he wouldn't get paid until tomorrow.

"If you've got the money, honey, I got the time."

Ken had to control himself from having a nostalgic meltdown right then and there. His mother used to sing that song when he was a kid, and waltz him off his feet around the kitchen in their shitty little two-bedroom apartment, until he got too big for her and she got too drunk to dance.

Ken looked at his watch. "How about if I meet you right back here when you get off work?"

"Deal." She offered her hand.

Reluctantly, he shook hands with her, feeling her little palm swallowed up inside his big paw. Her hand was very warm and slightly moist, like a burrito that had just come out of the microwave.

"Okay, I'll see you later."

"You know, maybe I shouldn't say this," she said, "but you have awesome hands. They give me the shivers, you know, in a nice way."

"I get that a lot," he lied, and he knew by the way she laughed that she knew he was full of it and she didn't care. She waved bye and headed off toward the Gap.

He turned and walked away. He gritted his teeth, telling himself not to get all mushy and look back at her. He started to hum a tune to himself, observing the debate going on between his ears. There was the old Ken who insisted she'd stand him up and he'd never see her again, and there was the new Ken who believed he'd see her for dinner tonight, and then who knows what could happen...

He walked back to his car, a 14-year-old white Volvo – solid, dependable and unremarkable, very much like himself. He got inside and drove across town to Danforth Avenue where he parked on Logan in the heart of Greektown. It was wall-to-wall restaurants and bars and cafés for half a dozen blocks along this stretch. It was a warm and sunny September afternoon and there were lots of people on the terraces. He found the restaurant he wanted and went inside and saw the guy sitting there with a couple of friends. He was wearing a yellow shirt that stuck out like a banana in a cornfield. Perfect.

Ken checked his watch and walked back to his car. He knew the guy had to be somewhere else at five o'clock, and he'd have to leave soon. But if Ken had his way, he wouldn't get far.

He got back inside his Volvo and opened the glove compartment to take out a pair of see-through latex gloves. He pulled them on and then reached under his seat to take out the gun. It was a .22-caliber Comanche revolver with a 9-shot magazine. They were pretty cheap and he bought them by the six-pack for a discount. The originals had 6-inch barrels but he'd taken a hacksaw to all of them and cut an inch and half off the muzzles. All the work he did was close up and personal, and he didn't need a gun sight to hit a frontal lobe.

He got out of the car and slipped on the double-breasted blue blazer with the gold buttons that he kept in the car for his work. He looked around to make sure no one was looking and stuck the gun into his waistband. He took a pair of sunglasses from the dash and slipped them on.

He opened the back door and picked up a soda can from the floor. He'd stuffed it lightly full of cat hair that he'd accumulated from weekly brushings of his 12-year-old Angora cat, whose name was Boston Blackie. The rate at which Blackie was shedding was sufficient to handle about three hits a month, and since Ken rarely achieved such a level of business, he had a bale of hair at home, enough to stuff a couple of pillows or knit a few sweaters.

He locked the car and headed back to Danforth, occasionally raising the soda can to his lips and pretending to take a sip from it, but all he got was a whiff of pussy hair. Typical. Sometimes a whiff, rarely a taste. But all that could change...

He glanced at himself in the window of a storefront. Lookin' sharp, man, like a car salesman in a recession, all dressed up and no place to go. A couple of songs danced through his head, competing for his attention. _He's a real nowhere man, working with his awesome hands_... And those bearded Texas bluesmen singing, _Everybody talkin' 'bout a sharp-dressed man_...

He was a hundred feet away from the restaurant when the banana shirt stepped out onto the sidewalk. That was one thing Ken had, it was a sense of timing, like he was right in lockstep with destiny. He followed Mr. Banana a dozen stores down the street, and stood looking in the window of a bookstore until the guy re-emerged from a convenience store. Mr. Banana tore the cellophane off a pack of cigarettes, ripped out the foil-wrap sleeve and lit a cigarette with a lighter. He crumpled the waste in his fist and threw it half-heartedly at a trash bin, totally missing the waste paper aperture, and the garbage fell onto the sidewalk.

Ken gritted his teeth, picked up the litter and placed it in the Paper & Plastic compartment. It wasn't much, but it was the principle of the thing. What was the matter with people these days?

He followed the guy around the corner onto Carlaw. A dark blue Porsche Cayenne was illegally parked in a commercial zone. Its lights blinked, its horn made a little toot, and its engine started up as Mister Banana approached it. Ken crossed the street with him, glancing around him as he went. No innocent bystanders to witness what was about to happen, the nearest pedestrians on Danforth a good twenty yards away.

Mister Banana opened the door and slipped behind the wheel. Ken was just five steps behind him. He saw it was a Cayenne Turbo, which listed for about $125K. Interestingly enough, there was a big blue _Handicapped_ placard lying on the front dash. Oooh, bonus points!

He caught the door just before Mr. Banana swung it shut and in one smooth movement he pulled the Comanche from under his jacket, jammed its barrel into the mouth of the soda can and popped the guy one right under the armpit. The home-made silencer burped discreetly. The guy leaned away from him, pawing the air like he was trying to shoo away a bumblebee, and his voice gagged in his throat, like the noise Blackie made when he was trying to cough up a hairball. Ken grabbed the flapping hand, held it tight for a moment, and popped the guy another one right in the temple.

There was no big splat from an exit wound because a .22 didn't have the power to do more than one cranial wall. The slug just went in and bounced around once or twice and that was all she wrote. The Cayenne's cream leather interior would be left unspoiled and the wife could either keep the ride or, if she felt any guilt about it, sell it like new.

"Now you've got a real handicap," Ken told the dead guy.

He kept the soda can but dropped the gun on the floor and closed the door. He looked around. Not a soul was looking in his direction. He'd always been lucky that way too. He walked back to Danforth and headed for his car. He stopped at one of the litter bins and inserted the soda can into the compartment marked Cans and Bottles. He peeled off the latex gloves as he walked along the sidewalk, glancing at the happy couples eating _pikilia_ and drinking wine.

There was a small square at the corner of Danforth and Logan dedicated to Alexander the Great. Ken put the gloves in the Garbage compartment of another litter bin. A place for everything, and everything in its place, his mother used to say. Just that he'd never understood why she had to go so soon to the place most people tried to avoid.

He unlocked the Volvo, took off his jacket and laid it flat in the back seat. He was hungry and there was a souvlaki joint right there on the square, but it was already after five, and he didn't want to spoil his appetite.

As he headed back downtown, he ran through a short list in his mind of places he might take Barb for dinner. But mostly, he wondered what he'd tell her when she asked him what he did for a living.

~~~~~~~~~

### River Girl

Stanley Rudd was a man of regular habits. Every morning he rose at six AM and went for a one-hour run. Every Tuesday morning, he ran only 15 minutes, to the home of Isabel Amore, where he spent 30 minutes in her bed, and then ran home to shower before going to work at the Department of Social Welfare, where he was Manager of Social Statistics.

His wife Martha used to run with him, but she'd injured her knee two years ago falling off a stepladder in the art gallery she co-owned. He now ran solo. Which was just as well since Isabel, despite being a sexually-charged divorcee whose champagne cork could pop after only a few minutes of agitation, was not into threesomes.

This Tuesday morning Stanley got up five minutes earlier so that he could say goodbye to Martha, who was catching an early flight to New York. She and her co-owner Beth would spend the rest of the week prowling the galleries of SoHo and Greenwich Village in hopes of discovering hot talent fresh out of the Big Apple oven, and new product for their growing clientele.

"You won't forget to water the plants?" she reminded him. It was mid-August and a withering heat had settled over Toronto like a sweat-drenched sauna towel. Aside from art, Martha was an amateur botanist. Her current pride and joy was her backyard garden filled with flowers whose Latin names she could rattle off like a catechism.

"Don't worry, darling," Stanley said. "I have my instructions." Martha had prepared a detailed work order, specifying how many milliliters of purified water and organic supplements went into each plant each day.

"Have a good week. I'll see you on Sunday." She gave him a quick hug and a dry kiss on the mouth. "Call me if you have any problem with the rhododendrons. They've been droopy this weekend but so long as you follow their schedule, I'm sure they'll be fine."

Stanley tied his Nikes and set off for Isabel. He lived in Riverdale, whose tree-lined streets of large houses were near dozens of good restaurants, lively bars and stylish boutiques. It was a neighborhood many upwardly-mobile professionals set their sights on. Ironically, Stanley was never so happy as when he was running away from it.

He loped up Broadview a few blocks, then descended Pottery Road, which twisted down the hillside to the meandering stream of the Lower Don River. On the other side of the Don Valley was Rosedale, where the sultry Isabel lay waiting for him in her red-walled boudoir on Hampton Park Crescent.

Stanley took it slow going down the hill, mindful of the shock to his 50-year-old knees. At the bottom of the hill was a small bridge over the river. As he crossed it, he saw in the corner of his eye a brief flash of something in the river. As he broke his stride to turn his head, he saw a pair of naked buttocks breach the surface of the water and disappear.

Amazing what the eye could register in a blink. The buttocks flared at the hips, immediately registered in Stanley's reptilian cortex as female. Also tanned, and further classified in Stanley's analytical mind as belonging to a nudist, or perhaps a lady of bohemian nature whose derriere had been protected from the sun by nothing more than a thong.

The Don River, however, was not typically high on a local swimmer's choice of dipping destinations. Scarcely a kilometer upriver from where Stanley now stood, breathless with both exertion and curiosity, was the North Toronto Sewage Treatment Plant. Tree-huggers who biked and hiked along the river trail swore its effluence was contaminating the environment, an accusation the Public Works Department vehemently denied.

Possibilities danced through Stanley's mind like ping-pong balls in a lottery barrel. The woman had tumbled from her bicycle into the river, somehow losing her biking shorts in trying to reach shore. She'd been ambushed by a would-be rapist during her morning jog and leaped half-naked into the river to escape her attacker. She'd been sky-diving when severe wind shear had blown her off-course, ripping parachute and clothes from her body.

No matter the cause, she had to be in jeopardy. Although he had a standing engagement, Stanley could not stand idly by. He trotted off the bridge and entered a well-trodden trail paralleling the river. But the bushes were thick along this section and, although he could hear splashing and thrashing, he couldn't see the woman.

He forced his way through an alder thicket until he stood on the bank of the Don. It was only 20 feet wide at this point and scarcely deeper than six feet, its sluggish current moving in eddies of dark green, reminding him of the wheat-grass smoothies sold at the juice bar of The Carrot Common, a local health food mecca on Danforth Avenue.

Beneath the turgid surface, the outline of her body writhed like a naked eel. Was she caught in the roots of a riverside tree? Or chained to a pair of construction blocks, a murder witness condemned to drown by Mafia hitmen?

He toed off his Nikes, peeled off his T-shirt and dived into the water. His hands had barely touched her nakedness when she thrust off from the bottom and broke the surface. He quickly followed. In a few powerful strokes, she reached the shore. He caught a brief glimpse of a fish, flashing silver and speckled in her fist, before she gave it a hard smack on a rock near the river's edge.

She turned to look at him, the fish hanging limp in one hand, like a post-tumescent member. Despite her nakedness, it was her eyes that drew his attention. They were bright green, as iridescent as the thorax of a dragonfly, seeming to sparkle with the light of a superbly-cut emerald.

"Had breakfast?" she said, holding up the fish.

"No." Stanley typically bought a double-double and a bran muffin at Tim Horton's en route to his office.

"Join me?" There was something about the way she said it, teasing him, pushing the envelope of his credulity, as if this scene might not be real. Or was she daring him to make it real?

He said nothing. For the moment he was still mesmerized by her eyes, but not unaware of her heaving nut-brown breasts from which water crept in rivulets down her belly. Any moment now, he expected to wake up from a dream with an erection.

Stanley heard some runners go by on the trail. From this turn in the river, he and the woman were completely screened from view. They might as well have been in the wilderness, he felt that alone with her. Alone and drifting on a current of compulsion.

She tossed the fish onto the bank and clambered after it on all fours, offering him a brief glimpse of her little pelt, glossy-haired between her naked buttocks. She tugged a summer dress of mottled brown-and-green from a branch where it'd been draped. She pulled it over her head, smoothed it across her hips. She ran her fingers through her wet hair and picked up her fish.

"Coming or not?"

As if in a dream, there seemed to be as little alternative as there was logic. He retrieved his Nikes and T-shirt and followed her back to the trail. She strode on ahead, barefoot and silent, never looking back, seemingly doubtless that he was following close behind, like a dog trailing its master. They followed the trail downriver for a kilometer. En route they met or were overtaken by cyclists and runners, some of whom Stanley recognized as regulars on this stretch.

She stepped off the trail, ducked her head and went under a tree. Stanley followed her onto a raccoon path through the bushes, arriving at a dense grove of trees on the river's edge. The Don widened a little at this point, perhaps thirty feet across, although no more than three feet deep.

Here was a dwelling of sorts – a patchwork affair of green tarpaulin, a sheet of plywood, tree branches secured with rope, an aluminum tent pole and some duct tape – with a bare patch of ground swept clean around a small fire pit.

She used a lighter to kindle a fire of leaves and twigs and scrap wood. From a toolbox inside her shelter she took a knife and crouched at the water's edge to gut the fish.

Stanley looked at his watch. It was 6:45, by which time he'd usually timed his climax to match that of Isabel, and was now catching his wind before setting homeward on his return run. She must be wondering what'd happened to him, but had no justification to phone his home. Undoubtedly, she'd call the office before lunch and he'd get an earful.

The office seemed remote at this point. He heard metallic thunder to the south and looked downriver to where the Prince Edward Viaduct crossed the Don Valley. On a trestle suspended beneath the vehicle bridge, a westward-bound subway train had emerged from under Broadview station, enjoying half a minute's view of the valley before it bored back into the bluff below Castle Frank station.

Stanley often sat in a window seat of the subway train, looking down into the valley where in the winter one could catch a glimpse of a blue tarp or some orange garbage bags where the homeless had stitched together their tiny shelters. By late spring, however, the foliage would erupt in a dense canopy through which nothing could be seen from above, and the subway riders would commute unaware of lives being lived out of sight and out of mind.

A few months ago his department had completed a study, using statistical methods, estimating 5,052 people homeless on Toronto's streets, in ravines, parks, shelters, health care facilities and correctional institutions. Statistically, 666 of them lived in ravines and parks.

"What's your name?" he asked as she laid the split fish on a flap of heavy-duty chicken wire over her low-flame fire pit.

"Callie," she said without looking up.

"This is where you live?"

"This is just my summer place. I have a condo in Yorkville."

"Really?" Decent condos in Yorkville started at $600K. Stanley and Martha had checked it out last year, thinking to cash in on a decade's massive appreciation on their Browning Avenue house, and put Martha within walking distance of her gallery. But in the end, the backyard garden had kept Martha rooted. And just as well, Stanley reflected, since it would have doubled the distance of his run to Isabel, leaving him barely enough time for a premature ejaculation before he'd have had to head home.

"My Beemer's parked in the bushes back there."

"Uh-huh." She had a sense of humor as well as a sense of adventure. He'd pegged her as an edge-runner, one of those William Gibson types who couldn't stay put in her demographic, migrating between categories, trying on different lifestyles like a teenager with an identity crisis.

Her wet hair seemed beautifully cut, framing a face with high cheekbones, thick eyebrows and those amazing eyes. He could've sworn her dress was a Donna Karan, but there was a ragged little flap at the neck where the label had been torn off. She wore no jewelry, but had a tattoo around her left wrist, what looked like Sanskrit characters. Her hands and feet were beautiful; she could have modeled either for fashion photo shoots.

If she'd been in her twenties, he'd have assumed a rich kid runaway, high on a cocktail of drugs and booze and sexual freedom, rejecting ambitious parents who'd expected her to go into medicine or law, going AWOL instead to freak them out. _Don't tell me what to do with my life_.

But this woman was in her late thirties, early forties. He'd seen her naked in the river, a full frontal. Beautiful as she was, she was no kid. But do her hair and nails, put her in heels with a clean dress, she'd look ready for a business meeting. Give her a Blackberry, she'd take Bay Street by storm, stealth or sheer sex appeal.

She removed the fish from the fire and handed him a piece, keeping the head for herself. He hesitated a moment, debating the wisdom of eating an anonymous catch from the Don River. He didn't even trust his local fish market, and preferred to buy from Loblaw's, where fresh flash-frozen filets had neither skin nor tails to betray their origins.

"Something to drink?" She pulled on a cord anchored to a tent-peg in her front yard. Up from the bottom of the Don came a net bag with two bottles of wine. She selected one that'd already been opened, pulled the cork with her sharp white feral teeth and passed him the bottle.

It was cool to the touch, not like it'd come from the fridge in the LCBO, but acceptable. Stanley read the label. A Niagara riesling, he'd had it before. Although he wouldn't bring it to a friend's dinner party, the price/value equation made it perfectly suitable for home consumption.

They ate with their bare hands and drank from the bottle. Stanley had never had fish, let alone wine, so early in the day, and he chalked it up as a novel experience. Fearing a fish-provoked gastro, however, he drank perhaps more wine than was necessary.

He looked at his watch. It was 7:15, by which time he usually left home to catch the subway. He knew that if he went now, he could jog home and shower and arrive at work only an hour late.

As he was thinking about that, she leaned forward to take the bottle for another swig, and he looked right down the décolletage of her dress. He saw her bare breasts loose within the shadow of the fabric and he didn't know what came over him. He leaned forward at the same time, like a moth drawn by the green fire of her eyes, and put his lips on hers.

All the air went out of him and he felt breathless and dizzy and excited at the same time, like some little kid taking his first ride on the roller coaster. They fell sideways onto the ground and his hands groped her, one going for a breast, the other going for the ass that had caught his eye in the first place, luring him into this insanity.

She responded with an enthusiasm that startled him. In moments she had the better part of him out of his running shorts. Wary of being caught _in flagrante delicto_ , even though Martha was now at the airport, and Isabel on her way to work, he inched toward her makeshift dwelling as she clung to him, her mouth fastened on his neck like a remora, her hand fist-full of his manhood.

Inside the shelter was a sleeping bag on a piece of foam, and it was on this flying carpet that Stanley was transported to heaven. In moments they were completely naked, and entwined together like snakes in a fever. Her skin was hot, her body muscled, her molten core as tight and buttery as a teenage prom queen. After half an hour, Stanley let out a groan that could have been heard all the way downtown, and collapsed beside her in a spastic post-orgasmic heap.

He awoke an hour later with a headache, his mouth tasting like a fish drowned in a barrel of cheap wine. For a moment he wasn't sure where he was. Or wasn't sure if he wanted to know where he was. He felt for his penis to make sure it was still there. From what he remembered, there'd been a terrific struggle, and he wasn't sure if it hadn't been torn off in the process. To his relief, it was still intact, and responded to his touch by raising its head, like an extreme fighter after a severe beating, but still game for more.

Beside the bed was a bookshelf fashioned from bricks and wooden planks. Stanley rolled on his side and examined the titles. _The SAS Survival Guide_. _An Idiot's Guide to Astrology_. _The Female Body: An Owner's Manual_. _Sexual Palmistry_. _Fodor's Guide to India_. The rest were novels: a mix of mysteries, thrillers and erotica.

Stanley got dressed and looked at his watch. It was 9:30. He had no meetings on the agenda today, and had in fact planned to simply hunker down in his office to read a thick report from the provincial government on the sustainability of social assistance programs for the homeless, whose numbers were considered suspect by his boss.

In fact, their department of Social Statistics was one of the last way-stations in the vetting process for large budget programs. "Vee are from zee SS," his boss Joan liked to joked with her non-Jewish departmental colleagues, "and vee are here to count you."

She was vacationing this week in Muskoka, with no expectation of her calling in for any reason. If he'd had his cell phone with him, he could've called his assistant Gary to say he'd stayed home to read the report undisturbed. But in the absence of such a call, his staff would simply assume he'd taken a vacation day. Let's face it, you could bring a carton of doughnuts into a government office during the summer, and scarcely anyone would surface for a nibble.

Stanley crawled out of the shelter. Callie sat cross-legged, still naked, on a square of folded blanket with eyes closed and hands folded in her lap. She appeared to be meditating and he didn't want to break her concentration, so he sat there quietly, just watching her. In repose, her face had a timeless quality to it, reminding him of statues from Indian temples, of goddesses whose inner bliss was reflected in their outer beauty.

An hour passed. Stanley got antsy. He wanted to go home, take a shower, have a coffee, give Isabel a call. If Callie didn't wake up in the next minute, he'd leave. It was starting to get a little creepy, this deep meditation. She was off in a world of her own, and didn't appear to be coming back any time soon.

He stood up, taking a last look around. It'd been wonderful in a strange sort of way, but it was time to go. Maybe it was just the fish, or the wine, or the ecstatic sex, but he was starting to feel queasy. He felt like he'd been teleported away and back, returning slightly out of sync, like Jeff Goldblum in _The Fly_ , needing coffee to wash down his sugar. He needed to return to familiar surroundings – home, office, head space – before she woke up and mesmerized him again.

He felt a sudden _frisson_ of panic, and the hair stood up on the back of his head. It'd been fun, but now he had to run. He crept quickly through the undergrowth, heading for the safety of the trail back to Pottery Road. He berated himself for having been such an idiot, having sex with an unwashed wood nymph. What had possessed him? He'd better see his doctor right away, get a morning-after shot of antibiotics or something.

He paused to relieve himself beside a small bush that bore clusters of tiny red berries. No sooner had he done so, he felt a wave of relief. His panic attack had passed. So had his desire to return to Pottery Road, Riverdale or life as he had known it on Browning Avenue.

He looked back toward the Don. The path though the bushes was a tunnel into the trees, and at the far end of it a warm light glowed and pulse. Probably it was just some trick of the eye – sunlight reflected from the river onto the underside of the leaves, the breeze in the foliage, clouds shape-shifting...

She was reading a book when he returned to her. She looked up at him and smiled. "Feeling okay?"

"I had to go for a leak."

"You could have gone in the river. It's what I do."

"For _everything_?"

She frowned. "I have a latrine. I'll show you later."

He had mixed feelings about that. Her tone implied he might be around for awhile. However much he doubted that, he didn't know whether to be flattered or frightened. He still hadn't figured her out. Was she an escapee from a psychiatric ward or just a sun-worshipping tree-hugger who'd taken her love for the environment to its logical extreme?

"Sit down." She patted the ground in front of her. "Show me your hands."

He sat cross-legged in front of her and held out his hands. As soon as she took his right hand in hers, an enormous current went through his arm, across his heart and into his groin. He laid his left hand over his crotch in case his erection burst through the fabric of his jogging shorts.

She traced her finger across his palm. She might as well have tickled his scrotum, it was all he could do to stifle a moan of pleasure.

"Long straight head line," she said. "Post-graduate degree, a scientist or some sort of number-cruncher?"

"PhD in statistics," he admitted.

"A branch off your head line curves down to the heel of your palm. Ever been treated for depression?"

"Self-medicated." Seven years into his marriage with Martha, he'd hit the wall of a mid-life crisis, mourned his lost freedom, fell into a spell of drinking and pot-smoking that had lasted two-and-half years. Luckily, he'd never let it show at work.

"Your heart line is short, takes a sharp turn under your middle finger. Makes you a bit of a horn-dog, not particularly ethical."

" _Carpe diem_ , that's my motto." He wouldn't admit that to anyone else, but what did it matter, he'd probably never see her again.

"Life line swings well out into the palm. You're very healthy." She lowered her head to look closer. "But there's a line that branches off to meet your fate line, and a little fish at the end of it."

"A fish? What's that?"

She didn't answer him, but concentrated on measuring his life line with the middle phalange of her little finger. "You'll have some sort of spiritual epiphany around age 50, jump the tracks and go AWOL."

"That doesn't sound likely." Stanley had his sights set on retirement at age 60, a nice government pension fattened on 30 years of service.

"How old are you now?"

"Fifty."

She let go of his hand and cocked her head toward the river, as if she'd just heard someone call her name. When she turned back to him, her green eyes swept his face like a searchlight.

"Like some tea?"

"Sure." Anything to get the taste of fish out of his mouth.

She started a fresh fire and filled a stainless-steel IKEA kettle from a four-liter container of water. When the water had boiled, she dropped a handful of something into it to steep. She took a pair of small Chinese cups from a plastic milk crate and poured them each a cup of tea.

After the wine, Stanley was quite thirsty, and he drank three cups of tea. He didn't really like it at first, but it grew on him. It tasted like bong water with a hint of peppermint. After the third cup, he felt his ears pop, as if he'd just taken a fast ride up the elevator to the top of the CN Tower. The tension in his head trickled out of his ears and ran down his spine like the residue of an ayurvedic oil massage.

After a few minutes, the ground beneath him seemed to come alive. The dirt was shape-shifting. He saw his own face smiling up at him, and then an ant crawled up his nose and he faded away into the dirt. The earth was translucent and three-dimensional. There were more faces down below, and he caught fleeting glimpses of Martha and Isabel and Gary and Joan and a woman with whom he'd had an affair during his depression, and other lovers and people from his past all the way back to high school and they were all naked and crawling over each other like worms in a compost heap. And somewhere far below, like large fish in deep water, he saw the dead Mohawks who'd lived and died and been buried here beside the river.

The next thing he knew, he was naked on the ground and Callie was naked on top of him and they were locked in a dance that was timeless, a fusion of souls for a purpose that only God could understand.

When he woke up again, he was alone inside her shelter. His limbs felt soft and feathery, like somebody had turned down the gravity, and he was in danger of floating away. He grabbed a tent-pole just in case he started to lift off. He felt seriously jet-lagged, as if he'd been on an inter-planetary flight and had lost his luggage and walked out of the terminal, not only into a different time zone, but a different dimension.

After a while, he crawled outside. The sky was still light but the sun had disappeared behind the valley ridge. Thunder to the south. He watched the subway trains pulsing across the viaduct, sending the little people back home for a night of television and torpid sleep before they returned to work for the System.

He heard voices off in the bushes. An exchange of greetings, a few polite words at first, then questions without answers, the bark of a command, an angry retort, a rising crescendo of shouts, a snarl, a scream and then silence.

He didn't get up to see what it was all about. Shit happens. Although naked as a bird, he felt safe here. He was light, eternal and free. If something threatened him, he'd just fly away.

It was almost dark before Callie returned. She threw down a stick the size of a baseball bat and went into the river. As she passed him, he saw her palms glistening with something red and luminescent.

"Is that blood?" he asked.

Crouched in the shallows, washing her hands, she said over her shoulder, "Picking berries, I got juice all over my hands."

"What was all that shouting?"

"Some guy tried to pick from my bush. I scared him off."

She came and sat near him. She took a bowl from her milk crate and set it on the ground. From the pocket of her dress she took a handful of red berries and dropped them into the bowl. She nudged the bowl in his direction.

"What kind of berries are these?"

"Don't know. I'm not good with names."

Stanley tried one. It was sweet and sour with an aftertaste of iron. Not what you'd call a dessert berry, but it seemed nutritious enough. He continued eating them, reflecting that, aside from his breakfast fish, this was the only other thing he'd had for food today.

"You don't want any?"

"I ate some while I was picking."

A dull fire grew in Stanley's belly where the berries coagulated. His testicles felt heavy. A primal drumbeat began in his lower spine. He looked down and saw he had another erection. Good grief, what was going on? Despite his nakedness, he saw no need to cover himself. _Out here on the perimeter, we are bone, ejaculate..._

The sky grew dark. The full moon came up. Callie made a small fire.

"Glass of port and a cigar?" she asked him.

"Are you kidding?"

"I'm all out of Puerto Fino and Macanudos," she said, "but I have something just as good."

"Bring it on." This was Stanley's new motto. If in doubt, try it out.

" _Carpe diem_ , right?"

She went into her shelter and came back with a bottle of tequila and a hand-rolled cigarette. She'd taken off her dress and donned a single necklace of small white cowrie shells that looped around her breasts.

She lit the cigarette. Stanley caught the distinctive whiff of his old friend, _ganja-man_ , whom he'd come to know so well during his brief flirtation with depression seven years ago. They'd remained casual acquaintances since then, and although he never invited _ganja-man_ home, now and again he'd run into him at the party of an acquaintance and they'd have a wonderful time together. _Ganja-man_ always brought out the rebel in him, and inevitably he'd act like an idiot, and say something risqué to the hostess, or grab someone's ass, and then Martha would have to drag him home, like a bad dog who couldn't be trusted not to hump the small children of friends.

They passed the joint back and forth, and toasted the moon and stars with swigs of tequila straight from the bottle. She pointed out Jupiter in the same part of the sky as the moon.

"It's fucking beautiful," said _ganja-man_ through Stanley.

"On a clear night, I can see Uranus," she said.

Stanley doubled up in laughter.

Callie stood and began to dance. Her body moved like a cobra, her rippled belly undulating, her limbs all moving independently, as bone-less as snakes. As she circled the fire, its light cast shadows of her arms upon her torso, and it looked as if serpents were wrapping themselves around her.

Stanley had been born with a stick up his ass, so dancing had never come naturally to him, but _ganja-man_ was always up for it, so in a few moments he was on his feet too, circling the fire with Callie, bobbing and weaving and swinging his dick in the moonlight. The fire burned down to embers and still they danced under the light of the moon. Stanley howled like a wolf until he was hoarse, prompting residents in his neighborhood to call their pets in and make 911 calls to report a wild animal, possibly a rabid coyote, on the loose.

Stanley's throat was raw. _Mas tequila, por favor_ , cried _ganja-man_ , who never quite knew when to quit and call it a night. He drank from the bottle and danced.

Time passed. The moon sailed over their heads like a volleyball in slow motion. People came out of the bushes to watch. A guy in a pair of sweatpants and a leather jacket held together with duct tape. A woman wearing nothing but a beach towel. An old man with a fungus on his cheek the size of a muffin. A couple of kids who looked like they'd just run away from prep school. A woman with a nest of hair that might have housed a family of bats.

The tequila went the rounds until it was finished. More smoke, more dancing, more howling...

The police showed up. Callie and the others scattered into the bushes, leaving Stanley alone, dancing naked in the moonlight. After a brief struggle, he was handcuffed and led back to Pottery Road and a waiting patrol car.

Bearing absolutely no identification, not even a set of keys for his house, Stanley's claim of civil service employment and home ownership in Riverdale was greeted by cop cynicism and outright disbelief. They took him to the Don Jail and put him in a holding cell for the night, where he wrapped himself in a blanket and fell into a restless and hallucinatory sleep.

In the morning he awoke to the mother of all headaches, vomited some tequila-flavored berry bile into his cell toilet and screamed like Kafka on meth until a jailer came to see what all the fuss was about. After a cup of tea and some burned toast, Stanley was allowed to make a phone call.

Isabel arrived an hour later with a bathrobe and a pair of sandals. She substantiated Stanley's identity and fabricated a story for the desk sergeant that her friend suffered from bouts of premature dementia, and sometimes got lost in his own neighborhood. She drove Stanley in her Audi back to his place, where he retrieved the front door key hidden inside a fake stone under the hedge for situations something like this.

Stanley called in sick, slept for 24 hours and woke up on Thursday with an epiphany. By the end of the week he'd moved all of his personal stuff out of the house on Browning Avenue, across the Don Valley and into Isabel's place on Hampton Park Crescent.

On Sunday he met Martha at the airport. On the way home, he pretended to be spontaneous and stopped off in the Distillery District for a late brunch at a decent restaurant where on a crowded terrace he told her he was in love with Isabel and was moving out. He'd thought it would go smoothly but when Martha exploded with fury and assaulted him with a water carafe, he'd been forced to flee for his life, leaving her to pay the bill. Once again, he had to phone Isabel to come fetch him.

The next week, he engaged a lawyer and began the process of dissembling his former life. In exchange for keeping her hands off his fat government pension, Martha got the house on Browning Avenue and Stanley got peace of mind. Slowly he let the news trickle out to friends and family, and he began to show up publicly hand-in-hand with Isabel, whose oozing sexuality caused a swirl of speculation, envy and recrimination within his social circle.

A creature of habit, Stanley quickly resumed the routines that had laid the foundation of a successful life. He worked a diligent 8-hour day, which in government circles qualified him as an over-achieving brown-noser. He followed a prudent diet, foregoing fast foods for brown-bag lunches of whole grains, lean meat, fresh veggies and fruits rich with anti-oxidants. And every day he rose at six AM to go for a one-hour jog along the tree-lined streets of Rosedale.

Except once a month, usually right around the time of the full moon, he went for a run down into the Don Valley, where a wooded trail led to a quiet place on the river...

~~~~~~~~~

### Specimen

The island appeared in the distance, a smear of tan and green between the dark blue sea and the pale blue sky. It looked to be only a dozen miles in length, lying very low on the horizon as if hoping to escape notice.

Peter Flutterman in a white cotton suit and a straw hat stood on the foredeck, one hand gripping the deck railing as the boat crept up on the island. At his feet were a large suitcase, two portfolio-sized briefcases and a tubular case that looked as though it might contain a fishing rod.

As the boat approached the landing, a man came down to the end of the dock. He was wearing faded blue pants and a white shirt whose tails hung loose from his belt. A pith helmet sat low on his forehead. He looked to be in his mid-forties, the same age as Peter, although it was hard to judge with a full beard covering so much of his face. In any event, he looked well-preserved, unlike the typical islanders weathered by sun and wind.

The boat bumped up against the dock. A deckhand slung a rope that slithered snake-like across the dock. The bearded man picked it up and wrapped it around a capstan. As soon as the boat was secured, the deckhands formed a line and began transferring a series of boxes, barrels and bales from the hold to the dock. From the cabin, the captain waved silently to the bearded man, lighted his pipe and shook out a newspaper to read.

Peter picked up his tubular case and stepped over the gunwale. The bearded man reached out a hand to steady him as he stepped onto the dock. One of the deckhands added his suitcase and briefcases to the chain of dock-bound items.

The bearded man embraced Peter. "It's been a long time, brother."

"Walter? Is it really you, with a beard like a pirate?" Peter shook his head in wonder.

"And what about you, with cheeks like a baby's bottom?" Walter touched the back of his hand to Peter's face.

Peter tried to conceal his embarrassment. He wasn't used to being hugged and touched, even by his long-lost twin brother. "Where's your staff? We need help with this luggage."

"We'll manage all right by ourselves." Walter picked up Peter's two briefcases, leaving his heavy suitcase where it lay.

"I'll need that," Peter said.

"My staff will fetch it when they bring up the load of provisions. Let's go up to the house and get you settled in."

They walked up a footpath towards a large house framed by palm trees. Beyond the house was a quadrangle formed by long sheds. As they approached the house, a butterfly gyrated across their path. Peter dropped his case and chased it with his hat but it rose into the air and fluttered into the trees. Peter donned his hat in dismay, feeling foolish he'd been so overcome by excitement that he hadn't extracted his butterfly net from its case.

"You needn't have bothered," Walter said. "You'll see dozens more when we go into the jungle. You'll catch them two at a time."

"I don't believe it."

"Of course you do. It's the only reason you came."

"I'd have come anyway. It's been too long since we've seen each other."

"I've been writing you for years. First time I mention butterflies, you decide to come."

"Oh, let's not start arguing. I've barely arrived and we're at each other's throats again."

"Right. There'll be time for that later. You're staying the week, aren't you?"

"Hardly any choice, is there? Given the frequency of your supply boat."

~~~

After dinner, the night came upon them suddenly, like a heavy curtain at the end of a scene. They sat in rattan chairs on either side of a big sturdy table. Dirty dishes were pushed to one side. A bottle of brandy sat on the table, a drink within each man's reach. Through the open window, a three-quarter moon was visible. Walter smoked a hand-rolled cigarette.

"Still got that filthy habit, I see," Peter said.

"I've got a lot of filthy habits."

"Whatever your faults, you're a decent cook. I can't believe you made this whole meal yourself."

"I enjoy cooking."

"I can't imagine doing it all the time, though. Especially not in this heat."

"Usually I have a woman do it."

"A woman?"

"Lovely brown-skinned thing, about 20 years old. Taiana."

"So where is she?"

"Vanished."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Ran off. They do that, you know. They get tired of working and they just disappear."

"But you're on an island. She can't just disappear. She must be out there in the jungle somewhere."

"She'll be back after a week or so."

"This happens often?"

"Once a month, with great regularity."

Peter helped himself to more whiskey. He took a sip and cleared his throat. "I don't know whether this is the right time or not, but I think it needs saying. I hope there're no hard feelings between us."

"How do you mean?"

"After the will and everything. I mean, it wasn't my idea that Father left everything to me. You were the one who decided you couldn't stick around to work the business."

"Thick-headed old bugger, he would never take my advice anyway. It was like working for a dictator." Walter stubbed his cigarette in a saucer.

"I'm sorry I brought it up."

"No, it's all right. I don't hold you any grudges. I went my own way, and you stayed at home. How he disposed of the estate was his business."

"I was afraid you'd still be bitter. To tell you the truth, I was a little worried about coming here alone."

"I've found peace in what I do."

"Hard to imagine, living out here in the middle of nowhere, in charge of forty hardened criminals."

"It has its rewards."

"Really? What are they?"

"You'll see – later in the week."

"I never really liked surprises."

Walter nodded. "I know."

An old clock atop a cabinet in the living room began striking twelve. Peter noticed the tones had no sustain to them, as if they were muffled slightly.

Peter yawned. "I ought to pack it in. It's been a very long day."

"I'll see you to your room."

They entered a small bedroom containing a single bed, a clothes dresser and a small bedside table. Walter carried a lantern, which threw barred shadows on the walls. A canopy of mosquito netting lay draped over the bed. Walter set the lantern down on the bedside table and opened the window.

"I keep the windows open for the fresh air. The drawback is the mosquitoes, but the net will protect you."

"I'll be fine," Peter said.

Walter opened the drawer of the bedside table and took out a revolver. He spun the cylinder and set the gun atop the table.

"What's that for?" Peter said.

"Snakes. Prisoners. The maid."

"Snakes?"

"Boa constrictors. Sometimes they come into the house, looking for mice."

Peter scanned the corners of the room. "Prisoners?"

"This _is_ a penal colony," Walter reminded him.

"And the maid?"

"This is _her_ room."

"Really?"

Walter went to the door. "Good night. Pleasant dreams."

~~~

They sat at the breakfast table. Walter was finishing off a fairly large fish. Another fish, complete with head, lay untouched on Peter's plate. He toyed with a piece of toast.

"No appetite?" Walter gave him a glance. "Did you sleep all right?"

"Not really. I had a nightmare."

"Probably shouldn't have eaten so much of that goat cheese last night."

"A woman came into my room last night, wearing only a grass skirt."

"Couldn't have been Taiana. She never wears anything after midnight."

"She sat on the edge of my bed and put her fingers on my lips," Peter said. "She told me I was in great danger."

"You would be, if you ever let Taiana into bed with you."

"She told me you had gone insane."

Walter snorted. "She's a fine one to judge. Once every month she runs off into the bush and lives in a tree."

"She said that, every full moon, you go insane and kill somebody."

Walter clucked his tongue. "Quite a dream."

"It seemed so real."

Walter shook his head with amusement. "Look outside. That is reality. The jungle waits for us. Beautiful butterflies. What do you want to do, get out there and add them to your collection, or sit here and relive some cheesy nightmare?"

~~~

Peter, carrying a basket and a butterfly net, walked with Walter, who had a small rucksack slung over his shoulder. They passed through the prison compound, a square courtyard bounded on three sides by long low sheds, and on the fourth side by a wall. The doors of the sheds were closed, the windows shuttered.

"Where are all your prisoners?" Peter asked.

"They'll be gone all week. My guards took them to the other end of the island, harvesting pineapples. I didn't think you'd want to have them around while you're here."

"Still, I was curious."

"If you really wanted, we could hike to the other end of the island to see them. But it's fifteen miles – a full day's journey. We'd have to camp overnight and come back the next day."

"Sounds like an adventure."

"Wait and see how you fare today. This might be as much adventure as you can handle."

Peter followed Walter along a jungle trail. The trail was barely visible. Now and again Walter swung his machete to clear away vines and undergrowth.

"Aren't we close yet?" Peter said. "We've been walking for two hours."

"You want prize specimens, you've got to get off the beaten path."

"Frankly, I can't see a path at all."

They emerged into a large clearing on a hillside. At the upper end of the clearing was a 20-foot cliff separating them from higher ground above. In the middle of the clearing was a huge stone head similar in size to those on Easter Island.

Peter stared in amazement. "What is that?"

"Piece of local art."

"It looks like me, without my glasses."

"It's me – before I grew my beard."

"The natives regard you as a god?"

"It was done by one of my prisoners."

"Why'd he make you look so sinister?"

"Artistic license, I suppose. But then, the prisoner never loves his jailer."

Walter walked to the base of the cliff, where the sun cast a deep shadow, and slung his rucksack from shoulder to ground. He stuck his machete in the ground and removed his hat to wipe his face on his sleeve. Peter, still staring at the stone head, followed him into the shade.

"So this is it," Walter said.

"What?"

"Your hunting ground. Take a look around."

Peter set his basket down and began to walk along the perimeter, where many flowers grew. Suddenly the air was filled with a cloud of butterflies. Peter pursued them with his net, capturing several in a few swipes. He came back to where Walter was now seated on the ground, his back against the face of the cliff.

"Didn't I tell you?" Walter said. "Two at a time."

"This is amazing."

Peter opened his basket and took out half a dozen small jars. One was filled with cotton, another with fluid, the rest empty. He opened the jars, took a cotton ball and dipped it into the fluid, then put the ball in an empty jar. Carefully he plucked a butterfly from the net, examined it and then put it into the jar with the cotton ball.

"Ether?" Walter guessed.

"Chloroform."

Peter plucked another butterfly from the net, examined it and tossed it away. It fluttered away across the clearing. He plucked out another one and put it in a jar.

Walter sat at the base of the cliff, reading a book. A bottle protruded from the top of his open rucksack. Peter trudged in from the sun and collapsed on the ground beside him.

"Anything interesting?"

Peter caught his breath. "Three new families."

With obvious weariness, he prepared the last three jars. He poked around in the net, mauling the undesirables, and withdrew one by one the best three specimens of the catch. He placed each in its jar and put all his jars into his basket.

"What a day!" he rejoiced.

Walter offered Peter his bottle. "Celebrate. Have a drink. You've earned it."

Peter hesitated, then took the bottle and drank.

~~~

Walter stood in the middle of the clearing, facing the stone head. Their expressions were equally grim. Walter dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his foot. He walked to the base of the cliff, where Peter lay curled, sleeping on the ground. Walter picked up the machete. He looked down at Peter, at the carotid artery pulsing in his exposed neck. Walter ran his finger along the edge of the machete. Peter snorted in his sleep, his legs twitching. Walter moved in closer until he was standing directly over Peter.

Peter," he called.

Peter woke up and raised his head. He saw Walter looming over him with the machete. His face convulsed in alarm. "No!"

"Yes," Walter said. "It's time to go. It'll be dark by the time we get back."

Peter lay frozen a moment, then scrambled to his feet. He gathered up his hat, his basket and his net.

"How long was I asleep?"

"An hour or so."

"What were you doing?"

"Getting hungry. Are you ready to go?"

~~~

Peter sat alone at the dining table. He removed the last specimen from its jar and with a long pin mounted the butterfly with the others on a panel of his portfolio case. He sat back and admired them.

Walter came in from the kitchen, carrying a platter of meat, a bowl of vegetables and a few plates balanced on his arms like a waiter.

"Aren't they beautiful?" Peter said.

Walter nudged the portfolio cases aside and set down their food. "Yes, but more so when they were alive."

~~~

Six nights later, they sat in rattan chairs on the verandah. A pair of glasses and a bottle of brandy occupied the small table between them. Walter smoked a cigarette. A full moon hung well above the horizon. The water was dead calm.

"I can't believe the week's gone already. "Peter shook his head. "Tomorrow the boat comes to take me back."

"Pity, isn't it? We barely got to know each other."

"I know. We're still awkward – like strangers."

"And there are still so many things I don't know about you."

"Like what?"

"I don't know anything about your personal life."

"I have none. I told you I never married."

"But with no heirs, then what would happen if...?"

"Everything goes to the Royal Society."

"Really?"

"Science is my only passion. I want to help support their research. I suppose you might think that's unfair."

"Not at all," Walter shrugged. "As I said the night you arrived, I've made peace with my life. I don't need your money."

Peter squirmed a little in his seat and cast a suspicious look at Walter. He reached for the brandy bottle and refilled his glass. Walter lighted another cigarette.

"And the business," Walter asked, "does it take up much of your time?"

"Not really. Two foremen handle everything in the factory. An accountant takes care of the books, the bank transactions..."

"A business that runs itself," Walter mused.

"That's right. I have almost complete freedom to devote to my studies and researches."

"Admirable."

The clock in the living room began striking twelve.

"Good heavens, midnight already. No wonder I feel half dead. It's time I retired. What about you?"

"I don't usually go to bed until after one," Walter said.

Peter stood. "Then I'll see you in the morning."

"Pleasant dreams."

~~~

Peter lay snoring in bed. The door opened softly and Walter entered with a jar in one hand and a small towel in the other. He sat gingerly on the edge of Peter's bed and parted the mosquito netting. He opened the jar and poured some liquid onto the towel. Averting his face, he gently placed the cloth against Peter's nose and mouth. Peter snorted and raised a hand. Abruptly his hand fell back onto the bed and he heaved a deep sigh. Walter remained motionless at his side, the towel still on Peter's face.

When Peter awoke, he discovered himself bound by wrists and ankles to a wooden frame propped against the wall of a shed. His surroundings were dimly lit by a lantern hung from a beam. Peter looked around and saw the vague outlines of several large whitish objects propped against the opposite wall. He sniffed the air and made a disgusted face. He struggled against his bonds but couldn't budge.

Succumbing to panic, he screamed, "Walter! Help!"

Another lantern approached from the far end of the shed. It was Walter, with one hand behind his back. He hung the lantern on another beam. Peter looked beyond Walter and now, in the improved light, saw the lime-caked hulks of several dead men on wooden frames propped against the wall opposite, each with a wooden stake in his chest.

Peter fought to find a voice in his dry mouth. "Walter. Those men..."

"My prisoners, my specimens... As are you."

Walter brought his hand from behind his back, revealing a heavy mallet and a wooden stake. He took the stake in his free hand and placed its sharpened tip against Peter's chest. He raised the mallet over his head.

Peter screamed to no avail. "Please, no..."

~~~

Walter shaved off his beard and rinsed the soap from his face. He toweled himself dry and ran his hands over his smooth cheeks. He picked Peter's glasses off the sideboard and put them on. He regarded himself in the mirror. Lovely. He looked just like Peter.

Walter went down to the jetty, wearing Peter's white cotton suit and straw hat. The supply boat bumped up alongside the dock. The deckhands unloaded a couple of crates and carried Peter's suitcase, portfolio cases and net case aboard. Walter stepped onto the boat.

"Good morning, sir," the captain greeted him.

"And to you, Captain."

Have a good vacation?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Your brother's not here to see you off?"

"He's busy at the moment, tracking down an escaped prisoner. But we said our goodbyes already."

"Right, then. Let's be on our way." The captain called to his deckhands. "Cast off, there."

Walter strolled back to the stern as the boat pulled away from the dock. He stood there a long while, looking back as the island slowly receded in the distance. He picked up one of the portfolio cases, placed it on a deck hatch and opened it. Dozens of pinned butterflies lay arrayed in neat order within the case. He pulled the pin from a butterfly and placed it in the palm of his hand. He tossed it up into the breeze and watched as it appeared to flutter away towards the distant island. He pulled the pin from another butterfly and did the same. And another, and another, as the distant island sank into the horizon.

~~~~~~~~~

#

### The Bassman Cometh

Every once in a blue moon someone pops up like a demented jack-in-the-box to inflict such havoc in your life that they become elevated, for at least that short troubled time, to the status of nemesis. Briefly, many years ago, I had the dubious distinction of playing that role opposite none other than the reigning queen of Canadian literature, Margaret Atwood.

_Nemesis_. For those who lack a superlative command of Greek vocabulary, look it up in your Funk 'n' Wagnall's. A nemesis, from the Greek for "pain-in-the-ass", is that worthy opponent who makes life hell for the hero(ine) and, in the downer ending that rarely cuts it in Hollywood these days, inflicts retribution or vengeance upon them. As Professor Tarzan might say, _Me Protagones, you Antagones, now let the drama begin_.

In the fall of 1975 I was in a Master's program at the University of New Brunswick. Thanks to respectable undergraduate marks and a handful of short stories and poems published in UNB's literary quarterly _The Fiddlehead_ , I'd been granted permission to write a creative thesis in lieu of an academic one.

Unfortunately this did not exempt me from taking two academic courses of incredible dryness. The only course of interest was one on Yeats, whose fascination for the occult resonated with me. But to fill out my program I was stuck taking a course on 19th Century Canadian poets, an academic field of such barren prospect (or so it seemed to my 26-year-old mind) that I feared to die of boredom.

Meanwhile, in lieu of writing a novella or a dozen short stories for my creative thesis, I was zealously pounding away at a porn novel, which a writer friend of mine had assured me was the easiest way to break into the New York publishing world. In a more-or-less continuous state of tumescence, I had little patience for Bliss Carman's "I think that I shall never see / a poem lovely as a tree", when what my daily page-count required was more of "He lifted her skirt and felt her plush buttocks yield to his probing fingers..." But I digress.

As a grad student I had an assistantship and a monthly stipend from the English Department to perform menial labor for an assigned professor. It was academic feudalism but it helped pay the bills and, until my porn novel breached the gates of the Big Apple smut kingdom, I was resigned to my fate. I was assigned to the Professor of Creative Writing who was responsible, along with teaching the usual academic load, for managing UNB's Visiting Writers program. My role in the big scheme of things was to help him however he deemed suitable.

Thus far in the fall semester, I'd been obliged only to plaster the campus and a few select downtown locations with posters advertising the October visit of poet Al Purdy. Plus ensure there were two bottles of Scotch waiting in Purdy's hotel room when he arrived. Purdy had been in great form the night of his reading, bellowing his poetry in a robust voice to a crowd of aficionados. After the reading a bunch of us trailed the literati _force majeure_ back to the bar of the Beaverbrook Hotel, like a school of remora all wanting a ride on the shark. There Purdy commandeered a corner table and, flanked by a couple of blondes too old to be students, too provocatively dressed to be professors, and too many to be his wife, proceeded to drink everyone under the table.

In November the Professor placed all his trust in my faint abilities to be the "handler" for Margaret Atwood's visit to UNB. A daunting and prestigious assignment! Aside from the poster campaign there were only a couple of other duties – arrange for a PA system the night of her reading, and pick Ms. Atwood up at the Fredericton airport. Unlike Purdy's voice, conceivably strengthened in noisy bars drawing the attention of busy waiters, hers was apparently rather delicate, better suited for genteel salon discourse over tea and Peek Freans.

November passed quickly. Deeply immersed in my porn novel, I'd lost track of the date. Luckily, I remembered to get the posters up in time but neglected to deal with the PA system. The day before her reading I checked with the campus office that handled such things and was told that their only portable PA system had already been loaned out to another function. I called a downtown music store and learned I could rent a PA system for $50. I laid out the alternatives for the Professor's executive approval – spend $50 on the PA rental, or at no cost, I could set up a microphone with my guitar amplifier. The Professor stroked his goatee, trying to dislodge some fleas he'd harbored there since the Cuban missile crisis, and said it was my call.

I tested my amplifier that night. It was a Fender Bassman tube amp that required a 10-minute warm-up before each performance. Its 100 watts were capable of driving two 15-inch speakers in a cabinet the size of a steamer trunk. I plugged in my bass guitar and gave it a fierce workout until the next-door neighbors started pounding on the walls. Philistines, they had little appreciation for the hypnotic bass riff of Iron Butterfly's _Inna Gadda Davida_ played over and over and over again. I plugged in my microphone, which I'd bought at Sears a few years ago for $19.95, and tested it. Aside from an annoying tendency to squeal like a butchered pig when I stood directly in front of the amp, it was good to go.

Friday morning it started snowing. I was driving a 1965 Volkswagen Bug at the time and like most students I had little money for automotive maintenance. The battery was in a fragile state and most nights I brought it to bed with me to keep it warm. The heating channels that ran from the rear engine to the front vents were rusted out, and on most winter days I had only a small space of clear window in the lower left corner of the windshield to see through. For a broader vista of the road ahead, I kept a scraper handy to clear the hoar-frost from the windshield.

But these were minor inconveniences compared to my clutch, which no longer worked. To start the car I needed to coast downhill or get a push. Once going I was able, with a skill equal to a Formula One race car driver, to shift gears, crunching and grinding as I expertly matched the engine revolutions to the transmission. Since the UNB campus was built atop a hill and I myself lived in a house whose driveway sloped to the street, gravity was on my side in most cases.

Just as nature abhors a vacuum, my VW feared the straight and level, and recently I'd declined to become involved with an attractive grad student of apparently relaxed morals simply on the grounds that she lived in an apartment complex situated in a gulag of flatness. However much I appreciated field work for my porn novel, I didn't need the embarrassment my clutch-less car promised.

That afternoon I carried my battery out to the car, gave it a push down the driveway and headed off to the airport to fetch Margaret Atwood. En route I cleverly gauged the flow of traffic approaching intersections and managed to slow or speed up as the situation required, such that I never came to a dead stop and risked stalling my vehicle. At the airport I was relieved to see the parking lot built on a slight incline. Although snow was still falling, I figured that with a push I would become mobile again.

Inside the terminal I checked the flight schedule. Ms. Atwood's plane had apparently just arrived. I wandered around the arrivals lounge, her face still fresh in my mind after all the posters I'd put up. But all along, I'd imagined I was looking for someone of considerable stature, as befitted the Queen of CanLit. Probably five foot nine or ten, I figured, she was that BIG. I kept looking, but nowhere did I see her. Finally, there was no one left in the Arrivals lounge but me and this petite woman with curly hair, who finally came up to me and said, are you from UNB?

Ohmygod! The light went on with such a blinding flash that I must have stood there stunned for several seconds, immobilized like a moose on a dark highway when two drag-racing tractor trailers come tearing around Dead Moose Curve, bearing down on him...

She must have snapped her fingers. I yanked my consciousness back to the here and now, and saw her standing there with her paisley suitcase, looking very impatient like she had somewhere to go in a hurry. Probably forgot to use the facilities on the plane, couldn't go to the washroom when she arrived because she was afraid she'd miss her ride, and was now just plain anxious to get to the hotel. I offered to carry her bag but she wouldn't let me touch it.

We went out to the parking lot where I explained the situation. I would put the car in neutral and we'd both push until it got a bit of a running start down the inclined parking lot. Then I'd jump in, hit the ignition and, God willing, the clutch-bone connected to the tranny-bone connected to the wheel-bone would turn at just the right speed to allow the engine to start with the stick-bone in first gear. She stared at me like I was kidding. She soon found out that wasn't going to get her anywhere.

I had to give her credit, she was game. A lesser woman would have said, to hell with this backwoods horseshit, I'm taking a taxi into town and sticking UNB with the fare. But no, she was cool. She put her suitcase in the back seat of the car and pulled on her gloves like she really meant to get a grip on things. Now that's a poet. You could tell just by the color of her gloves, red like boxing gloves, that she was a fighter and Governor General's Award material to boot.

We got the Bug rolling in short order, and I was thinking we probably looked like the Wright Brothers trying to get their first plane airborne. But when I jumped into the car, Ms. Atwood didn't have the horsepower to continue its momentum. Before we ran out of incline, I hit the brakes and we changed sides. I'd push from the rear and she'd push at the driver's side with one hand holding the door open and the other hand on the steering wheel. Off we went. When we were up to speed, I yelled at her to jump inside but she yelled back it was going too fast and she was scared, and I yelled back at her that she'd better, or we were walking to Fredericton, and she'd be late for her poetry reading.

At that, she jumped in, hit the ignition, and the engine caught. I ran to catch up with her. We couldn't stop the car for fear of stalling the engine so I had to yank open the driver's door and stand on the running board while she climbed over the gearshift into the passenger seat. As I slide behind the wheel I grabbed the gearshift to shove it into second gear. She gave a little yelp and I realized that I'd grabbed her knee because her dress was still caught on the gearshift and I couldn't see, honest, what I was putting my hands on. She struggled to get her leg over and I heard a rip and then the gear dropped into fourth and we almost stalled before I could get my hand on the gearshift for real and pull it back into second where it belonged.

We didn't talk much until we were downtown, coasting into the driveway of the Beaverbrook Hotel. Because I couldn't really stop, not on a little incline like that, we had to circle through once and she opened the door and tossed out her carpetbag suitcase like a UNICEF plane doing a supply drop for some culturally-starved hamlet deep in the interior of a third world country. Then we went around once more and she opened the door and perched on the passenger running board, her beret cocked over one eye like a French Resistance fighter parachuting behind enemy lines.

I asked her if she wanted me to come back and pick her up at seven to go to the Professor's for dinner. She said no, rather tersely, and jumped. What a trooper. I slowed as much as I could but she hit the ground on her wrong foot, I think, and staggered several yards before she ran into a parked Lincoln Continental. I heard a curse, although I don't know whether it was from her or the guy whose ride she'd plowed into.

I went back to my place and, by making a sharp U-turn on my snow-slick street, spun around in the road and shifted gears from first to reverse as I slid backwards up my inclined driveway. I cut the engine and went in to my bed-sit apartment where I had a joint and a beer to calm my nerves after that exciting encounter with the Queen of CanLit. I got my bass guitar out from under the bed and checked my amp. Sixteen bars of _Inna Gadda Davidda_ later, I figured everything was fine. I plugged in my Sears microphone. Testing, testing, testing...

At seven o'clock I packed my gear into the Bug, got a running start down the driveway and cruised over to the Professor's house. He lived on the side of the hill so, even though I had to park a block away, I was set for the next leg of the evening. I arrived at the Professor's place to find him and the missus in a testy mood. His wife was a handsome woman with thick eyebrows and ample breasts and whenever I saw her I thought of James Joyce's character Nora in _Ulysses_ , an earth mother with a vibrant passion for life. She gave me a wet kiss when I arrived and asked me what I wanted to drink. Knowing I was now in genteel company, I accepted a glass of wine.

Ms. Atwood arrived ten minutes later. The Professor and his wife gushed over her, taking her coat and asking about her flight, and whether she found the Beaverbrook Hotel to her liking. Ms. Atwood wasn't very forthcoming in the travelogue department, providing only monosyllabic responses, which I thought was kind of pathetic for a woman with her alleged command of the language. Maybe she was just saving her _bon mots_ for her reading later tonight. As she entered the living room with a slight limp, she glanced my way and I thought I caught a glimpse of something malign there, as if she suspected I might have been regaling the Professor and his wife with tales of airport follies.

Ms. Atwood and I sat in the living room while the Professor and his wife alternated playing host/hostess while the other scurried off to the kitchen where some culinary crisis seemed to be brewing. The Professor had a senile golden retriever named Shaggy that, however much she seemed to discourage it, took quite a liking to Ms. Atwood. I had to admit, there was a poetic ring to it – Shaggy and Maggie.

In any event, Shaggy was well-named because every time you touched him, a huge mitt-full of his hair came away in your hand. In moments Ms. Atwood's other ankle-length dress, a tartan thing of dark colors, was covered with mustard-colored hair. In short order she was sniffling and sneezing and trying to push Shaggy away. He misinterpreted this as rough-house play and came bounding back each time to paw her all over. The Professor eventually saw that Ms. Atwood, clearly more of a cat person, had had enough of this fun and banished Shaggy to the basement where we listened to him growl and howl for the rest of the evening.

Eventually whatever had been on fire in the kitchen was put out and we convened to the dinner table where Nora brought out a blackened dish of casserole with apologies that the Professor had read the recipe wrong to her and she'd cooked it at 450 instead of 350. He scowled and denied it, but to make up for whoever had allowed such a thing to happen, opened a bottle of the "good wine" for dinner. Nora dished out generous helpings of blackened casserole, what might have sounded appetizing on a Cajun menu, with side orders of over-cooked broccoli and under-cooked carrots. Finding no topic worthy of conversation, we all drank a toast to the brave men and women of Canadian letters, and wielded our utensils to attack dinner.

After a brief foray between the layers of her lasagna, Ms. Atwood muttered that her lasagna contained meat. The Professor laughed heartily at that, saying of course there's meat, that's how we make lasagna, what were you expecting – tofu? And there was this dead silence, relatively speaking, except for the low moan of a desolate dog down in the dungeon, and Ms. Atwood said, _but I'm a vegetarian_.

Well, you could have heard a participle drop. But secretly I was thrilled. After the logistical nightmare of transporting Ms. Atwood from airport to hotel in my clutch-less car, my ears had been burning all evening just thinking of the polysyllabic cuss words she must have invoked as she mended her torn dress, applied liniment to a strained muscle, or examined the bruise on her hip where she'd collided with a Lincoln. I was relieved to see that a little of the shit going through the fan would be spread liberally around. Nobody could accuse me of having dumped a burned meat offering on her plate.

We all looked at each other. The Professor was aghast. No one had told him. He'd read every word of Northrop Frye, he assured us, and not once had that esteemed critic of Canadian literature mentioned that Margaret Atwood was a vegetarian. She fixed him with a squinty eye and said in a frosty tone whose spirit flatly contradicted the words she chose, _it's all right, I'll just eat around it_.

For a moment there, I struggled to recall a joke that might lighten the atmosphere. But a glance at Ms. Atwood, seeing a bright spot on her cheekbone, cautioned me that this was a situation where belly laughs would not be readily forthcoming. So I bit my tongue, diplomat that I am, and chewed silently on my blackened lasagna leather.

Again I had to tip my hat to Ms. Atwood. She could have stood up, knocked over the table and stormed off into the wintry night to flag a taxi whose driver might have guided her to a Chinese restaurant with a nice bean curd soup and vegetarian spring roll to tide her over. But no, she hung tough. Using her utensils as deftly as a surgeon, she quickly dissected the lasagna, pushing the meat off to one side, the pasta off to another, and grimly ate her meal, her face reflecting the same gusto with which Russian soldiers during the siege of Stalingrad had controlled their gag reflex to swallow a rat drumstick and a side order of rotten potato.

The rest of us pretended not to notice how picky she was, when I know we were really all thinking, what the hell's the matter with a bit of Grade A ground beef? The Professor opened another bottle of the "good wine" and deftly steered the conversation boat toward the shores of Canadian Literature, prattling on about how _The Fiddlehead_ was publishing reams of good stuff this year, some of it contributed by very promising young writers, like Alan sitting right here at the table. Ms. Atwood turned her head a couple of degrees in my direction, and one of her eyes regarded me warily, reminding me of the way horses watch you nervously when you sneak up on them with the gelding shears.

Showing the first glimmer of sympathy I'd seen all evening, Ms. Atwood sought to relieve the Professor of his lasagna _faux pas_ by asking him kindly, how fared dear old Fred Cogswell. This was another English Faculty professor of great geniality who had for many years offered a heavy load of "bird" courses in which every student, no matter how densely illiterate, stood assured of getting at least a B-grade, while he simultaneously shepherded to print the quarterly edition of UNB's literary magazine, _The Fiddlehead_ , whose literary output was second only to what was coming out of Kingston via _The Queen's Quarterly_.

Well, given a nudge in the right direction, the Professor was off and running like a horse with the bit between his teeth. We got treated to a complete rundown on every other academic in the English Department. An ex-patriate American, the Professor had once mentioned in class that, instead of going to Korea, he'd served stateside in Military Intelligence, implying that he was pretty hot stuff, and that he'd been in a serious quandary at one point as to whether he should take a job with the CIA and become an assassin of Commie agents or continue his graduate studies to become a professor. Lucky for those Commies he'd made the wrong choice.

You could tell, however doubtful his story was, that there was indeed something of the spy in him, the way he'd built a dossier on the whole English Faculty, just in case Canada, as left-wing as it was, turned Commie too and he'd have to squeal on his associates in order to protect his own tenure.

Dessert was offered but Ms. Atwood, as anxious as any sane visitor to escape from a nut-house back into normal society, said maybe it was best to forego that pleasure and head off to the university for her reading. The Professor would drive her, she made that clear, so I headed off on my own. The Bug was parked on a steep street so it was a breeze to get started and drive over to UNB, whose campus itself was built on the summit of a considerable hill. I parked at the highest point I could find in the lot of the Memorial Hall Building, and made two trips to carry into the lecture hall my Fender Bassman amp with its huge speaker cabinet and the 100-watt amplifier head along with my Sears microphone and assorted cables.

The lecture hall, which the Drama Club used for its monthly productions, had a good-sized stage and mezzanine section, behind which a spectator gallery with built-in wooden seats rose at a steep incline. I imagined this was something like the design of old-style English theatres, where the gentry looked down over the heads of the riff-raff. Little did I know that a Shakespearean drama of minute proportions was about to unfold this evening, and that I would play such a villainous, albeit petty, role.

As the spectator gallery filled up, I went about my business as poet roadie. I plugged in my amp and cabled it up to the speaker cabinet. I ran the microphone cable up onto the stage where a wooden lectern faced the gallery. In those days, living on the shoestring of a graduate student's assistantship, I'd never known the luxury of a microphone stand. During jam sessions in my apartment with my brother or some other amateur, I'd made do with a broomstick handle taped to a chair, and the microphone taped to the broomstick. Tonight in my haste I had forgotten to bring my broomstick.

But as Frank Zappa used to say, necessity is the motherfucker of invention, and I wasn't going to let a little thing like this spoil Ms. Atwood's big night in Fredericton. I hustled out to the cloak room where I found a wire coat hanger. I bent it into an appropriate shape and anchored one end of it around the lectern's reading light and, with a generous quantity of electrical tape, secured the Sears microphone to the other end of the coat hanger. I switched on the amp and gave it a few minutes to warm up.

Although the Bassman was a classic piece of rock 'n' roll equipment, practically a collector's item, it was a tube amplifier. There were about half a dozen of those tubes, each one looking like a little miniature city under a dome of glass, the lights slowly coming on in the little cathode skyscrapers. Compared to today's modern electronics, this was almost Soviet-era technology, but if it was good enough for Jimi Hendrix, I figured, it was good enough for Margaret Atwood.

In a few minutes, the Bassman was humming happily, a steady low-decibel drone like a distant airplane that could be heard throughout the lecture hall. I thought this might be a little distracting so I tried reversing the polarity on the power plug, but that only sent it into overdrive, like the sound of a kamikaze plane beginning its dive into some hapless troop ship. I quickly returned the plug to its earlier position.

By now the lecture hall was filled to capacity. Ms. Atwood was chatting with a few of the English Faculty and at one point I actually heard her laugh, and I could see that everyone was squirming with excitement and that the evening was shaping up to be one of those great cultural events everyone would fondly remember years after. A few minutes later the Professor started shushing people and urging them to take their seats. He and Ms. Atwood mounted the stage where he fumbled his way through her introduction, getting the name of one of her novels wrong, calling it _The Inedible Woman_ , probably still thinking of the food she'd left on her plate. Finally, he finished and left the stage to her.

There was a hushed silence in which the audience was clearly perplexed to hear the drone of a distant airplane. I crept from my seat in the front row and thumped the Bassman with the heel of my hand. A low rumble echoed from the back of the hall. Now it sounded like an airplane flying through a thunderstorm. I passed my hand over the amplifier and discovered that if I kept it within a few inches of the biggest tube, the sound of the distant airplane diminished from that of a four-engine cargo plane to that of a single-engine Cessna. I crouched there, my hand in place like a Reiki master administering healing vibes to a sick client, and nodded to Ms. Atwood that it was safe to proceed.

She began to read her poetry. She had a small breathless voice like an asthmatic child and it was clearly evident why amplification was mandatory for her. Things went well for another poem or two and then it all went to hell in a handcart. She was in the middle of a poem when the Bassman suddenly cut loose with a terrible yowl, like a cat "getting fixed" without benefit of anesthesia. She stopped in mid-sentence and glanced in my direction, and the look in her eyes was like a hail of bullets in a drive-by shooting. _I be wastin' yo ass, muthahfuckah, if'n I hear dat again_.

I withdrew to the side of the amplifier. On other occasions before this, I'd noticed that if you approached it too closely from the front, the amplifier would start to squeal with feedback. Jimi liked that sort of thing, but Maggie didn't. I stroked the Bassman with my Reiki technique but it wouldn't behave.

Up on stage, thinking maybe it was her end of things that had gone awry, Ms. Atwood tried to adjust the microphone at the end of the coat hanger. The electrical tape peeled off and the microphone fell with an amplified _thunk_ to the lectern. I heard titters and sighs from the peanut gallery as I vaulted up onto the stage and went to her rescue. I wrapped the microphone back into place with some extra tape and hissed at her to stick to the poetry and leave the sound system to me, at which point I realized my harsh words were being amplified for all to hear. More titters and sympathetic groans of outrage from the gallery. I slunk back to my post beside the Bassman.

To reduce an epic story to a haiku, hell hath no fury like a feedback-prone amplifier. Maybe all those old Marconi tubes, even as they teetered on the verge of electronic Alzheimer's, still harbored some kind of primordial intelligence like the computer Hal in the movie 2001. And in the heart of its circuits the Bassman probably suspected it'd been pressed into service, not to hasten the revolution via rock 'n' roll, but to propagate mere poetry without the force of power chords and killer riffs.

No matter how I cajoled him, Bassman wouldn't behave. He growled and howled, drowning out every word Ms. Atwood tried to share with her audience. I twirled his dials and flicked his switches, punched and kicked him, and rocked him back and forth. Bassman would not be controlled, so in the end he had to be silenced. I pulled the plug.

Ms. Atwood looked at me, as if to say, are we done now? I shrugged helplessly, feeling like the village idiot in a room full of professors, students and Faculty wives. In a less evolved society they probably would have brought out the tar and feathers for a brief intermission, but I was fortunate to have been born in genteel times, and was allowed to slink back to my seat without anyone throwing more than dirty looks my way.

The rest of the poetry reading was rather uncomfortable, like watching a blind person walk barefoot through a room littered with broken glass. Ms. Atwood, still the trooper in a situation that only electro-shock or several years of scream therapy would likely erase from her memory, soldiered on. She read her poetry just like they must have done in the old days, her naked voice against the crowd, while back in the upper reaches of the peanut gallery, people asked her to speak up, please, they couldn't hear her. And she would say, I'm sorry but I'm speaking as loudly as I can, and then she would cough to clear her throat and in a thin reed-like voice, she would continue to read her poetry.

There was a lot of applause when it was over. Mostly relief, I felt, but there was admiration too, the kind we reserve for marathon runners who come straggling in at the end of the race, wobbling and half-blind with fatigue, garnering applause not because they have beat anyone's time but because they have, against all apparent odds, finished the job they set out to do.

As the crowd evacuated the lecture hall, I dismantled my equipment and humped it out through a side door to the car, studiously avoiding the eyes of anyone who crossed my path. There was a wine and cheese reception in the salon down the hall in Ms. Atwood's honor, and although I had played a significant part in making this a memorable evening, I humbly felt that it was not the place for me to make an appearance and draw any undue attention. I walked out to the Bug, released the hand brake and coasted out of the parking lot. Once I was safely out of earshot I switched on the ignition and descended into the wintry night, swallowed up in the bowels of my quiet provincial town.

For awhile on campus I was quite notorious for the role I'd played that night at the aptly-named Memorial Hall. Several of my crueler fellow graduate students, doubtlessly honing the skills with which they would later denigrate their associates in competing for tenure, took to calling me The Bassman. And each time this elicited raised eyebrows among fresh company, someone would tell the story of how I'd ruined Margaret Atwood's poetry reading.

The irony was that they barely knew a fraction of the story, but I was in no mood to provide more hoist for my own petard. Eventually I tired of this teasing and, like a lion tormented by dogs, in one pivotal week around the time of the Winter Solstice, announced my withdrawal from graduate school and burned the manuscript of my porn novel in a desolate section of the New Brunswick backwoods.

Since then, I've had many occasions to reflect upon my freshman-like approach to graduate-level responsibilities those many years ago. Still, it's spilled milk under the bridge, and no amount of groveling would suffice to earn Ms. Atwood's forgiveness. To broach the subject with her now, even via an abject letter of apology, might precipitate a flashback, the magnitude of which could plunge her into who knows what state of psychological imbalance. Worse still, she might write vilifying letters to the Canada Council and every publisher she knows, nipping in the bud any hopes I might have had to forge my own literary career. No, if I've learned one thing after all these years, it's best to fly under the radar.

~~~~~~~~~

### The Naskapi and the U-Boat

Gulls swept past the barren headland of Cape Chidley, dipping and whirling, their sharp cries chorusing on the wind. Only seabirds occupied this granite crag where meager patches of lichen clung to its summit. At the base of the cliff a hundred feet below, a cold surf slapped the rocky beach. Further to the west, Hudson Bay lay captive in the embrace of an Arctic sea. To the east, Greenland unloaded icebergs into the frigid Atlantic.

Rising from the depths, a German U-boat arrived in Canadian territorial waters, armed for war. It was 1942 and the Battle of the Atlantic was in full tide.

~~~

The U-boat's control room was cramped and odorous, dominated by the smell of diesel fuel and human sweat. On a bulkhead was a humidity-wrinkled photo held in place with electrician's tape. It showed a U-boat in harbor, crew lined up on deck, flag draped from the conning tower.

A helmsman sat at his console, maintaining plane and rudder control. A green phosphorous sonar screen cast a dim light on his face. The engines' steady throb was punctuated by the sonar's _ping_ at 2-second intervals. Now and again, an air valve let out an oily sigh of tedium and tension.

A few feet away, Kapitan Wolff and Leutnant Richter stood at a plotting table under an overhead lamp. Between them lay plotting instruments atop a map of eastern Canada.

Richter was in his twenties, in a white shirt with a lieutenant's insignia on his epaulets. Wolff was in his thirties, bearded, in a wrinkled blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His hair hadn't been cut in a while. Dark crescents under his eyes were a testament to insomnia.

"Another half an hour, we'll be there," Wolff said.

"Cape Chidley." Richter tapped his finger on the northern tip of the Labrador Peninsula. "Why up here, rather than further down the coast?"

"The meteorologists at Naval Command say it's ideal for monitoring weather patterns. Cold air masses from the north pass directly over this cape, diverging into the Atlantic off Newfoundland."

"And into the sea lanes of Allied convoys bound for England..."

"Right. Given accurate readings on temperature, barometric pressure and wind from here, they could predict the weather in the shipping lanes days in advance."

"Advising us when and where to attack..."

"Us, and every other U-boat in the North Atlantic. This mission could be the deciding factor in choking off England's supply line."

"If it's so important, why so little time to accomplish our mission?"

Wolff shrugged. "Ask Naval Command."

"Two days. Not much time to set up the meteorological station and the radio, test them and make our rendezvous."

"No choice. If we want to get re-supplied, we need to be south of Greenland by 1800 hours on Thursday. We miss the boat, we're on our own."

"Let's hope there're no complications. The Canadians don't have military posts this far north, do they?"

"According to our intelligence, the place is completely uninhabited."

~~~

A kilometer south of Cape Chidley, on the western shore facing Ungava Bay, a cove offered shelter from the wind. A small fire burned in the lee of a caribou-skin tent where a Naskapi family went about their activities.

The man Agatak, his face as weathered as a used moccasin, was sharpening a spear tip. He wore leather pants, sealskin boots and a leather shirt with a short fur collar. His head was bowed in concentration as he manipulated a rasp against a metal spear head.

The woman Nuna was repairing a pair of boots. Her hair hung in shiny folds over her shoulders. Like her husband and children, she wore the same sexless leather pants, boots and shirt.

Their teenage son Shogan was securing an arrowhead to a shaft with a length of copper wire. Their little girl Kanti played with a rag doll. A baby slept in a makeshift backpack near Nuna, only its flat face visible beneath a ruffle of fox fur.

Nuna looked at Agatak. "We need food."

"We'll go soon," Agatak said. "With the sun out, there'll be seals on the beach."

~~~

Kapitan Wolff stood aside as the periscope tube, slick with grease, rose with a hiss. He snapped the handles into place and put his sallow eyes to the viewfinder.

The periscope lens revealed a rocky headland a kilometer away, range-finding crosshairs superimposed on an empty beach. Wolff did a 360-degree sweep – seeing open sea all around – and returned to the barren headland, where seabirds were the only sign of life.

He slapped the handles back into place and thumbed a switch. The periscope tube hissed back into the floor. "Blow main ballast. Stand by to surface."

There was a loud hiss of compressed air. "Main ballast blown," Richter said.

Wolff picked up a microphone. "Gun crew on deck. Shore crew, prepare to launch."

A three-man gun crew clambered from a hatch on the forward desk, removed the deck gun's muzzle cap, and opened the waterproof locker that held a ready supply of 88-mm shells.

A four-man shore crew emerged from the same hatch, dragging a yellow rubber dinghy onto deck. Two of the shore crew went about inflating it with an air hose and getting it into the water. The two other men grappled with a pair of crates passed up from below. One bore the words " _Meteorologie Einheit_ " stenciled on it, the other " _Radioapparat_ ".

From the conning tower, Wolff and Richter surveyed the headland through binoculars. "What do you think?" Wolff said.

"Looks ideal," Richter said.

"And just as we expected – uninhabited."

On the foredeck, radio technician Hoffmann with a 3-meter antenna in hand watched the crates being loaded into the dinghy. He was older than most U-boat crew, early forties, with a balding head and wire-rim glasses.

Wolff called down from the conning tower. "Soon as you're ready, Emil. Let's get it set up and win this war."

Hoffmann gave him a casual salute. "Jawohl, Kapitan."

~~~

Shogan climbed into the kayak. Agatak pushed it off the beach and climbed aboard. He settled into his seat and they thrust off with two-bladed paddles. Kanti waved goodbye from the water's edge. Beside the tent, Nuna was still sewing, the baby asleep at her side.

Agatak and Shogan paddled down the shore. Three hundred yards away, a herd of seals lay on the beach, their skins sleek and shiny in the sun. Agatak and Shogan beached behind some rocks a hundred yards from the seals. Agatak carried a spear, Shogan his bow and arrow.

"I'll crawl up the beach," Agatak said. "You circle around."

Shogan headed inland. Agatak threaded his way through the rocks, then dropped to hands and knees and crawled towards the herd.

Having climbed the ridge above the beach, Shogan drew an arrow from his quiver and fit it to his bowstring. He took aim and shot. The arrow buried itself in the neck of a seal. The seal jerked its head back and bellowed, trying to bite the protruding arrow shaft. The entire herd of 20 seals surged en masse to the water.

Agatak jumped up and ran after them, overtaking the wounded seal in shallow water. He threw his spear, striking the seal in its back. The seal bellowed with pain and made a last thrust for deeper water. Agatak seized the rope that had unraveled behind his spear and quickly took in the slack, wrapping coils around his arm.

The seal thrashed, unable to break free, as Agatak dug in his heels. Shogan arrived. He drew his machete and hacked at the seal's neck. The seal lunged at him with a snarl, teeth bared. Shogan dodged away, then slashed again. Spewing blood, the seal shrieked its last. Shogan caught hold of the rope and they dragged the seal up onto the beach.

~~~

Sergeant Krause and his three men – Henckel, Schmidt and Voormann – paddled the rubber dinghy shoreward. Each had an MP38 sub-machinegun slung over his shoulder. Hoffmann sat amidships atop the radio crate, antenna in hand.

Sergeant Krause was a muscular blond with a low forehead and eyes that squinted into the afternoon sun. His crew – all in their twenties – were stamped from the same mold.

Krause asked the radio technician, "How long will this take, Emil?"

"An hour or two," Hoffmann said. "Enjoy the fresh air while you can."

The dinghy ran up on the beach. Voormann stepped out, got his boots wet and pulled it onto the gravel shore. Hoffmann and the others disembarked. Krause looked up and down the beach.

"So, where are we going with this apparatus?"

Hoffmann pointed. "Up there on the cliff."

Krause barked, "All right, boys, let's see some sweat."

Henckel and Schmidt stacked the crates atop each other and carried them up the beach.

Krause found a path to the summit. Once there, he surveyed the high ground and looked down from the cliff. Gulls shrieked on the wind as waves broke on the rocky beach below. Voormann, left with the dinghy, had walked fifty meters up the beach, perched on a rock to smoke a cigarette. Five hundred meters offshore, the U-boat's grey conning tower barely stood out against the metallic sea.

Hoffmann arrived at the summit with antenna in hand. He selected a flat expanse of ground and scuffed at a thin layer of soil atop the rock. Henckel and Schmidt, winded from the climb, clambered onto the summit with the two crates between them. They set them down, slung their guns from their shoulders and sat.

Hoffmann used a small crowbar to open the first crate.

~~~

At the campsite, the baby wailed from its basket.

Nuna set aside her sewing and held him against her chest. He kept crying, more softly now. Nuna raised the flap of her shirt and thrust the baby up inside. In moments he'd found a nipple and begun to suckle.

Kanti watched awhile, then wandered off to the water's edge. She placed a wood chip in the water and poked it with a branch. She followed as it drifted along the shore.

"Kanti, you stay close," Nuna said. "The bears will get you."

Kanti, ignoring her, continued. The baby fussed again, having lost the nipple. Nuna guided his mouth to the other one. When she looked again, Kanti was further down the shore, but still within sight.

"Come back," Nuna called.

Kanti continued along the shoreline, picking up seagull feathers. She looked back at the tent in the distance, then toward the headland. Further up the shore, she saw a splash of yellow at the water's edge.

~~~

On the summit, the larger crate had been emptied, turned upside down and bolted into the underlying rock. The radio unit sat atop it, protected within its own crate, antenna clamped to one of its corners. The weather unit sat beside it – a metal box with vents and portholes, and a 60-centimeter spindle topped by a directional vane, below which four anemometer cups spun in the wind like a miniature merry-go-round.

Hoffmann finished wiring the radio to the batteries. He flipped a switch on the weather instrument panel. "Ready for a test."

Krause thumbed a switch on his field radio. "Seagull to Shark. Come in."

The radio crackled and the operator said, "Shark to Seagull. Loud and clear."

Hoffmann said, "Tell him to take a reading."

"Got that?" Krause said into the radio.

"Wind velocity, eighteen knots, north by north west," the radio operator said.

"Perfect," Hoffmann said, noting the instrument panel.

"Temperature, eleven degrees centigrade..."

After verifying the other readings, Hoffmann secured the cover on the instrument panel. The weather unit and radio worked perfectly.

"That's it?" Krause said.

"Good to go," Hoffmann nodded.

Krause clucked his tongue. Schmidt and Henckel picked up their guns and stood.

~~~

Kanti approached the dinghy. She touched it with her hand, found it springy. She sat on the edge of it and bounced.

She climbed into the dinghy, and lay amidships with her head against a rubber gunwale. She played with the gull feathers and sang to herself. Then she heard someone whistling. She sat up and saw a man in strange clothes appear from behind some rocks near the base of the cliff.

Kanti jumped out of the dinghy and ran.

Voormann raised his weapon.

~~~

From the conning tower, Kapitan Wolff and Leutnant Richter trained their binoculars on the beach. They'd heard gunfire. On the foredeck, the gun crew stood ready, the 88-mm cannon turned landward. Wolff picked up the microphone.

"Shark to Seagull. What's happening?"

"Voormann shot a native," Krause said.

In the background, Hoffmann's voice screamed in outrage: "A little girl. He shot a little girl."

"The kid was in the dinghy," Krause said. "She saw Voormann coming and ran. What was he supposed to do? Let her run and tell her family? It could have screwed up the whole mission."

Wolff shook his head in disgust. Shooting civilians was a violation of the Geneva protocol. He'd discipline Voormann later for his profound lack of judgment. "Seen any signs of habitation?"

"No."

"Better look around. Find the adults."

"And when I do?" Krause asked.

Wolff grimaced. "Finish what you started."

"How much time do we have?"

"Twelve hours," Wolff said. "We'll go out fifty kilometers, test the transmission and return for you in the morning."

"You will come back?" Krause joked.

"Yes, but we'll leave Voormann," Wolff joked back as he signed off. It wasn't funny, but what was done was done. War was ugly.

~~~

Agatak and Shogan were returning to camp in their kayak, towing the dead seal with the rope behind them, when they heard the distant burst of gunfire. They stopped paddling and traded puzzled looks.

They dug their paddles into the water and ran the kayak up onto the beach. They pulled the seal above the water line and headed inland, climbing the low ridge above the beach.

As they headed north along the ridge, they heard another brief stutter of gunfire ten minutes later. They stopped, listened, but heard no more. They crawled on hands and knees to the ridge above their camp.

Three men stood over the bodies of Nuna and the baby.

Shogan drew an arrow for his bow. Agatak laid his hand on Shogan's arm and shook his head. Shogan bit his lip.

"After dark," Agatak whispered. He tugged at Shogan's elbow, and they withdrew from the ridge.

~~~

After Henckel shot the woman, Sergeant Krause led him and Schmidt another kilometer down the shoreline. Hoffmann had stayed back at the headland with the weather station, Voorman with the dinghy.

They found a dead seal on the beach. Krause crouched beside it, noting the deep slashes in its neck. There were other puncture wounds, from arrow, knife or spear. He drew binoculars and scanned the shoreline to the south.

"They're gone," he said. "Far away, if they know what's good for them."

"The light's fading." Schmidt looked at his watch. "We should make camp."

They moved inland and followed the ridge back to the headland. Hoffmann was sitting on a rock near the meteorological installation. Voorman was still down on the beach with the dinghy.

The sun sank into the Hudson Strait. It quickly became cold.

They gathered a little driftwood and made a small fire, more for the psychological comfort than its scant warmth. They weren't dressed for the climate, but it was only one night. They ate some rations and established a schedule for guard duty.

Henckel was dispatched 200 meters south on the ridge to monitor that approach to the headland. Voormann was told to stay with the dinghy. He'd done such a good job protecting it, it was all his now. Krause, Schmidt and Hoffmann bedded down near the fire.

By two in the morning, Henckel was cold and sleepy. He'd watched the northern lights all evening, curtains of light shifting across the sky, but the novelty had worn off. He lit a cigarette and reminisced of life back home, of hot sausage and cold beer.

Shortly before three, he rose from where he'd been sitting. Time to fetch Schmidt to relieve him. He took a last look along the southern ridge and was puzzled to see a boulder where he'd seen none before.

From out of the darkness, an arrow flew and buried itself in his throat. He coughed once as he clawed at it, but his mouth flooded with blood from a severed artery and he collapsed to the ground.

Schmidt awoke a few minutes later and checked his watch. Oh-three-hundred hours. He got up, half numb from sleeping on the ground, and slung his machinegun over his shoulder. He headed down the ridge to relieve Henckel.

He approached a cluster of boulders. Henckel was supposed to be just south of them. Before he had a chance to call out to his comrade, a spear came out from the boulders, impaling him in the guts. His machinegun clattered to the ground as he gripped the shaft of the spear with both hands. He heard something behind him and then a machete slashed into the side of his neck.

Krause heard something and sat up. He saw Schmidt gone and assumed he'd relieved Henckel. Probably sharing a smoke now. Krause rubbed his hands together. It was cold. He tossed a few more sticks onto the dying fire.

Hoffman opened his eyes. "What's up?" he said.

"I'm going to relieve Voormann. Poor bastard must be half-frozen." Krause took his machinegun and field radio and descended the trail to the beach.

Hoffmann got up to check the weather unit and its radio. The anemometer cups turned slowly in a light breeze, the weather vane pointed like an arrow into the northeast. Everything in order. He returned to the fire and stretched his hands to the meager flames.

He lit a cigarette and savored the warmth of the smoke in his lungs, thinking it would taste so much better with a strong coffee. He looked at his watch. A galley breakfast had never seemed so appealing.

Out in the dark, he heard a sound. Although unsure of where it'd come from, he looked toward the trail where Sergeant Krause had disappeared.

"Voorman? Is that you?"

~~~

Agatak wiped his machete blade on the sleeve of the fallen man's jacket. The man was not quite dead, and the eyes behind his glasses darted wildly about, as if there was someone who might stem the blood that gushed from his half-severed neck.

Agatak squatted beside the man and plucked the barely-smoked cigarette from his still-twitching fingers. He took a long drag and let the smoke drift out his nose as he watched the man die.

The last thing Hoffmann saw was a savage with hollowed eyes, firelight glinting off his high cheekbones, smoke curling from his nostrils like a demon.

Agatak pinched the ember off and put the rest of the cigarette inside his jacket to save for later.

~~~

On the beach Krause found Voormann stretched out and asleep in the dinghy. He prodded Voormann with the barrel of his machinegun.

"Wake up, you idiot. If this were on deck watch, you'd be shot."

Voormann didn't wake up. Krause slapped his face. His hand came away dark and slick with blood. He tipped Voormann's head aside and saw the gore that had blackened his collar. Krause wiped his hand on his pants and turned with weapon raised.

The desolation mocked him. Waves slapped up and down the dark shore. No enemy to be seen. He shuddered with a sudden panic. The last time he'd felt like this, they'd lain at the bottom of a Norwegian fjord as a British destroyer had dropped depth charges around them.

Krause hurried up the trail. Just as he reached the summit, an arrow slammed into his belly. His gut reaction was to fire blindly in the direction from which the arrow had come, spraying rounds like a raw recruit. He staggered backwards, lost his legs and tumbled down the trail. His grip on the gun involuntarily tightened, pulling the trigger, emptying the rest of the magazine.

Krause crashed to a halt on the rocky beach. The fall had twisted the arrow inside him but he managed to get a grip on the splintered shaft and pull it out. He sat up and groped in his field kit for a bandage. Stop the bleeding, he might survive this yet.

Agatak came out of the darkness with a spear. Krause ejected the machinegun's spent magazine and grabbed a fresh one.

Agatak rammed the spear into the hole left by the arrow. Krause screamed. He dropped his weapon and seized the shaft of the spear. Agatak twisted it in his gut.

Krause drew his combat knife and thrust it at his attacker but his reach didn't extend to the savage at the other end of the spear.

Agatak leaned his weight into the spear. This one wasn't getting away.

Krause gave up trying to stab. He reversed the knife to throw it at the savage. Six feet away, easy enough. This was his last chance – his only chance.

Shogan came up behind Krause and seized his knife hand. He swung the machete overhead.

Krause roared but there was no longer anyone but Agatak and Shogan to hear. And then the blade hacked into his neck.

~~~

At 13h00 Berlin Time, the U-boat surfaced.

Kapitan Wolff and Leutnant Richter stood in the conning tower with binoculars trained on the headland. On the foredeck, the gun crew traversed the horizon with their gun, bored to tears with daily drills, ready to fire on a real target.

Wolff picked up the microphone. "Shark to Seagull. Mission accomplished. Come in." No answer. "Shark to Seagull..."

He and Richter listened as a haunting wail came over the speaker. Wolff tried the alternate channel, hoping for a better connection, but each time he returned to the open channel, the wailing was still there.

~~~

The door flap of the empty tent fluttered in the wind. A few feet away, Shogan was sorting through the contents of Krause's field kit. There was food and matches and candles and a sewing kit, all of which he knew how to use. And a radio, which he didn't.

Above the highwater mark, where the shore became a ridge, Agatak kneeled at a cairn of stones. Last night, before they'd withdrawn from the headland, he'd found Kanti and carried her body back. Now she lay under the cairn, with her baby brother, and Nuna's arms around each of them. Agatak rocked back and forth, keening in pain like a wounded seal.

The radio made a squawk. Shogan picked it up, fiddled with switch and button. A tinny voice came from the radio: "Shark to Seagull. Weather data transmission was perfect. Return to ship." Pause. "Come in, Seagull..."

Shogan turned the radio in his hands, puzzling over it, and pressed the SEND button on and off several times.

"Shark to Seagull. I'm not reading you. Switch to Channel Two."

At the cairn, Agatak paused in his wailing and barked at Shogan. The voice inside the radio kept talking. Shogan picked up a large stone and hammered the radio until it squawked like a stricken seagull and died.

~~~

Wolff and Richter listened in confusion. A brief flurry of violent hammering ended with a squeal of static and sudden silence.

"Something's wrong." Richter scanned the headland with his binoculars.

Wolff switched to ship radio and barked an order. "Two dinghies on deck. Shore crews in battle gear."

~~~

Agatak was still keening beside the burial cairn.

Shogan climbed the ridge and walked toward the headland. He mounted a rock and looked out over the sea. He saw two dinghies approaching, four men in each, paddling as if in pursuit of a seal herd.

Shogan slithered away and tumbled down the slope to the campsite. "More are coming," Shogan warned his father. "Two boats."

Agatak paused wailing to say only, "I don't care."

"You want to die too?"

Agatak touched the cairn. "What does it matter now?"

"You want me to die with you?"

Agatak looked up and shook his head.

Shogan extended his hand. "Let's go."

They gathered their weapons and went to the kayak.

~~~

The two dinghies landed a few meters from Krause's. They found Voormann dead in it, and Krause dead ten meters away, both their necks almost severed. Richter and his crew cocked their weapons and scanned the shoreline.

"First we take the summit and check the equipment," Richter said.

They split up and moved off. Meyer and his squad approached the cliff, looking for a path to the summit. Richter and his men headed 200 meters down the shoreline and took an easier path up onto a ridge that paralleled the shoreline.

On the ridge they found Henckel with an arrow in his throat. They stood in a semi-circle looking down at him. They'd never seen a man killed by an arrow before.

"Let's go," Richter said. "We'll attend to him later."

Richter and his men continued north along the ridge. They hadn't gone fifty meters before they found Schmidt. A deep stomach wound had soaked his pants with blood. His neck, mutilated by several massive wounds, had been chopped halfway through.

They continued to the headland where Meyer and his men stood around the ashes of a small fire. Beside it lay Hoffmann, his glasses still on, in a black pool of blood.

The whirling anemometer of the weather unit made a humming sound. Richter walked to the cliff. From here he could see Voormann's body in the dinghy and Krause's further up the beach. Richter switched on his field radio and cleared his throat.

"Osprey to Shark. Come in."

Wolff's voice was harsh but distinct. "Shark here. What's the situation?"

"Hoffmann and all four shore crew dead."

"What? All five? How?"

"It's primitive. Arrow, hatchet, spear..."

"And the installation?"

"Fine. For whatever reason, they didn't tamper with it."

"Maybe they really are savages."

"What now, sir?"

"Our rendezvous is twenty-four hours away. I'll give you two hours for recon. Search and destroy. You understand?"

"What about our men, sir? Bury them?"

"No. For all we know, those savages are cannibals. Bring them back aboard and we'll bury them at sea."

Richter left four men at the headland to watch over the installation and the dinghies. He led the others in a recon a kilometer down the shore where they came upon a small cove with a tent and a boat.

They noticed the cairn. One of the men uncovered the bodies and drew back. "Natives. A woman and two kids."

Richter felt nauseous and turned away. He coughed and spat to get the taste of it from his mouth.

They went another kilometer down the shore and saw no one. Whoever had killed Krause and his crew were gone. Since they couldn't kill the natives, they destroyed their camp. They tore the tent apart and broke up the boat. They made a fire and burned what they could, and stomped the shit out of everything else.

They headed back along the ridge, picked up their dead and returned to the dinghies.

~~~

After the men had gone, Agatak and Shogan returned to their campsite. They beached well south of it and went inland, creeping on hands and knees below the skyline of crag and rock. They lay flattened like seal skins on the shoreline ridge.

Their tent hung in shreds from its wooden frame, a skeleton that had shed its skin. Their family boat, the uniak, lay crippled on its side, spine and ribs broken. Huge rents in the oiled sealskin gaped like open mouths that could only drink the ocean.

Everything lay in a smoldering heap: boots and hats and mittens, the two bearskins under which they'd all slept, the baby's basket of seal-rib and fox fur. Pots and pans, tin cups and plates were scattered, flattened or folded in defeat.

A low growl clawed its way from Agatak's throat as he descended the slope to the beach. He ran a hand across the slashed skins of his tent, feeling the pain of an animal that'd died twice. He stumbled to the wrecked boat and fingered its broken ribs, gauging his skill to mend this battered hulk. He looked around the campsite at all their things burned and scattered. His heart too was shattered, lurching in stricken steps through the memory of his years, seeing Nuna mother each baby...

He picked up the baby's rag doll, turned it in his hands. He laid it on his shoulder, cradled it against his neck. He patted its back, rubbed his nose against its face. Tears glinted in the corners of his eyes.

~~~

Kapitan Wolff and Leutnant Richter stood on the bridge of the conning tower. On the deck below, ten sailors with rifles-at-arms stood brace-legged as the U-boat gently pitched in the long swells of the Labrador Sea. Beneath the deck gun's barrel lay the five shrouded corpses of Hoffmann and the shore crew. They were covered, like children at a sleepover, under one large flag of the German Navy.

"The Navy attracts the bravest men," Wolff addressed his crew. "When we enlisted, we knew we'd sail into danger. Here we face not one enemy but two. As men at war, we battle each other. But the sea lies waiting to scuttle us all."

Richter nodded his approval. It was a good speech, short and simple and true. And after they'd done this hard thing and returned below, they would drink schnapps to toast the dead and living alike.

"Today we mourn the passing of our comrades, and bid them farewell and Godspeed. Our mission here is complete, and its success will carry halfway around the world. In this, they served the Fatherland well." He brought his hand up, not in the stiff-armed Nazi salute, but with elbow high and bent, fingers to his brow. "Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler," the soldiers echoed.

Wolff nodded to Richter, who barked, "Present arms."

Ten sailors raised their rifles at 45-degree angles.

"Fire."

The ten rifles crackled like a shot of chain lightning across the bow.

Wolff called out, "Send them on their way."

Five sailors handed their rifles to adjacent men, and each kneeled to grip the handles of a stretcher. To the edge of the heaving deck they went, tilted their stretchers and slid the corpses from beneath the flag. The shrouded corpses, with chains at their ankles, dove out of sight.

~~~

Before the light faded, Agatak and Shogan climbed the ridge. Agatak was weary and felt like he carried a 20-pound stone in his stomach, cold and heavy and too hard to shit. They returned to the headland, seeing en route that the dead were gone. From the cliff, they looked down on a deserted beach. The gulls rose in a cloud of anger and birdshit, shrieking at being disturbed from their nests. Agatak knew how it felt.

The men from the yellow boats had left something on the summit. A wooden platform with brackets sat bolted into the rocks. Atop it were two boxes, one wood, one metal. Next to the wooden box a long slim spear stood upright. Atop the metal box was a short mast with something like an arrow at the top, while halfway up were four arms with small cups that spun in the wind. Agatak stuck his spear into the orbit of the cups, brought them banging to a halt. He fingered the metal cups. He withdrew his hand and the cups resumed their humming spin.

"What is it?" Shogan said.

"I don't know." Agatak ran his hand up the radio antenna, admiring it, made of steel and straight as an arrow. He laid his spear down and took out his skinning knife.

He removed the brackets at the base of the antenna. The steel spear was now his. He dismantled the anemometer spindle too, removed the cups and pocketed them. Nothing else interested him for now. Later, they'd come back to dismantle the platform for its wood.

Inside the wooden box, something hummed and chirped. Agatak used his knife to force open a panel, revealing within a smaller metal box with a gauge and a dial and wires connected to the other metal box. He turned the knob and the box whined. Agatak picked up a rock and hit it. The thing shrieked like a bird. Shogan picked up a rock as well and they beat it until it was silent.

~~~

Aboard the U-boat, the radio operator sat with earphones gripping his skull, fingers adjusting dials and switches. Above the steady shudder of the engines came a buzz of static from the radio. The operator's hand was twitchy, signaling his frustration with the apparatus.

Wolff and Richter entered the compartment. The radio operator pulled off his earphones.

"No luck?" Wolff said.

"Not a damn peep," the radio operator said. "I don't understand it. Yesterday's test, the signal was so clear it was like coming from the next bulkhead."

"Could it be bad weather?" Richter said.

The radio operator shook his head. "It was designed for all weather. The batteries are supposed to last six months."

"What about your equipment?" Wolff asked.

"No problem here. I just received a message from Naval Command, clear as a bell."

"What did they want?" Wolff said.

The radio operator handed him a message slip. "Confirmation of objective."

Wolff read it and handed it back. He ran his fingers through his hair.

"What will you tell them?" Richter said.

"I don't know."

"We can't go back to repair it. We're scheduled to rendezvous..."

"I know," Wolff said. "We need to get underway. Would you set up the coordinates with the navigator?"

Wolff left the radio room. Richter and the radio operator exchanged looks.

~~~

Agatak sat on the beach, stitching together the ragged flaps of their tent. He finished a panel and took a break to watch his son.

Shogan lay on a large rock a few yards offshore, eyes fixed on something beneath the surface. In one hand he held the radio antenna, poised like a spear. Suddenly he whipped his arm and hurled it into the water. In a moment, he reeled it back in with a length of cord. He held aloft a thrashing 10-pound char. The hand-tooled barb at the antenna's tip protruded through the fish's head.

"Hah. Look at that."

"Big enough for my supper," Agatak said. "What are _you_ going to eat?"

"The next one."

~~~

In the U-boat's control room, the steady shudder of engines was punctuated by the ping of the sonar device. Valves sighed with intermittent hisses.

At his console the helmsman adjusted the plane and rudder controls. His eyes moved back and forth across the instruments before him – heading, depth and air pressure.

Wolff sat nearby, watching the flickering phosphorous green of the sonar screen. His complexion was slightly pockmarked, and in close-up resembled a lunar landscape under a green sun. There was a faraway look in his eyes, wherein was reflected the rotating sonar beam. His eyes were like tiny pressure gauges in some half-human machine, still functional but starting to deform with fatigue.

~~~

Agatak and Shogan sat together beside the campfire, eating roasted Arctic char. Their faces were bronze with the glow of the flames and the warmth of the fish in their bellies. Agatak burped and smiled at his son. He tore off another handful of fish.

Above them, the northern lights danced in ropes of colored fire.

~~~~~~~~~

### ALAN ANNAND

Alan Annand is a writer of crime fiction, offering an intriguing blend of mystery, suspense, thriller and New Age _noir_. When he's not dreaming up ingenious ways to kill people and thrill readers, he occasionally finds therapy in writing humor, short stories and _faux_ book reviews.

Before becoming a full-time novelist, he worked as a technical writer for the railway industry, a corporate writer for private and public sectors, a human resources manager and an underground surveyor.

Currently, he divides his time between writing in the AM, astrology in the PM, and meditation on the OM. For those who care, he's an Aries with a dash of Scorpio.

You can find him on Facebook, Goodreads and LinkedIn,

or follow him on Pinterest, Tumblr and Twitter.

For more information, see his website

www.sextile.com

~~~

Have you read all of Alan Annand's novels?

Please write a review for Goodreads or your favorite retailer.

~~~

AL-QUEBECA

Montreal detective Sophie Gillette, still mourning the death of her brother during covert ops in Afghanistan, investigates a fatal hit-and-run, uncovering a terrorist plot to assassinate an American governor, disable New England's electrical grid, and kill 10,000 hockey fans.

~~~

SCORPIO RISING (New Age Noir #1)

A criminal profiler investigates the killing of a New York heiress and discovers her death is linked to two other murders on the same day: a dot-com millionaire in San Francisco and the team leader of a CIA counter-terrorist project in Los Alamos.

~~~

_FELONIOUS MONK_ _(New Age Noir #2)_

Profiler Axel Crowe investigates the murder of a reporter at an ashram. His esoteric detective work reveals a series of Manhattan rape-murders dating back 12 years, with connections to sex trafficking, drug smuggling and the theft of an ancient golden Buddha.

~~~

SOMA COUNTY (New Age Noir #3)

Axel Crowe searches for a missing person in wine country and discovers a black market in body parts. When his client's friend is murdered and more people disappear, Crowe's investigation leads to a little man with large appetites, big dogs and grand ambitions.

~~~

HIDE IN PLAIN SIGHT

A man assumes his twin brother's identity in order to alibi his own wife who's accidentally killed his brother in an argument. But when he finds himself sharing a bed with his beautiful sister-in-law, he faces bigger challenges and harder choices.

~~~

HARM'S WAY

A private investigator searches for the runaway daughter of an aspiring politician, only to become embroiled in a plot of corruption, decadence and murder. Although violence endangers everyone dear to him, his selfless sense of duty drives him onward to a twisted resolution.

~~~

ANTENNA SYNDROME

New York, 2026. In the aftermath of a dirty A-bomb, private investigator Keith Savage searches for a kidnapped artist, the paraplegic daughter of a crime-busting politician, but the trail leads to a place where her fascination with insects collides with his fears.

~~~
