The Gingap

I like bars. Not to drink in (because I’ve never really acquired a taste for alcohol), or to hang out in (because when other people are drinking and you’re not, the conversation tends to get better for them as the night goes on and more boring for you {and did you know you can create some really neat sand-mandala like patterns, using just pepper, a side plate, and a paper straw wrapper?}), or really anything specific about them in particular…

Um… Let me start again. I like the idea of bars.

They strike me as places where privacy and community meet. Where you can be alone for all the world to see, engaged in an intimate conversation, or out for fun and laughter with friends all around.

I’m also fond of Star Wars, so it’s understandable that the Mos Eisley Cantina is my ideal of what a bar should be (with perhaps a slightly lower body count, but you can’t have everything).

Years ago, I started writing about all manner of supernatural beings and beasties, and since many mythic creatures tend to be a little on the monstrous (and occasionally murderous) side, I wanted to find a place where they could meet and talk and scheme without being obligated to tear each other apart.

Enter the Gingap (in Norse Mythology, Ginnungagap was the primordial void that separated Nilfheim {land of ice} and Muspellheim {land of fire [kind of obvious, but think how weird it would be if it had been the land of talking giant rabbits]} – a bar in the city of Elysium, accessible to all creatures from every corner of every supernatural realm that was ever dreamed of. From gods and demons, to forest spirits and morose ghosts. From a Chimera having an identity crisis to a small-time imp, trying to sell a very tarnished soul on the sly. They all went to the Gingap.

It is a place where stories begin. All are welcome. Sit, have a drink (though don’t touch the Styx brew unless you want a severe case of amnesia), and try not to look crosswise at the gorgon with the sunglasses (she has issues with eye contact). Hope you have fun.

p.s. As pronunciation goes, the original had a hard ‘g’ but I’ve always preferred the softer sound. Plus, it gives it a slightly alcoholic sound and bad puns are always fun (not funny. just fun). Feel free to pronounce it however you like though.

The Social Reindeer Saga

The Social Reindeer Saga

‘Twas a few days or so before Christmas,

And Santa was hiding from a certain reindeer.

Though ordinarily a good friend and coworker,

Lately, Rudolph had been a drain on holiday cheer.

Pacing amidst a never-ending labyrinth

Of toy packaging, manufacturing, and assembly lines,

Santa muttered to himself furtively,

While distractedly counting gifts by the nines.

“It all started when he went Social,”

Santa complained quietly to the world at large.

The nearest quality inspection elf

Rolled her eyes, trying to ignore the man in charge.

“First it was only stuff like Facebook,

Used to keep in touch with the penguins down south,

Then he joined Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat,

And other things that had him frothing at the mouth.

I knew from the start that this wouldn’t end well.

Before he was joyfully tap-dancing from roof to roof,

But then he got it in his head to be modern,

And the team chipped in for a phone operated by hoof.

Only now do we see the consequences,

And the damage has already been done.

He’s become paranoid, narcissistic,

And has really become a lot less fun.

He won’t eat a meal without photographing it first,

Even though his diet is mostly just leaves and moss.

People have started believing he’s a botanist,

While he argues that any non-lichen food is a loss.

And I do fear that being this connected,

Has really gone straight to his head.

A talking reindeer is bound to be popular,

Even without a nose that glows bright red.

He’s been approached by the powers that be,

Corporations of every kind and every creed,

Wanted to place samples of their products,

In every nook and cranny of his social feed.

He claims that it’s really all about self-expression,

Freedom of speech and all that stuff,

Though when China complained about his panda rant,

He took down the post quickly enough.

And the ideas he’s been hearing about Christmas

Are really very worrying to say the least,

He thinks cyber-surveillance and big data can solve

The naughty and nice list from west to east.

I understand that it might in some ways be practical,

And possibly the most efficient way to get things done.

Yet it might land us on the wrong side of that list,

And besides – sometimes the older ways are more fun.”

It was then that the very reindeer in question,

Peeked in with the forlorn look of a guilt-ridden thief.

The elf noticed, and jerked her head towards Santa,

Inwardly breathing a long and heavy sigh of relief.

Seeing that a conversation was in order,

Santa tried to stifle a loud and annoyed sniff.

He followed Rudolph to his office,

And then waited patiently with his beard held stiff.

“It’s like this,” started Rudolph apologetically,

“I know that being this connected hasn’t been good.

But I’m convinced that there’s a lot that we can do,

And even some things that we absolutely should.

Most years, you complain non-stop about the world,

Of chaos, fanaticism, corruption and strife.

Which I’ve started to really discover this year,

Amidst the complex wonder of everyday life.

I’ll admit that I’ve gotten a little lost,

But I have some thoughts that I really want to share.

And I promise to really think them through.

None of that ‘follow and retweet for presents’ affair.

Besides, you’ve always talked about

The absolute necessity of change.

We’ve got to look at all the options

If we want Christmas to have more range.

Sure, while it’s certainly not ideal

To tweet and shout into the endless Void,

Perhaps, instead, we could just listen,

And try not to get irrationally annoyed?

Right now, across countries the world over,

There are people trying to be heard.

And if authoritarian net blackouts continue

It may just be their very last word.”

Santa considered all this with a ponderous silence,

While Rudolph nervously twitched his stubby tail.

“All right,” said Santa with a hefty sigh.

“I daresay it can’t be worse than Christmas email.

We do need to be involved,

And aware of what people really need.

That is certainly important,

When plotting one’s next good deed.

We have to be prepared for all the calamities to come.

Between nationalist nonsense and baby Yoda memes,

To the growing range of climate change threats –

Fires, floods, blizzards and more extremes.

We certainly can’t trust the humans to fix things,

Since most of their leaders just shout obscenities into their mic,

And the only ones to make any sense at all,

Are complete odd-bods such as Swedish teenagers and the like.”

So the two went to work on a yuletide social media plan,

To listen to the online pulse of the world as best they could,

And perhaps use the Internet as it had been intended –

To reach out, to listen with open minds, and even do some good.

So this Christmas, if you do so happen to find

Yourself sharing or shouting into the endless digital world,

Know that you’re not alone, and for better or worse,

There’s at least one reindeer listening with ears unfurled.

The Noel Conspiracy

The Noel Conspiracy

‘Twas about four days before Christmas,

And Santa was hiding away under his bed,

That is to say – beneath the trapdoor that

Concealed his secret workshop and sleigh shed.

He was watching his many security monitors

With a paranoid gleam on his round and bearded face,

While setting out various items on a workbench,

Including a stun-gun, brass-knuckles and a can of mace.

He was mumbling and muttering to himself,

While drinking tea and trying to keep awake.

The last few weeks had been troubling,

And he was sure that he wasn’t making a mistake.

“They’re out to get me!” he declared,

In tones both sonorous and dramatic.

But then followed that by spilling some tea,

Which was honestly quite anticlimactic.

“Drones have been flying past for weeks now.

And there have been disturbances in the workshop.

And just three days ago, the head custodial elf

Said he had to chase away an intruder with a mop!

It’s bad enough that I’m told

That in around twelve years I’ll be out of a job,

What with the world we know ending

And humanity reduced to an angry and scared mob.

But do the countries of the world see the science,

Take note of the dangers and choose to act?

Or do they sit around for ages squabbling,

While declaring gut feelings as truth and fact?”

Santa drained his cup and set it aside,

Moving to one corner of his secret lair.

He rummaged through a pile of discarded toys,

Extracting a belt of tools that he kept there.

“This is all because of the petition I submitted,”

He muttered as his next steps he began to prepare.

“I tried to tell the UN about the arctic ice issues.

But they called me biased, which really isn’t fair.

It’s not just the workshop and my home

That I’m trying unsuccessfully to save.

But there’s a whole Elven nation here,

Filled with people, both strange and brave.

Since then, I am absolutely, positively certain,

(I’d swear to it by my favorite pair of moccasins)

That certain unsavoury governments of the world,

Have dispatched towards me – a squad of assassins.”

There was a sound from another corner,

A long sigh from the other occupant of the shed.

Rudolph yawned widely as he emerged from slumber,

He stood up, blinking his nose and raising his head.

He moved to stand quite strategically,

Between Santa and his trusted (if very temperamental) sleigh,

So that the old man couldn’t follow through

On his plans to arm the vehicle to the teeth for Christmas Day.

“You’re just being paranoid,”

He said soothingly to calm the mood.

“You’ve been overworked, is all.

Just get some sleep and have some food.”

“How can you say that?” grumbled Santa,

“Humanity has clearly gone all sorts of insane.

Between trade wars and actual wars,

And this nationalism disease affecting their brain.

It seems that they’re trying to stop global warming,

With disagreements leading to a nuclear winter instead.

And they’re no longer happy with green Christmas trees.

I have no idea what’s happening in their collective head.

And the letters I’ve been getting,

Which normally fill me with joy and cheer,

Have been getting darker and stranger,

And it does not bode well for Christmas this year.

I’ve had children by the thousands asking

If I could reunite them with their families,

Or asking if I can stop wars or save areas from

Floods, fires, and all sorts of calamities.

And some of these letters, I’d definitely swear,

Were absolutely not written by actual children at all.

Requests for polonium and bonesaws for example,

And this one apparent toddler who keeps asking for a wall.

Most governments see me as a Christmas trespasser –

An illegal alien to be shown swiftly to the exit door.

Though between political dysfunction and outright shutdowns,

I can slip through with them being none the wiser for.”

“Come now. It’s not all bad,” said Rudolph,

Seeing that his boss was finally running out of steam.

“Even if they’re all mad and out to get you,

We’ve got a job to do, protecting every hope and every dream.

Sure the world may be burning, 

But at least they’re all regularly talking about it now.

And some at least, aren’t fighting,

But working to fix the problems and explaining the how.

Putting aside the sheer amount of chaos and insanity,

There are at least a handful or two of positive trends,

There’s peace in the Koreas (though by accident, perhaps)

And in India, LGBTQ people can legally be more than friends.

In Japan, the borders are opening,

And they’ve even invited the elves to immigrate,

(Though what with their longevity,

I fear it may not really help their low birth rate)

Renewable energy is on a clear and increasing rise 

And seems to finally be more than a fad,

And this whole crypto-currency mania seems to be done with.

Really, that nonsense was quite completely mad.

And while disaster has killed countless,

It has always been met with resolve quite brave,

And there was even that feel-good story,

When they got those kids in Thailand out of that cave.

Even in places such as the United States, 

What with their recent reversion to the past,

Seems to have turned a sensible corner,

And at least started listening to women at last.

And even if all fails and civilization ends,”

Said Rudolph with a confident and slightly cocky smile.

“We change our business model to purely humanitarian aid,

And try to keep hope alive, even if just for a while.”

“All right, all right,” said Santa with exasperation,

Putting away his tools and plans for arming the sleigh.

“Even if it does mean risking my life and limb,

We’ll continue on doing things the right and proper way.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t be prepared,”

He went on with a gleam in his eye.

“Just because I’m supposed to cheerful and jolly,

Does not mean that I’m prepared to die.”

So quickly and surely Santa laid out his plan,

While Rudolph listened to it all with a skeptical stare.

And so it was decided to bring in some help,

From the Elven Nation, whose space they happened to share.

So this Christmas, in a world filled with fear,

Hearken to sleigh-bells flying though the cool night,

Seemingly unafraid of hidden assassins,

And cloaked in a warm (and slightly hard to see) light.

Set out a welcome for Santa – the new Elven Ambassador,

Tasked to bring hope to every nation and community,

Clad in a mixture of optimism, mirth, cheer and above all,

A very hefty dose of diplomatic immunity.

The Diaries of RLD – Entry 3

FEBRUARY 4TH, 1952

Now they get into it.

Mainard distributed a single diagram. It’s a copy – carefully traced and then xeroxed. They’ve got a brand new prototype in the lab – color and everything. I wish I could see where the original came from. It looks old. Very old. But also… new.

The math is new. It’s not exactly my field, but I know enough.

Everyone’s getting a little too excited though. If it was just a matter of reverse-engineering some kind of lost theory, then all of us wouldn’t be here. This is just one diagram, and I don’t even know where we would start.

The Colonel sat in on the project briefing. I got up and asked if there was any context. He said there was context. He said that we didn’t need to see it.

That’s the definition of ridiculous. But it’s also the definition of careful. They’re scared about anyone seeing too much of the picture.

Hypothesis – someone has seen the whole picture but they weren’t smart enough to figure out what it all meant, except that it was big, it was earth-changing, it was dangerous.

I’m not the only one thinking along those lines, but no one seems to be sure about how much they should talk about it. I called home yesterday. Not because I really wanted to, but more like a test. There’s a crackle on the line – very faint, but also very regular. Everything’s monitored and recorded.

In other news, some big equipment’s been coming in. Truck-loads stashed in the east warehouse. The Colonel seems very smug about the whole thing.

Abrams knows more. It’s the first time I’ve seen him excited about anything.

The Tale Of Whitebeard

The Tale Of Whitebeard

‘Twas a week and a half before Christmas,

And Santa appeared lost at sea,

While some might take this is a metaphor,

This was meant quite literally.

He’d been missing for three days now,

After testing out his new amphibious sleigh.

(What with rising water levels all around

He knew he had to be prepared for the day)

In his absence, Rudolph took charge,

Conducting the search, and keeping everyone in the know.

Transparency was very important to him;

He didn’t want anyone mistaking this for a coup or an overthrow.

The Arctic listening posts were activated,

And the search teams of polar bears and seals organized one-by-one,

(There were not as many as Rudolph would have liked,

They were fast becoming endangered by a little too much heat and sun)

He even called up the penguins,

All the way on the other side of the world,

Who were rather rude and unhelpful,

And said: “If he were here, we would have heard.”

It was finally a narwhal that found him,

While swimming swiftly through the frigid Arctic sea,

“There’s a problem,” came the message to Rudolph.

“The sleigh’s still afloat, but he says to leave him be.

He’s had it with Christmas, he says,

And believes the sleigh’s breakdown to be a sign,

A perfect excuse to take the year off,

To simply float around on the currents and whine.”

“Honestly,” groaned Rudolph, shaking his horns,

And swiftly and speedily taking to the clear blue skies,

“The amount of maintenance this boss takes – 

The new ideas, the therapy, the freshly baked pork pies!

His misanthropy is getting worse with every year.

It’s almost more trouble than it’s worth.

I have to keep reminding him it’s for the children,

And the need to create joy and mirth.”

Still Rudolph was relieved, even as he complained,

Speeding faster through the sky than a bat out of hell,

The fact that Santa was grumbling and groaning,

Was a perfectly good sign that he was alive and well.

He finally reached the amphibious sleigh,

Now parked and anchored near a lonely ice floe,

Rudolph flashed his nasal landing light,

And finally cooled his hooves in the snow.

“Time to go to work, Boss,”

He said firmly, but with a good dose of cheer,

“Let’s get this sleigh all fixed up,

And load it up for Christmas this year.”

“I really can’t see what the point of it all is,”

Said Santa, turning and grumpily glaring at the reindeer.

“It’s a far better way to spend Christmas floating,

Than plunge back into the world with all its hate and fear.

I really thought things were getting better,

What with technology and awareness, and basic human rights,

But suddenly people who miss the dark ages are

Coming out of the woodwork and getting into ridiculous fights.

You’d think with all that humans have to attend,

Between hurricanes and earthquakes and wildfires galore,

They wouldn’t have time for pettiness and bickering,

But instead there’s nationalism, sexism, racism, and more!

Christmas delivery is impossible if you think about it.

Every year I’ve delivered to all from east to west,

But I’m told that I can’t visit certain countries anymore,

Without putting some inane travel ban to the test.

I don’t even know how many nations there are on any given day.

Between referendums and invasions, and actual civil war.

None of this politicking nonsense and neighborly strife,

Was written anywhere in the original Chrismas lore.

I’ve generally tried to stay absolutely neutral,

To religion, ideology, country, or creed.

To celebrate a day with presents and warmth,

And a momentary absence of any greed.

Though there really is a war on me and Christmas,” he said darkly,

“My summer home is in ruins, falling through melting ice into a hole.

But when I try and get someone to listen and do something about it,

They ignore me completely, and these idiots just keep on burning coal!

And then they make arguments about who exactly I am,

Their fixation on me being old, white, and fat is tragic,

Through the years I’ve been every age, weight, and skin color.

Don’t they understand – it’s all part of being magic!

Honestly, if belief allowed, I’d be a woman next year,”

He said with a despairing sort of sigh,

“Christmas might be better,” he said, “And after all,

If the Doctor can do it, why can’t I?”

“I’m all for it, boss,” said Rudolph,

Fixing the sleigh with both exasperation and amused glee.

Letting Santa rant as he worked,

Was his very own version of yuletide psychotherapy.

“But you’ve got to keep your hopes up, boss,”

He said, his furry face beaming with a slighlty forced smile

“Every Christmas we improve in small but significant ways,

We talk, argue and make things better by an inch or a mile.

And everyone who dreams of better days,

Sometimes only needs a sort of sample,

Of fairness, equality, and kindness,

And your workshop is a good example.

We’ve always had equal hiring on the species front,

Goblins, gnomes, elves, of every color and nationality,

(Though preventing genocide on the workshop floor,

Has become an unfortunately necessary speciality.)

We’ve had equal pay for all genders for two centuries now,

Though, yes, there are still some things that need fixing,

But look how things like reindeer morale have improved,

Especially since you fired Dancer for harassing Blitzen.

Now, I understand Christmas is stressful for you,

It’s nonstop work, while always being on the run,

But I’ve got a great idea of how to make things interesting,

To skirt around human politics and really have fun.”

So Santa listened carefully to Rudolph’s plan,

While the sleigh hummed and roared back to life,

And started cruising through the water,

On a voyage for Christmas, circumventing strife.

Santa was equipped with an eye-patch, a parrot,

And a crew for his now seaworthy sleigh/boat,

And cannons to fire presents very precisely from

International waters, where he can safely float. 

So from ocean to ocean, drifting this Christmas night,

Beware of a new winter pirate, seeking not really to pillage,

But rather trying out innovative, new, and fun ways,

To rain presents and cheer down on every city, town, and village.

So this Christmas, if you hear the cannons roar,

And have to dodge well-padded presents fired from far away,

Know that things could be worse for Christmas,

And that, for now at least, we have Whitebeard and his sleigh. 

On Dissent

Two decades and an eternity ago, my favourite computer game was Sid Meier’s Alpha Centauri – a gift from my father, who frowned upon explicitly violent computer games, and did not read the back of the box carefully enough to discern the level of war, genocide, and violent political suppression (the poor drones) readily available beneath the surface of what appeared to be an innocuous science-fiction themed civilization-building game (who really tries for a diplomatic victory anyway?).

More than anything, it was the character of the factions that fascinated me, representing clear archetypes of human society from the capitalist to the environmentalist, the militant to the scientist. Not being a big fan of organized religion (another long story), I always found the faction of ‘Believers’ deeply abhorrent, which makes it all the odder that these decades later the one thing that has remained fresh in my mind is the fictional title of a fictional book from the fictional leader of the faction (I know – quite a lot of fiction). The title was “We Must Dissent”, and ever since then I have asked myself – ‘why’.

Today, India celebrates the 70^th anniversary of its independence, and being a citizen of that burgeoning republic, I find myself in an oddly pensive mood. I have always believed that blind patriotism and nationalism is an evil to be challenged wherever it is found. That being said – I watch the progress of my country, I vote in its elections, I speak my mind in disapproval where I feel it is warranted, and I have felt both pride and disappointment over the years.

In the last month of 2016, the Supreme Court of India declared that the national anthem would be played before every movie screening across the country, and that it would be illegal to remain seated, to leave the hall, or to express any form of ‘disrespect’ during this time. I am reasonably fond of our national anthem, and have never wished to disrespect it in any manner, yet since that ruling I have not been to see a movie in an Indian cinema hall. This is a small thing, perhaps even childish, but nevertheless…

To have that choice taken away is something that I find deeply troubling. There is no country in this world without its faults, and if the lessons of history teach anything, it is that these faults will never be corrected unless challenged. It was years after Alpha Centauri that I read Thurgood Marshall’s quote on dissent (https://tinyurl.com/yaa3ppx6), and it resonated equally at that time (while also making me wonder whether the game had plagiarized the phrase), even though he spoke for a different nation and a different crisis.

To be heard and to hear, to be seen and to see, to be conflicted and challenged, to question and be questioned – these are the great gifts of democracy, for they belong to majority and minority alike, elevating each as a unique voice among billions.

So for now, I do not visit the cinema, and I watch for similar trends with a disapproving eye, and I whisper to you and to myself – “We must dissent”. Because the price is too high if we do not.

Plus, regardless on whether you agree with the sentiment or not, you have to admit, it is fun to say. 🙂

Conversations – IV

“We’ve been over this. I don’t care if he’s your friend. He’s not allowed in here.”

“That’s speciesism, you know. Just because he’s a dog.”

“No. It’s because he’s a bloody three-headed giant carnivore!”

“You’ve had worse in here. What about that chapter of the Falltown Ghouls – you didn’t kick them out, and they even brought their own snacks!”

“You don’t see them scavenging body parts when they walk through the door. That mutt ate a customer last time I let him in here. There are rules about that kind of thing.”

“It’s not his fault. He was having a bad day. This demon just waltzed in to his territory and used him as a bloody distraction. He doesn’t take kindly to that sort of thing.”

“That’s no excuse. He has a problem, and I’m not letting him in.”

“It’s just one of his heads honest. But that one’s on the wagon. Sober as anything.”

“Three heads – one digestive system. It doesn’t make any difference!”

“All right, so no drinks. But he just wants to get out and meet some people that he isn’t honour-bound to tear from limb to limb and…”

“…spend his free time tearing them from limb to limb?”

“Yes. No. I mean no, of course not. But you know, if there happens to be a brawl or something, you can’t just expect him to just sit it out.”

“Sure I can. Because he won’t be allowed in here.”

“…”

“I’m not changing my mind!”

“What about as a part-time worker? You need a good bouncer, right?”

“You want me to pay him to tear people limb from limb? Hmm… that’s not a bad idea…”

“See? I’m sure it’ll be grand…”

“Slow down! I’m not hiring him. It’s all well and good keeping out the rough crowd, but if I expect that mutt to actually let anyone in, more fool me. He ain’t particularly choosy, is he?”

“How about we work out a system? Let every second person in? He eats the others?”

“No. What’s it to you anyway?”

“I’m a dog-lover is all. Poor sod spends his time just doing guard duty and you kind of feel sorry for him.”

“Pull the other one, mate.”

“All right, fine! He’s got a close friend of mine trapped in a bloody cave near his stomping grounds. I said I’d get the ban revoked if he promised not to kill her.”

“You shoulda said that.”

“Then you’ll let him back in?”

“’Course not. Don’t be daft. But there’s a way or two around ol’ six eyes. There’s this harper who comes in every other decade…”

“I know that story. But I got no music skills. I wouldn’t know a lullaby tune if the harp was nailed into my head.”

“Naw, that’s a myth, it is. The dog likes a jingle sure enough, but he’ll eat you just the same. Nah, this harper worked out a system after watching his apprentice try the whole ‘soothe the savage beast’ routine and getting his head chomped right in the middle of verse three. What you do is – you get him drunk.”

“What?”

“You said it too. The middle-head’s a bloody alcoholic. You got to play on his weaknesses.”

“But he just gets violent when he’s drunk. That’s a dangerous game.”

“Ah – you just need the right stuff. And it so happens that I’ve got a shipment of some prime soporific whiskey. You’re going to need at least a barrel.”

“Wait – you want me to buy the stuff?”

“It’s a bar, mate – look up the definition.”

The Diaries Of RLD – Entry 2

JANUARY 21ST, 1952

I think everyone’s here now. Or at least – everyone who matters. They’ve divided the teams. Everything’s all compartmentalized and hush-hush. The briefings are getting more specific, but I can just tell that they’re skirting around the main point. I know how this works. Everyone here does. They don’t want us knowing what’s at the heart of it. They don’t want us figuring it out. They don’t want us thinking about it.

I’m being a model student – not thinking about it. It’s easier to focus on the work.

Mainard, the team-leader’s a little weird. He has proper Einstein hair, claims that he’s met the man, got the styling tip from him – says it helps ‘cool an overworked brain’. I think it’s a joke. I’m not sure if it’s me, or if he’s just not funny. It’s always hard to tell. No one else laughed though.

Paul’s on the same team. Definitely not on the same page. He’s loud and it gets under my skin.

Status quo in the quarters seems to be holding. Abrams keeps to himself and that suits me fine. Emergency drills started yesterday – right in the middle of the night. By the time I was even properly awake, Abrams was out in the courtyard. It’s weird that I find that comforting. Here’s a guy who rightly could not care whether I exist or not. There’s something honest about that.

Dinner time. The food has not improved. But no one’s died yet. Things are looking up.

Asylum – Part 4

He leaves as the guardians disappear; his ferry gone. Lauren understands. There was never anything solid between them. He packs up all his belongings in a bag that can be slung across his shoulder. The shoulder that started aching the day after they closed down the ferry. And he starts walking down the river-side.

His boots start to fall apart on the second day, but he knows they’ll last another week at the least. The nearest town’s a day away. Maybe he can buy a cheap pair there.

He counts the money in his pocket. It’s not much. Even if he doesn’t spend much, he doesn’t save it either. The unpaid ferry rides used to come out of his pocket, but even as he fumbles the thin wad of bills, he doesn’t regret that.

Under the willow-tree, the man had said something important about the public good. He holds that close to his heart, telling himself it was all for that.

At the first town he buys a second-hand pair of boots. It costs him a third of his money, so he makes a decision to stay for a while and find work. It’s always along the river, and they could use a man around a boat. He cleans there, wiping up the vomit from sea-sick passengers and tourists. It’s not a ferry. It’s what the ferry has become.

He leaves a month later, spending what he’s earned on food supplies and a small tent. No more unrolling the sleeping bag and just trying to drift away to dreamland while the rain pelts down. But he doesn’t use the tent often. At night, he likes the sight of the stars, and the sound of the river.

He’s lucky to be alive. He knows that with every passing day. The spaces that haven’t been filled – between towns and cities – they are not kind. The river has its own anger, and without the ferry he is powerless against it as it swells, soaking him in the winter months. He starts coughing. A small cough that will follow to the end of his days.

At one city he calls Lauren and talks for five minutes. She’s married now, and he wishes her the best. He hears about their new-born daughter and her forays as a child-genius, and he thinks proudly that he was once part of that mother’s life. He also hears about the new business center. It’s revitalized the town, she says sadly. Yes… she misses some parts of the old days.

The business center was built over the grounds. The willow tree uprooted, and all the people moved. Where were they moved? But even as he thinks that, he knows that other people also wonder, and that’s all they ever do.

Sometimes it’s months before he goes into another populated area. He likes following the river as slowly as possible. It grows old with him, he thinks, in the odd hours of the morning. It floats down to the plains in his minds eye, and slowly and surely he is following it there.

In some places he stays for only a few days, others, he spends months… even a year. He finds grounds like the one he used to know, and he spends his time there meeting the people who aren’t.

On his journey he falls in love a few times, but always the choice is between the land and the river, and he still owes so much.

His cough is much worse these days, and the doctors say its gone untreated for too long, so he smiles cheerfully and accepts it. There’s not much else he can do.

But there’re still years left and he makes his way along the river. Sometimes he can’t follow it directly as it slips underground, or falls from a height, but he can feel where it is, and he always rejoins it.

The last town comes, and now he has no strength left. The latest pair of boots have started to fray at the soles, and his clothes are now more patched than original material, but he knows that he’s at the end of his life’s journey, and that makes it all right.

On one early morning, he spends the last of his money, buying a small rowboat, and he takes it out over the river. He lets it carry him forward and as the sun rises, he lies back knowing that they’ll both reach the sea soon.

The final price for the honor of being the ferryman, once… so long ago.

-I’ll manage, he says to the tall man. -There’s always a road for ferrymen, right?

-A short one and a long one, the man says and stands up uncertainly, his eyes blinking rapidly in inner thought. -Ask your friends here. They all crossed the river at some time or the other.

-Not the parts I speak to, he says quietly. It’s true. He doesn’t want to admit that, but it’s true.

The man frowns absently at the horizon. -That is a problem now. But maybe it has a remedy.

He chuckles softly at words like that. Dr. Illus used to talk that way; about solutions to problems. As if they were all puzzles waiting to be twisted in the right direction until it all fitted neatly into place. He doesn’t like solved puzzles. Sometimes they look better with pieces missing.

-But if you’re ever nearby, the man says as he turns away, -I’ll be happy to give you a ride on the ferry. Free of charge, of course.

-But I don’t know where your ferry is, or for that matter who you are.

-Don’t you? Well, just ask someone who stays here, they all know.

And the man walks away; another illusion of his mind fading.

It’s good, he tells himself, that he doesn’t need to be sane to operate the ferry.

He eats slowly, one sandwich at a time, and he watches the people in the yard. There aren’t many animals though. Even the trees scattered so tastefully seem to be empty of the birds and squirrels. Maybe they also see all the people, and maybe they realize that this place belongs to them.

In mid-bite, he pauses, wondering if that applies to him as well. The safety that he feels in their presence, could also be an illusion. Just another figment…

It’s a while before he packs up again. Folding everything neatly into their places. They fit into the funny basket easily, and the cloth covers it all up like a shroud. The wind starts to rise again as he does this, and above, the willow branches shake nervously, a few scattered leaves falling. Soon the winter will arrive and it will be stripped bare down to its peeling bark, marked so precisely by time. You can tell the age of a tree by the rings in its trunk. But to find its age, you have to kill it first.

Someone’s twisted sense of humor.

He picks up the evidence of his visit preparing to fade away as the afternoon turns to evening, and he starts following the same path out. He stops for a moment a heavy-sadness falling as he sees the silver of a bracelet still peeking out from the grass. Yes, it’s the same one. He bends down and reads the name fully. Lillian.

Looking around he sees her name, carved there in stone, and for a moment he sees her again. The familiar face, framed against the blue and white sky, the thin wrinkles set unchangingly in the corners of her eyes, but she’s not looking at him.

So he leaves the bracelet where it lies. Eventually someone bringing flowers will pick it up and wonder about the name, about the person behind it. They’ll spin a tale that’s both romantic and fanciful, and both true and false. Without ever knowing about the woman – too young to ever be middle-aged – taking the ferry to work.

He doesn’t belong here… that seems to be the silent message echoing in every conversation, every look, and every shaped memory. So he smiles ruefully and starts to whistle. It’s a pleasant melody that he doles out while on the river. Sometimes the passengers sing along, even though the words keep changing.

The gates stand there in the distance. Wide open with their cast iron bars placed like straight teeth. He moves towards them, taking one final look at the hundreds around him, the thousands, in the fields of rotted flowers, growing grass, and the occasional tree.

A hand grabs his arm, halting him, and the air stills to a sudden halt.

As the chill reaches his heart he turns slowly to look at the owner of the hand, her eyes fixed on his face in confusion. Lost eyes, with the light of a river-crossing glowing dimly in them.

In slow wonder, Miss Blaire whispers words that tell him he does belong, even if, in his heart of hearts, he doesn’t want to.

-I see you, she whispers.

THE END

Asylum – Part 3

He looks up, lowering the plate on to the checkered pattern, and he smiles amiably.

-Hallo. I haven’t seen you around before.

He’s a tall man; a thin face, fair, kindly and the light gray stubble marking the boundaries of where he would have had a beard. His lips are thin, but it doesn’t look wrong, like it does on so many people. The thin lips seem to fit. They curve in a skyward smile, the ivory white beneath revealed the barest fraction of an inch. Unstained by time, whitewashed by age. And the eyes of pale blue smile as well. So rare… the smiling eyes.

-Hello, to you too. Do you mind if I join you for a bit?

-‘Course not, mate, he replies. -Be glad for the company. You visiting?

The man folded carefully letting his long dark short fold over the deeply dyed pants, strangely striped at intervals. -Hmm? Visiting? Yes… I visit these places quite often. It’s important to remember that they exist. These parcels of land.

-That’s what I’m always talking about! he says, his own eyes brightening.

-Is it now? How interesting.

And he does seem interested. Yet even as he listens, his attention strays. The crowds that fill the place sound in his ears. Yes, that must be it…

-Would you like a sandwich?

He might finally have to use the other plate.

A strange look. -Oh. No, thank you. My appetite has never bee a healthy one, he says with mock woefulness.

Indeed, his frame is a thin one. It reminds him of something, but even as he thinks that he knows he’ll never remember. His memory’s like that.

-Well, my name’s Parker. I operate the ferry on the weekends. You ever been down there?

The tall man raises an eyebrow -You’re a ferryman? That is interesting. I’ve been in the business myself for a long time. I’ve never been on your boat, though. How much do you charge?

A strange question. No one asks him that. -It varies, actually. Y’know, company policy and all. It’s set at about a dollar across, one way. But that’s for right now, he finishes with a small sigh. -There’s talk about shutting it down if the elections go the wrong way this year.

It’s the doubt inside. He want to believe that things aren’t going to change, that people will always need those days on the ferry. Traveling back and forth to a shore, just distant enough to be on the edge of the horizon with the wide river stretching in between with unashamed grandeur. Yes, he knows that they’ll always need it, but the question is: Will they want it?

-I remember the old day, says the man, his voice far away and wistful as he feels the tapestry of memory blindly under his fingertips. -I used to charge two gold coins… but, so few people carry gold coins these days.

He frowns a bit. Maybe the man does stay here. He sounds like he does.

-Yeah. Me, I ain’t ever carried a gold coin around. Used to have a silver dollar that my gramps gave me, but the river got that when I was younger. The river takes its own toll. That’s what I always thought.

The man smiles -Yes, I suppose that’s true. Now, it’s mostly pro bono work. But even in the old days, so few had the price. So few…

-What’s pro bono?

-You don’t know? Pro bono publico: for the public good. Doing something that needs to be done, even when it doesn’t benefit you.

He nods slowly. On Fridays, a group of people often arrives. Sometimes young, sometimes old – women, children, and men – four or five at a time. They can’t pay, but he still takes them across. It’s the price of being the ferryman. -I know what you mean.

The sandwich now lies forgotten in front of him. But nothing touches it. Not a fly, not an ant, not even the pollen that floats sporadically through the thin, cold air. But the shadow of the willow grows longer as mid-day turns away, minute by minute.

-If you don’t mind my asking, queried the man politely -Why do you eat on these grounds? Of all places, why here?

The question freezes his breathe. Dr. Illus used to ask that very question in that curious manner of his; fiddling with his own spectacles as if they’d give him an answer. The lenses glint again in his minds eye, sparking off distant anger. But he won’t be angry. Not in this place.

-It’s safe here, he answers tightly. -I feel safe here, guarded by all of the people.

-But, they’re not really here, are they?

Are you? he wants to ask, but doesn’t. -Everyone here has their own place to be, he says simply, leaving it at that.

The man nods slowly, letting his fingers run through the grass. For a moment his fist closes, as if to uproot, to kill a handful, but he lets go, and not a blade is harmed. -I can relate, he says looking over the empty landscape that’s filled with so many people. -So many people just pass through, as if they’re scared. They bring flowers and small tokens. Me, I like planting flowers here. They grow well in some spots.

-Flowers are nice, he says. And they are nice, when they’re not rotting away from the torn roots. He gave a bouquet to Lauren once. She seemed happy when she accepted it, but he could see the accusation suppressed beneath her eyelids. The flowers would die eventually. A month later he’d offered to plant a rose bush in her garden.

Her smile could have lit up the entire river front.

-And what happens if this election does change things?

He thinks about it. The ferry could disappear, mothballed away. Sold and refurbished as a corporate boat, or just someone’s private plaything. If the election changed things…

Would the people come here, then? Armed with spades, and followed by trucks. We’re retaking our land, they’d say, and it is their land. Nothing can change that truth. And then where would the Heap family go? Fred Matthers? Miss Blaire? Where would he go, and still be safe?

*-*-*

Asylum – Part 2

He keeps walking on. So many people to talk to. There’s a nice spot on the hill that he likes; the larger willow crouches over it with giant like grace, carefully stooped against the untamed wind. The bark’s been marked and pitted a dozen time over. Through rain, hail and snow, but no one’s bothered to carve their initials on it. People don’t carve their initial in this tree; not while it stands in this place.

-Miss Blaire, he nods courteously to an old woman in a wheel-chair.

She looks at him without recognition though. No she doesn’t know him. Of course, none of the others actually know him, but Miss Blaire really doesn’t.

She’s clutching flowers in her lap; lilacs. Uprooted, they’ll waste away in time, but her bony hand clutches with a tightness that says she’ll never let them go.

Her eyes move away. He doesn’t concern her. He didn’t bring flowers.

He walks on without a goodbye. She doesn’t know him. He doesn’t know her. Strangers in this place of all places, where everyone’s a stranger to what they used to be.

As he approaches the tree, a single sunbeam splits through the branches and plays around his feet. Worn leather shoes; the comfortable kind that feel soft to the touch. He looks at them carefully for a moment, his fingers tightly wrapped around the basket handle. The dark soles have seen a lot. Melted tar and coal, fresh-water and sea-water, and all manners of dog-shit. He wonders briefly why they don’t have a life of their own. Then he remembers that they do.

There’s a word for it, he thinks. Symbiosis.

He pauses for a few moments, and then lifts his free hand into the beam, catching it in a callused palm. The boiler burn aches with phantom pain as the solar wind gently touches it. It should have still been black, withered. That’s how he remembers it, but they tell him that he’s wrong. The hand survived.

The light moves. He’s been standing still for minutes, an it’s moved away from his hand. It touches the wet grass and for a moment glitters as it finds something buried beneath the forest underfoot.

He bends down over it. A thin band of metal; silvery white against the sylvan carpet, and untarnished… gently he picked it up, holding it between two fingers and watching it trail downwards. A bracelet of sorts, with a name curving around the metalwork. L…I…

-Is that my bracelet? says a voice from behind him.

He turns slowly, rising to his feet. His true memory tells him that he hasn’t seen her here before. But then there are always new faces around. The question lingers as to whether she’s staying, or, like him, just visiting.

-I s’pose that depends on whether or not you dropped it here, he replies cheerfully. It’s always better to be cheerful around strangers, he’d told himself. It meant that they relaxed around him, dismissed him from sight; didn’t think he was a threat… they trusted him. And people needed to trust a ferryman.

-Yes, I did, she says, holding her hand out for the bracelet. She doesn’t bother describing it, but he still hands it over with nothing more than a cheerful smile. Bracelets, baubles, and slowly rotting flowers. Other people were welcome to them.

There’s something in the curve of her face that seems familiar. Maybe she’s been on the ferry before? He asks, knowing that there’s no harm in asking.

A cold look returns, but not hard. The distance is there, but it’s not a cruel distance. It’s just the miles in between letting themselves be show, marked, and catalogued. -Yes, she finally replies. -I used to cross quite regularly, but I haven’t been there in some time. My business doesn’t take me across the river anymore.

Then maybe you should cross when business doesn’t take you there, he feels like saying, but doesn’t. A ferryman’s advice is for those on the boat, and faced with the calm movements of the ship, the cry of the overhead Kingfishers, and the blue green water – people actually listen.

-Well, then. That must be where I know you from. Been the ferryman there for many years. Parker’s the name.

She nods in acknowledgement, but the anxiety is there. She has the bracelet back, and the shadow of the willow is starting to grow. It unnerves her that the sunlight can be swallowed so easily after its moment supreme in the sky.

-Nice to meet you, she says, polite even as her eyes dart away. She moves in the gaps between the winds, letting her footsteps carry her away without an excuse. A sudden fleeing as if the guardians of the hallowed ground were chasing after her.

He would have raised his hand in farewell, but she’s gone in moments, beyond the large stone structures that lie lazily to the south. Strange… the sudden encounters seem to flow swifter just after the minutes of the twelfth hour. Like the end of a cycle’s been reached, and events just fall forward.

Dr. Illus tells him that he’s not entirely sane, but he accepts that without worry or anxiety. A ferryman has no need to be sane. All he has to know is the pulse of his boat, the smiles of his passengers, and the serpent trails of the river.

He sits down quietly, letting the basket rest on the grass. Its square shape flattens the blades beneath, but when he lifts it again, the wounded stalks will spring upwards, a testament to their crafted resilience – even if they were shaped by no visible hands.

Slowly and carefully, he unpacks the basket. It is a funny one. The thin plastic material, patched over with thick wool-work. He did the patching himself, cementing the scraps in place with thick pins, and bending them with the pliers he uses for engine repairs. Stickers fill in the smaller gaps. Disney, and Pixar, and cartoons that never existed smile out from all corners. They come in large sheets; the stickers – the grinning characters posing so lifelessly as they grin in moribund delight.

The patches tell a story on that precious canvas that he carries around, and that people smile and laugh at. It’s not a cruel laughter, he tells himself, while fearing that it is. Aren’t people cruel, sometimes? Over such small things? Surely they aren’t.

He doesn’t care. A laugh is a wonderful thing. It’s the sound of the splashing of a river trout as it dodges the white wake. It’s the rainbow shattered by the brown bleakness of the deck. And the footsteps as the passengers watch with wonder their own passing, in that island ever filled with fresh air.

It’s a beautiful river, he thinks on the weekends. Unstained by the world it flows through. All rivers start that way, and then they end, so full with the tales of a thousand cities. So full of life that they carry to the seas. Wasn’t it strange that it seemed more beautiful at the beginning? When it was young, but dead…

The cloth is first. A pale, checkered pattern that’s resisted the washing of years. Like stains of ink, the marks are all that remain from the vibrant blue of years ago. Then the napkins and the single paper plate. He keeps a spare, just in case, but he’s never had to use it.

So few people eat here.

No spoons and forks and messy whatnots, all too cumbersome.

He puts his hand out to stop the paper plate from flying away. A repetitive movement – he remembers describing the same movement over and again to Dr. Illus, but that was a year ago. When he was doing other things.

Now the doctor’s part of the past, with those other things, and the repetitive movement is still there. A single finger touching down lightly on the edge of the plate. It won’t fly with such an anchor.

Neither do the napkins.

Sandwiches are one of those enduring food trends. He used to have them everyday when he was a kid. Swore he’d never touch another after his fifteenth birthday. Started eating them again at nineteen to offset the grass hunger. And now it’s picnic fodder. Two thin-slices of white bread, and any one of a thousand fillings. The simplest of meals. The simplest of feasts.

They’re wrapped in thin paper, which he carefully unwraps, folds, and then places at the bottom of the basket. No sense in littering. The residents wouldn’t like it. Or at least, he believes that the residents wouldn’t like it.

He does this with one hand. The other still anchors the thin paper. But once he puts the first sandwich down – cucumber and vinegar – the weight is in place.

He watches it for a few moments. No matter what the action, he finds his eyes watching himself in unbearable scrutiny. Are his actions… normal? No one should have to hide form themselves, but so many people do that.

Dr. Illus asked him once whether or not he believed that he belonged in this place. He didn’t have an answer then. He still doesn’t have an answer.

The moment passes and he smile happily as he lifts the plate, the napkin firmly tucked under the same hand. But before he lifts the sandwich to his mouth, a shadow falls over him; over the basket; and over the carefully laid out cloth.

*-*-*