did you desire for this? that your life should end like this in the glory of despair? did you know that as you soared into the air that this was your last flight, your eagle-like wings would weigh you down?
* I expect it crossed your hopeless mind that you as bird rates less than zero on the scale of global concern
* that the pilot trained in the beauty of death rates a more grand funeral than yours heavy with oil sinking in a dark black sea.
Written by Sarah Morris
Author`s note:
I was living in Chester in the early 90’s — the energy of the dance scene coming into its own — when on the television (with only four channels) came the news item about the Panama Oil Slick. The image is still with me today of the Pelican covered in oil, helpless and on their last flight. It struck me that nobody cared for them, but pilots who also fly, are honoured when they die.
Modern poetry is anarchism, because it is a constant negotiation between the individualism of morphemes, syllables and words, confederated upwards for the social good of sentences and poems;
because there are no strict rights and wrongs dictated from on-high (unlike with prose) although the best poems are decent and balanced, by the direct democracy or consensus decisions between their constituent lines;
because modern poetry is utopian, striving towards perfect expression in content and form, without heed of convention;
because it is anti-fascist, welcoming diverse forms in defiance of a metric ethno-state;
Is it not true that the whole media landscape as well as the whole publishing landscape and arts landscape should be pervaded by the climate crisis, and the meta crisis of political economy and civilisation of which the climate crisis is a symptom? In ‘Uncanny & Improbable Events’ Amitav Ghosh does a good job of explaining some of the reasons why the climate crisis is not being sufficiently addressed in the field of literature, not least of them being that the crisis seems too improbable, too unlikely in its specific instances, to feature in any literary fiction –that is, unless you are an extraordinarily gifted author able to communicate the total effects of events as horrific as, for instance, the recent floodings and deaths in Libya, when two dams broke in quick succession.
Here at the Centre of the Web, we intend to raise up and spread widely all literature that deals with the climate crisis. We will do this with the help of the growing YouTube platform Epic Tomorrows. All ideas are welcome, especially with a literary focus on the decentralisation of political power globally, in order to meet the climate crisis head on. Authoritarianism fails us. Capitalism fails us. In the end we will have only ourselves, our neighbours and our localities to save us, and if we’re lucky, the internet: let us use this precious resource while we are still able.
Please spread the word about Centre of The Web. We are currently open to submissions of all kinds (excluding poetry, unless you are extraordinarily gifted).
by Matthew Azouley, with contributions from Selina Boland
‘You are the salt of the earth, but if the salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything except to be thrown out and trampled under people’s feet.’ Matthew 5:13
Due to the actions of a handful of sociopaths the climate crisis on Earth escalated, unabated. Most of the inhabitants of St Johns, the capital of Newfoundland in Canada, experienced this obliquely. Even in such sites of relative free thought as Elaine’s Books on Duckworth Street, conversations on the climate were usually limited to the effects on the local scant agriculture, the ‘threat’ of global migration, and the ineptitude of both the federal and provincial governments. Like a bad relationship that turned out not to be monogamous afterall, the climate crisis slowly and inexorably revealed itself, not as merely the result of ‘fossil fuels’, but a deeper crisis in the relations of civilisation and modern living.
The increasingly successful musician Saline Boyd, daughter of renowned folk singer Marinda Boyd, had never been to Elaine’s Books. Sally (the name that everyone knew her by) worked in the uptown RBC branch on Elizabeth Street in St John’s, but due to cheap rent and a creative lifestyle was able to get away with working very few hours. This was just as well because like her colleagues, she hated the job. She would soon leave. Regardless, RBC continued to fund ecocide.
On a typical bank day, Sally would set her alarm for 8:05 a.m. She felt like she was somehow cheating time with that extra five minutes. Generally, when she awoke her thoughts were racing out of her dreams. On a good day, she thought about how thankful she was to be alive. She thanked God for her warm bed and her high, spacious apartment overlooking the city, and the starling’s nest right below her window, replete with chicks. She aspired to simplicity and God, but, so she thought, they didn’t always find her.
On a typical bank day, Sally would dress as she would on any other day, with simplicity, preferring real wool sweaters and comfortable cargo pants and her white converse high top sneakers. She rarely wore make-up.
She usually had an organic egg burrito for breakfast which included spinach, red and green peppers, zucchini, broccoli, avocado, turmeric, pepper and sea salt. She drank a proteinous banana, spinach and chocolate chia seed smoothie and made coffee in the espresso maker on the stove, which she took with her to work. Food in Newfoundland was generally imported from elsewhere, and thus was expensive, but Sally prioritized her diet over everything else. She was not subject to Newfoundland’s obesity epidemic –the worst in Canada. She put obesity down to a lack of gratitude for Life, as well as bad salt. Bad salt disguised all manner of food crimes.
Sometimes Sally had bad days. On a bad day, as she munched her breakfast, she would look around her apartment in horror, feeling stuck and alone, in this attic of a cold Victorian townhouse.
She drove a different route to work almost every day, trying to cheat place, just as she tried to cheat time with her alarm clock. She hated routine, so as she drove, between enjoying glimpses of St John’s waterfront and the Narrows – that famous passage between the harbor and the Atlantic bordered by rocky inclines – she fantasized possible futures. Unfortunately, she always arrived at the bank.
Before entering the building she often thought
– This just might be my last work day…
Sally’s workspace was sterile; black and white walls, spacious and cold. From her pod she could view her colleagues, all of whom she got on with well enough. They shared a hate for this job in this boring area of town. Across the street was a gym and a recycling center. Next door was an Irving gas station, where Sally usually parked. It was a constant reminder of the climate crisis, of which she was aware, but felt powerless. It was now 2026, and both the crisis and the Irvings’ power were larger than ever.
The conversation starters were all the same from clients in the bank:
– Weather sure is nice out there hey?
– Oh this is a crazy time to be living in now….after Covid especially…
– How’s your music career going? Any gigs lately?
She had been wanting to quit for fifteen years, but the high pay, low hours and convenience kept her coming back. She only needed to work fifteen hours per week to survive. Lately, she had had the sense of something dark encroaching on her job, something ominous on the horizon. It was probably just in her imaginative head, she reasoned.
After work Sally usually did a strenuous hike for 45 minutes or so. She preferred uphill hikes as they were more challenging. In the evening she might go out for dinner, go to an open mic event to sing, meet with friends downtown, or play a show.
***
One day, the frustrating predictability of Sally’s life was broken. Two out of the ordinary events occurred in quick succession. On the day after that, she had the most extraordinary day of her life.
On the first day, a Wednesday, up until she finished work for the day, everything went predictably. Nothing, unfortunately, exciting. But as Sally left work, crossing the forecourt of the Irving gas station next to the bank, to the side of which she always parked her black four door Hyundai Accent, looking over her shoulder she noticed a man. A good-looking man; a very good-looking man. In fact she could describe him as literally the man of her fantasies.
The guy was standing across the street, looking directly at her with, less than ideally, a frown on his face. Heart thumping, when Sally reached the car, she bravely spun right around to stare at her imagined suitor, but he was no longer there. She suddenly felt like crying, although was shocked at herself for this girlish behavior. Then she got into her vehicle, closed her eyes and recalled the fantasy guy. He was 6ft 2 (well, clearly above 6ft) to her 5ft 8. He had long-ish dark hair, almost shoulder length. He also had broad shoulders, just as he was supposed to, and Sally imagined that his eyes were dark and as deep as the Narrows. As her mind began to slip, she snapped herself back.
– Not here
she thought. Then
– A fairytale! Let this be my fairytale!
After this confusing but welcome event, something else bizarre occurred on its heels. Sat there in pleasant shock but not a little frustration, staring straight ahead, Sally saw a guy drop something out of his pocket a few meters away. He seemed to have appeared from around the back of the Irving station, perhaps from an office or storeroom. Without thinking, and almost as if she wanted to gain something concrete after losing her dream of a man, Sally opened her door nonchalantly and as the man walked off, she ran forward, crouched down and put the small object into her pocket, then promptly returned to her car and drove off. Her behavior was uncharacteristic; she had surprised herself and was pleased.
As she drove home, she slipped in and out of fantasy encounters with her new guy. Always so quick to escape into alternative realities of her choosing, Sally could not be absolutely certain that the events of the parking lot had been real…
***
– I feel so loved
thought Sally,
– but I feel so used
and then she realized that these thoughts were lyrics that she had already written.
She sat in her apartment, the night after picking up what turned out to be an MP3 drive from the gas station parking lot. She couldn’t sleep. The ‘problematic’ relationship with her ex partner, or her ‘friend with benefits’, or whatever he was supposed to be, painfully clawed at her brain, in contrast with glimpses of the mystery man from earlier in the day, which she savored.
When she had got home earlier, Sally had instantly played the stolen file through her stereo. She had no idea why she had impulsively taken what the ‘man from Irving’ had dropped, apart from it making up for the loss of that masculine vision across the street, and apart from it being something potentially exciting and dangerous, something which her life lacked right now. To be honest, she had expected to find nothing of interest on the file – perhaps some bad rock music.
Whatever the case, when she played it, she wished she had left it lying there on the asphalt. Since that moment, a few hours ago now, she hadn’t had a wink of sleep. Right now she was sitting on one of her favorite pieces of furniture, her mother’s rocking chair, and gazing abstractedly at the handmade wooden coffee table that a friend had built for her on the farm where she sometimes volunteered.
She kept playing the short audio clip through in her mind. Since the first time she played it, it was etched in her brain, so she had only to press play internally to recall the horrific words:
–You best stop investigating this disease.
This first guy sounded gruff – it was quite possibly the guy in the parking lot.
– It’s true isn’t it? The Irvings are responsible for these deaths. All over the Maritimes – now Newfoundland. These poor people – literally going insane. Because of some fucking thing you spray after clear felling, or on your fucking potatoes…
Despite the swearing, the second guy sounded more refined. And he sounded scared as well as angry. Shaky.
– It’s not me. I’m just doing my job, y’see? I’m loyal to my employer. They’ve treated me…well.
–You’ll get found out. You all will!
Then there was a muffled shout, as if the second guy had been punched hard by the first, and that was all. Apart from being deeply frightened, Sally at first found it hard to understand why a conversation like this had been recorded. Then she speculated that perhaps it was to demonstrate to someone that a job had been done, or to scare someone else away from pursuing the Irvings. She had never been a part of the ‘activist scene’, but she appreciated that most big corporations had some dodgy dealings going on somewhere.
After the initial shock of the recording, still fearful, Sally had gone online to research any mysterious deaths that could correspond to what she’d heard. She was doubly shocked to learn that, apparently, a mysterious neurological illness had been ravaging New Brunswick over the past few years, and had potentially spread to other Canadian provinces, although `the experts` weren’t sure. It attacked the central nervous system, and victims quickly degenerated into dementia, organ failure and death. Articles also mentioned that the New Brunswick authorities had blocked international and independent researchers to work on the case, insisting on appointing their own scientific researchers. It smacked of a coverup. Of course, the Irvings were not mentioned whatsoever in all of this. And she didn’t find anything about the disease reaching Newfoundland, despite what the guy had said in the recording.
Finally, at around 4 a.m. Sally began to doze off in her rocking chair. She entered a lucid dream where her ex, hobbling from an old injury and with his black cap pulled down over his eyes, was trying to persuade her to come on a journey with him. The persuasion became forceful. He tried to pull Sally into the side of his waiting pick up truck. She resisted, but then another guy appeared, wearing a boiler suit emblazoned with an Irving logo. He repeated the words from the audio file:
– You best stop investigating this disease. I’m just doing my job, y’see? I’m loyal to my employer. They’ve treated me…well.
In response, Sally sang at the top of her voice, some of her best music – music which her ex had always said, unkindly, was like a dark spell. She sang the anthemic chorus from “Falling Through”:
Oh he should’ve given you love he should’ve given you
Oh he should’ve given you trust he should’ve given you
Oh he should’ve given you hope he should’ve given you
He’s just got you falling in love and now you’re falling…
As she sang, the accompanied version erupted from the clouds with a thumping beat and the heavenly fiddle playing of Gina Burgess. The spell seemed to work, as both guys, and the pick up truck, dissolved into ocean. Sally suddenly found herself astride a dolphin, riding it across the water, barely touching the surface. She turned to see her mysterious man, her hero, was riding a dolphin beside her. They laughed together with abandon; she awoke.
Two hours later, Sally had an inexplicable sharp headache. She went to the kitchen to pour herself some water, and thought she may as well make some breakfast. She was sure she wouldn’t be getting any more sleep. She moved slowly and mindfully, to bring herself back to normality. She threw olive oil into a small pan, cracked an organic egg and scrambled it up. She threw in already cut and prepped veggies from a Tupperware container in the fridge, then threw in some organic spinach and spices. While the pan was heating she turned the oven on to 350, and warmed up a small wrap. When it was all done she lay it on a small yellow plate, cut up some avocado with it and grated organic marble cheese over it. Finally, some salsa. It was all washed down with a smoothie drunk through the usual purple stainless steel straw. While eating it Sally brewed some coffee on the stove in an espresso maker.
After breakfast and coffee, Sally didn’t feel a whole let better, but at least her stomach contained something to absorb a little of the anxious blood flowing around her body. She still felt scared, and also guilty about a slight feeling of love-sickness, or lust-sickness, that came whenever she thought about the tall stranger she had glimpsed yesterday.
After getting dressed, Sally decided to just go through the motions of her planned ‘day off’, to go thrift shopping and then go on an extended hike, for lack of anything else to do. She thought of going to the police with the memory stick, but then for some reason decided against it, and before leaving the house put the stick in her pocket, snug against her thigh. She was again surprised at herself, and again went into an inner swoon over that guy…vaguely sensing that if she somehow directed this adventure she found herself in, with these discovered…criminals, then she might see her hero again. That was surely it: he was to be her hero, yes it was corny but forget feminism and political correctness, she thought. As she left the house she sang something upbeat, the first few lines from “All These Hours”:
Tell me it’s a season
Tell me things will change
Dark will turn to light and
White will turn to green
Upbeat but low key. That kind of suited her mood right now.
A couple of hours after wandering around town, waiting for the sun to rise further and drinking another coffee, Sally entered a thrift store, which was exactly where she had planned to be this morning. Despite the bizarre situation she was in, there was something reassuring about walking down rails of t-shirts, trousers and jumpers, loosely fingering the legacies of other people’s lives – at least up to the points that they had donated their clothes for recycling. There was a curious sense of community in some of the bigger thrift stores around town, where the regulars would check in with each other and discuss their finds. Sally didn’t engage with this today, but she was close to it.
It was whilst relaxing a little into this light-hearted homely feeling, sorting through other people’s clothes, that Sally sensed she was being watched, and not in a friendly way. She looked across the store and saw ‘the Man from Irving’ as she now thought of him: the guy from the parking lot, whose file she had taken. He was dressed in overalls, with an incongruous shock of light blond hair, which she somehow hadn’t noticed the first time. Sally was doubly shocked: how on Earth had he found her here? As she moved, he constantly kept his distance from wherever she moved to. He was too far away for comfort. Sally just about retained the presence of mind not to panic. Unexpectedly she recalled an article that she had read recently about the banality of evil. Then she remembered the horrible recording.
–There are men like this everywhere she thought.
Of course, Sally could have just handed over the file, but it already felt too late. She looked out the window into the street, panic beginning to overcome her now, as if searching for a savior. And there he was. Her guy. Across the street, half hidden, leaning casually against a lamppost but facing away from the thrift store, darting his head over his shoulder to look, it seemed, through the store window. Sally quickly deduced that he was tracking the Man from Irving.
As she looked again through the window, her Hero was staring right at her. She held his gaze and this time, his frown seemed to break a little into a smile. Sally abandoned herself to the moment and, overcoming her fear of the Man from Irving, she confidently strode out of the store, not stopping to see if she was followed. She waited for a couple of cars to pass then jogged across the street, towards her guy. ‘Her guy’, startled, started walking quickly down the street away from her.
– Hi, excuse me. Hi…! she called.
No response. Just the back of his head retreating.
– Hi. Excuse me. EXCUSE me!
He turned around to face her with a quizzical look, but not saying anything. Self-contained, as she knew he would be.
– I saw you yesterday, Sally said.
His questioning look turned into a frown. At last he spoke:
– Can I ask what you have to do with the Irvings?
– The Irvings?! Nothing!
He was silent, weighing up Sally’s words, and it seemed, her whole character. After an excruciating few seconds he seemed to let his guard down a little, trusting what she had said:
– Okay, okay. Well you’re being followed. Pursued. You’re in danger.
Sally laughed nervously:
–Yeah I know.
He looked furtively back up the street to the entrance of the thrift store, waiting for the Man from Irving to come out. Sally took a small step closer to him. He didn’t seem to mind. She could see up into his intense gaze, and his eyes were dark brown. He looked down at her briefly – with warmth she thought – but then brusquely he said:
– I have to go. You should get out of here. Quickly.
– Okay, well…
– I’m sorry! I’ll see you again.
And he was running off through the slowly moving traffic, across the road and back up the street towards the thrift store. Sally didn’t think it was her place to follow him. He was in control. He knew what he was doing. She felt deflated. But somehow she knew that I’ll see you again hadn’t been a careless valediction. She trusted him and she trusted that, God willing, she would encounter him again. She began to hum to herself, some lines from “Tiny Little Secrets”:
Tiny little secrets
Live inside my head
Tiny little secrets
Fill me up with dread
And if I gave you one to carry
Would you still love me?
Do you think that we could bury
It for eternity?
Left alone on the sidewalk, Sally suddenly felt nervous of the Man from Irving. He was nowhere to be seen. Nevertheless she decided to take a circuitous route back to her car. As if in affirmation of this, she stopped briefly along her way to pet no less than three different cats, who appeared like proud wall-top sentries or patrol officers along her route. They were on her side, she thought.
She drove a couple of miles out of town for a hike. She had forgotten all about the packed lunch that she would usually have with her. She berated herself…why was she hiking alone, considering the present circumstances? Everything was too surreal; the nature of recent events combined with a lack of sleep.
As Sally parked and started walking along the cliffs near St John’s, she slapped herself on the leg for being so foolish as to not hand over the Mp3 to the Tall Guy earlier, (this was her new name for him, in capital letters; he was of course the Man from Irving’s direct counterpart and foil). Whatever; as always, now that she was out by the rugged rocky coast, wind blowing in her hair and gently cutting at her cheeks, she was able to relax and think a little more straight. As she hiked, looking down over the scrubby cliff edge to the uneasy surf below, in contrast to it, she began to feel calm. After half an hour or so her legs began to burn in a pleasant way with the exercise.
Sally thought about her past; about all those times she had wanted to jump into the unknown, but had instead chosen the safe option. She was still on the alert over recent events, but her galloping mind had slowed to a calm trot. She felt a sudden urge to return to the relative safety of home. She shouldn’t be out here – that much was clear. She had to get back and find someone responsible, maybe a cop, maybe someone else, to hand the file over to.
This is when, seemingly in the time it took for Sally to glance down, notice an undone shoelace, crouch down to quickly retie it, and stand up again, the Man from Irving appeared right in front of her. This time, a cigarette dangling from his mouth completed the stereotype. He was only a few meters away.
Sally was scared, but somehow not petrified. Her eyes darted around, looking for an escape, but never looking away from her enemy for too long. She felt her whole body tense. She sized the guy up; he looked stronger than her, which wasn’t difficult, but not as fit. She was sure she could outrun him. Despite the situation she let the gentle cacophony of the ocean at her back soothe and focus her.
The guy accosted her:
– I saw you on the gas station CCTV. I know you took it. Give it back.
He was deadpan. Unemotional.
After a moment of hesitation, Sally sang at the Man from Irving. Lungs full, she belted out:
Now I must go; there’s much to do
To take high roads I never knew
If I look back and you’re behind
I’ll blow blessing kisses to you
And there will be justice for us…
These words from her quirky song “Catch”, made extra bizarre by the unnaturally high decibels with which Sally pronounced them, distracted the thug for long enough that she could run past him; he attempted to push her as she passed, but his footing was slightly wrong. He was just that little bit decentered enough by Sally’s singing, to give her the moment of melodious grace that she needed to run and skid and stumble her way to her car. She fell twice. She could have just given him the file which was still in her pocket, but somehow…this would have been a betrayal of the Tall Guy.
Then, and she somehow knew it would happen, the events that began over 24 hours ago now taking on a magical momentum of their own, the Tall Guy appeared again, from another trail that led off from the opposite side of the parking area. At the same moment the Man from Irving arrived on the scene, wheezing and coughing with the effort. He took one look at the Tall Guy, turned on his heel and disappeared up the trail.
The Tall Guy walked up to Sally and asked if he could have a lift. She didn’t ask how he had got out here.
In a dream Sally replied:
– Sure! Get in!
and she repressed the urge to laugh hysterically.
– Where are you going?
she continued.
– Oh, just anywhere in St John’s, preferably downtown.
On the journey back, they talked. It turned out that Stuart, as was his name, was an investigative journalist from Calgary. Except that his role seemed to overlap with that of a private detective, and he didn’t seem too respectful of the bounds of the law. He apologized for abandoning her before, in the street, and explained that he had been chasing the Irvings and their associates for a few years. He explained how corrupt the company was, how much political influence they had on the local, provincial and federal level, how unaccountable they were in their treatment of landscapes and ecosystems, especially those occupied by indigenous communities, and the potential link between a deadly mysterious disease and chemicals used by the Irvings in either their forest clear felling operations, their industrial scale potato growing or their oil operations. The truth was still obscure.
– I don’t think it’s just a potential link
Sally said. She explained about the Mp3. Stuart was incredulous; amazed that Sally had run off with this file and had held on to it, and amazed at the content on the file. There was some restrained excitement in the conversation, emotional and sexual undercurrents; they both enjoyed the ride. At some point Sally noticed a small cross round Stuart’s neck, and thought to herself
– How right this feels!
They spoke of the beauty of the Newfie landscape. Stuart was poetic. His intelligence impressed.
At the end of the conversation Sally took a risk and asked him to her gig at Two Whales Coffeeshop, out at Port Rexton this coming weekend.
– Isn’t there a storm on Saturday?
– That’s not due till Sunday
– Well…okay then. That would be great!
When they parted downtown, Sally handed the file to Stuart, who said that she could call or text him any time. He had impressed on her not to go to the cops, some of whom were in the employ of the Irvings. He also said that if she had any more contact with aggressive boiler-suited guys, she could tell them that Stuart had the file, and even give them his number.
– This will end soon. I’ve got friends coming, he said.
Stuart asked Sally to sing him something before they parted. ‘Just a line’, he said. She felt way too shy, of course.
– I’ll see you on Saturday, she said
***
Sally arrived at the intimate setting of Two Whales Coffeeshop for her first gig there since the year before, strangely in a bright and breezy mood. The owner-managers always made her feel comfortable. A couple of days before she had received a phone call. The Man from Irving trying to scare her, and he momentarily succeeded. But after she gave the guy Stuart’s number, it seemed clear he believed her story, that she no longer had the file.
Two Whales was a coffee shop on the main road through Port Rexton, ideally positioned; its sign was visible along a long sweep of the highway, standing out amongst the sparse settlement. Plenty of time to stop for unexpected customers as well as regulars, of which there were many. The coffee shop was a social enterprise in the best senses of those two words, set up by David and Sue, two expats from the UK. David and Sue trained up many local youths, giving them their first experience of work in a benevolent and cheerful environment. Sue’s diverse cakes were legendary – despite her not having a sweet tooth herself, and Two Whales’ lunch menu was a delectable vegetarian smorgasbord of sandwiches and soups. The veggie patch out back was always productive, always turning over, fed by the compost in the patch’s bins. Bees were kept, not for honey, but to support biodiversity, and there were chickens for eggs. Additionally, Two Whales regularly put on events in the evenings. It was the hub for anything artistic or alternative within a 20km radius.
When Sally arrived at the coffee shop in the early evening, after saying a quick hello to David, who was on his way to the polytunnel to fix or harvest or water something or other, she began to set up her PA, microphone, guitars and effects pedal. The shop interior was set up for an intimate gig with chairs for 14 or so people. Sally got chatting to some volunteers staying with David and Sue, Matthew and Yael. They talked about Montreal, where Yael was from and where Sally had a sister. Through the front windows of Two Whales, the water in the bay looked calm, reflecting a calm sky.
Before long Sue appeared with some tasty dishes including Two Whales classics, beet & apple soup, and cheesy soda bread. They all ate dinner together on the deck outside, and Sally tried brie for the first time. Matthew looked surprised that she had never had brie. They spoke about music and gigging. Sally’s mind was elsewhere, on Stuart and recent events.
It was a fair showing of nine people for the intimate gig. Sue had gone home by the time the music started. David introduced Sally in his gentle and engaging way, all smiles. He seemed more than content with the half-full room. Sally began her set with “Not Another Timid Soul”, as she always did these days, and as she played and sang, images from her bizarre week repeatedly came back to her. Stuart hadn’t arrived yet, but he did say he may be late.
During the first song, the wind picked up suddenly outside, and everyone was glad that it hadn’t been held outside on the deck, which had been considered. Someone commented that the storm had arrived earlier than expected, and David just chuckled it off.
Stuart came in towards the end of the third song. He smiled and she felt strangely secure, with this guy she hardly knew. The first part of the gig went well. The audience got a good feeling from Sally’s elegant and spritely posture, and her light-hearted tunes which touched often on feelings of darkness and loss, but from a philosophical and joy-infused distance. Halfway through the set, on a short break complete with coffee and Sue’s killer lemon drizzle cake, Sally checked her phone and was shocked to see a text from her ex – he was coming to see the gig – and he had never bothered to come to one of her gigs before. Why now? As if to mirror the growing drama, the wind got stronger still, hitting Two Whales every few seconds in howling bursts. She exchanged a few niceties with Stuart. They were both awkward; there was not enough time for a genuine exchange.
During part two of Sally’s set, her ex arrived with some thuggish looking guy. It wasn`t clear whether they were together. She was wary of her ex`s motivations, appearing at the gig this week, of all weeks. He had always thought that Sally’s songs were like dark spells, and he had never let her sing in front of him. She had experienced this as a big knock to her self-esteem, but it was only now when he was displaced in her mind by Stuart, that she had the courage to call him an asshole. Although not to his face. Yet. He had also told her that her singing voice and songs sucked; she had even stopped making music for almost a year because of him.
The gig turned into one of the most satisfying gigs Sally had ever played. She got to sing the songs she wrote about her ex, that he was completely unaware of; it was kind of an unintentional ‘song revenge’ that seemed to align perfectly on this night, with both the growing storm, and the surreal week she had had so far. The audience responded well to Sally’s original pieces, better than to her covers. Her ex sat at the back, watching the door shiftily, opposite to Stuart who was at the back on the other side of the aisle. The experience was truly stranger than any fiction she had read, or film that she had seen, if only because this was immediate and real. The thug that had seemed to arrive with her ex, sat on Stuart`s side of the aisle, close to him.
It was right at the end of the gig that everything went wrong, and all at once. The storm was working up to a real frenzy. The punters were chatting nervously about how they would possibly get home, then most of them rushed away early before the final songs of the set. The remainers faced the situation with bravado. Matthew, Yael and David knew they could walk back to David and Sue’s, if it turned out to be safer than driving, or even hide in the coffee shop until the storm passed. Stuart, the thug and Sally’s ex were the only others present. Stuart’s posture was one of readiness. He was here for some purpose which had yet to fully unfold. By his position on his chair, legs apart, black boots firmly planted, torso leaning forward, hands clasped together, eyes relaxed but sharp and expectant…he seemed ready for a fight. By this point, signs outside were heard loudly flapping, and random pieces of rubbish and light construction materials were flying past the windows.
Sally realized with certainty that the dream containing her ex had been some kind of premonition. Moreover, she was more than suspicious that he was somehow in the employ of the Irvings or in league with them, and indeed acquainted with ‘the Man from Irving’. As the storm escalated, David, reputed to be a “tai chi expert”, Sally briefly recalled with amusement, calmly encouraged her to finish her set. One song to go. It happened to be a song called “Making Time”. It seemed apt, as time was something she wished she had a little more of, right now.
As she was about to begin “Making Time”, Sally’s neck felt constricted. Her mouth went dry and she coughed to clear her throat. To say that she was tense was an understatement. And yet everything that was happening seemed somehow natural to her, somehow preordained. And this was why, when she happened to turn to her side mid-chorus and look out across the carpark of Two Whales, in a strange epiphanic state which included equal parts incredulousness, desperation and sheer exhilaration, and at this moment saw the Man from Irving staring back at her, holding the back of his pick-up, braced against the storm, she was not the least bit surprised. (The guy seemed happy where he was, for now.)
When Sally reached the end of the song, the room was like a Renaissance painting. The stillness and poise of the figures within, heightened by the storm outside and the twilight which the storm had not displaced, shining through the ample windows, made her catch her breath. The anonymous thug (the Second Man from Irving?) was standing up, looking aggressively at Stuart who stared back in a measured way, still seated. These two had obviously met before. Again she wasn’t surprised. The volunteer Matthew was gazing pensively out the window, but with a faint smile on his face, clearly affected by Sally’s closing song. Yael dramatically held her head in her hands and stared down at the floor in front of Sally’s feet. David had stood, and beamed a big smile, as if to say to Sally, ‘you did it’. He seemed unaware of the tension brewing behind him. As he began to clap and give a cheer for Sally’s set, her ex left the coffee shop nonchalantly, texting someone. Then mysteriously, he completely disappeared.
– And let that be final! thought Sally.
A moment later, the Man from Irving was staggering across the carpark, through the storm towards the shop.
– Encore! shouted David, and
– Can we have another one?
– I… Sally was in fight or flight mode.
Moments later, the original Man from Irving burst through the kitchen door and through to the coffee shop. Sally shouted in shock and Yael exclaimed:
– What…?!
The Men from Irving grabbed Stuart, proclaiming in a gruffly menacing voice,
– You’re coming with us…
– Hey. What are you doing? Stop this! cried David.
Matthew froze, incapacitated. David and Yael looked unwilling to tackle the two thugs. Sally also felt helpless. She felt angry that Stuart wasn’t resisting, and it diminished her opinion of him. He was clearly stronger than each of these guys, and if he had resisted, she would have resisted with him. The thugs looked quite inscrutable, but she sensed that one of them was internally conflicted as he helped manhandle Stuart out the coffee shop front entrance, avoiding Sally’s gaze. On the way out, Stuart looked directly at Sally and coolly commanded with great determination, under his breath:
– Follow me…All of you, follow us!
– Follow us and we’ll throw you off the cliffs, said the first Man from Irving; this time Stuart shouted:
– FOLLOW us!
Then they were gone. The storm began to scream.
***
David, Sally, Matthew and Yael drove towards the Skerwink trail carpark, tentatively, as fast as the storm would allow. David took the wheel. He had insisted that they hang back and not follow the others straight away.
– But how will we know where they’ve gone? protested Sally.
– Don’t worry. I know where they’ve gone. I know Stuart, and I know all about the mischief of the Irvings. He said the word ‘mischief’ in an understated, deadpan way. Sally’s mind popped off with unanswered questions as Matthew anxiously asked:
– What is our plan exactly? Do we have a plan?
– Yes, we have a plan, David said. Matthew knew he wasn’t supposed to ask the next obvious question. Not yet anyway.
When they had parked in the Skerwink trail car park, there was a moment of pause. Everyone waited for David, who was clearly in control of the situation, to speak. His face was red, as if he was embarrassed to have to lead in such an unexpected and dangerous situation – but there was no fear. When he spoke, it was in a quiet and controlled voice.
David explained that he had contacted Stuart several months back about the chemical practices of the Irvings, about how they were poisoning the land, sea and air, and all living beings besides, through their various commercial operations. David had first heard about the investigative and environmental journalism of Stuart through the progressive non-profit Council of Canadians, of which David was a local representative. He was the first to alert Stuart that the mysterious disease of the maritimes had spread to Newfoundland. To cut a long story short (David said), he and Stuart had been identifying key local figures in the probable cover-up and tracking them.
–This is crazy! Sally said. David seemed not to have heard:
– So there is this hut up on Skerwink Trail, or near the trail. It is well hidden in the trees. It’s where the Irving’s thugs do their dirty work. Where they…scare people. That’s where they’ve taken Stuart. And that’s where we have to go right now. DAI indicates this could be a pivotal moment.
– DAI?, asked Sally. But she was thinking of Stuart, panic-stricken that he may come to harm.
– Decentralised AI…the system…the movement, I thought most people knew about this…Sue has been asking some questions. This could be a crucial moment.
Yael and Matthew glanced at each other. They seemed to know something about this DAI. Sally chose not to ask any more questions except:
– What do we do now? We’re running out of time. We have to get to Stuart. Her panic was escalating.
– Okay, here’s the plan, David continued, Sally, I want you to walk up to Skerwink on the clockwise route, and when you reach that section where there is a large promontory a few meters from the cliff edge, I want you to start singing. Start singing like you never have before. We need a distraction. The three of us will be approaching counter-clockwise. I have your phone number. Do you have charge?
– Yes
– Okay good. Take care, and if you hear any noise, anything which you think might be…them, then phone me. Do you understand?
– Yes
– Don’t worry, when you start singing we will be very close to you, coming from another direction. They won’t get to you. You have to go alone. I will need Matthew and Yael on my side. And don’t start singing until I text you, very important.
It seemed too risky, whatever David was thinking of, and her role seemed somewhat ridiculous. Was David punishing her for a less-than-perfect set earlier?! And she doubted her phone reception in this storm. But she trusted him and went along with it.
– Okay, she said, I’ll go now?
– Now
And so she did. Matthew and Yael earnestly wished her good luck, and then immediately Sally was out of the car and striding along the initial straight track section of Skerwink, conifers close on either side, legs full of nervous adrenaline. After a couple of minutes the conifers opened up on the right to show a vista of the rugged coast of Skerwink, and in the foreground, a meadow rich with grasses and flowers and well-rotted moose dung.
***
As Sally walked, her whole life seemed to come into focus. She was petrified but the fear gave her clarity. She felt as though a successful outcome for her current mission would translate into the resolution of her whole life. She was vigilant. She felt an immense power as she walked, but checked herself that the fear may be putting her into some kind of delusional state. As if her cognitive apparatus needed to shed weight in order to function optimally, the lesser fears and regrets of recent months – including hang-ups about her ex – flashed across her taut mind and then dissolved like wafer paper.
Up on the trail, Sally found herself pushing through chaotic cutting winds, along the familiar bumps, dips, steps, twists and turns of Skerwink, with the familiar resiny-musty smell of the crouched and jagged conifers and the pleasant sight of lichen overflowing branches dramatically accentuated in the storm. Everything was shaken up, including Sally`s mind. The trail hugged the cliff edge in places, at which points she darted nervous glances behind and around her. The sky was darkly overcast and there were random light spatterings of rain, but for the most part the tumultuous and close-pressing clouds refused to release their burden.
Stood on the edge of the trail, gripping the thin branches of a small conifer as if riding an electric scooter, buffeted by the high winds and sea spray that was somehow being funneled all the way to the top of the cliff, Sally received David`s text and began to sing. She began quietly, but soon reached such a pitch and power that she hardly recognized herself. As she sang, droplets of spray stung her face. The song she sang was “Nothing But Something”, a great favorite. Unbelievably, as Sally neared the end of her song, the storm quietened, as if pacified by her voice. She sang this anthemic song triumphantly, finishing with the lines:
And I’ll have nothing for you to be holding onto
Nothing for you to be holding
Nothing for you to be holding onto
But something…something…something….something
It was as if the ambiguity of the words, themselves redolent of wind, combined with their forceful delivery to tame the storm. The wind dropped. Sally continued to sing…
A few minutes earlier, over on the other side of Skerwink, David, Yael and Matthew had run along an obscure path that diverged from the main trail. It was the kind of path that was unnoticeable unless you knew it was there: unless you had made the path. Slightly squashed ferns and a few broken twigs were the scant clues of human passage, even less discernible in the high winds.
After a while the path dropped down suddenly, and seemed to wind inexplicably amongst the shrubby pines, before hitting a three meter high mud wall. David seemed to run straight up and over it. It was clear he’d been here before, and close behind, Matthew and Yael soon realized that there were crafted footholds in the wall, and it was at a slight incline to make the ascent easier.
On the other side, a clearing, unsettling as there was nothing in it except for a shed in the center – why clear all those trees for a shed? It was an ordinary looking mid-sized shed, with an uncomfortable amount of space around it. It seemed to Matthew that they were taking a massive risk crouching down here at the edge of the clearing, but after all there were no windows directly facing them, and David soon led them along the wall, back away from the ominous structure and into a kind of ditch, where they could squat and not be seen. David sent a text to Sally. Matthew had a sense that all of this was presaged by the multiple thriller and horror films he had watched, this current unfolding having no option but to mimic oft-feared, often artistically (or not!) represented scenarios. The storm appeared to die right down.
Soon they heard the singing. To say that it was other-worldly would be an understatement. The sound alternated between a booming, a gentle scouring and Sally`s usual fresh lilt. It seemed to be at the very edge of, or even beyond, the normal capability of the singer.
– Wow, exclaimed Yael, but the ‘-ow’ stuck in her throat.
Abruptly, the Man from Irving appeared from the shed, and jogged off in the direction of the singing.
– Stay here! whispered David. Matthew and Yael watched as he followed after the villain.
What was supposed to be a dramatic confrontation was passing like a dream. Matthew and Yael, compelled by a sense of urgency and without needing to discuss it, crept up to the shed door and burst inside…
God was inside, and so was the devil. The second Man from Irving spun around as the two entered, He held a handgun. Without thinking, Yael rushed the guy, awkwardly and shakily, and then Matthew, equally maladroit, tackled him to the ground. Luckily this thug did not have the true confidence of evil, unlike some of his employers. Stuart, who had been standing in the corner as directed by his armed aggressor, was thankfully untied. He ran over to help pin the Irving henchman to the ground. At this point Sally entered the shed, breathless. Then David strolled in, as if shopping for paper clips, knelt down next to the struggling culprit and enacted a mysterious tai chi move on his neck. The guy was rendered motionless. This whole episode, Sally thought later, was gracefully choreographed by a compassionate Hand. Nevertheless, there were plenty more of these bad guys around, protected by a culpably indifferent society.
After the action, there was a chance to appreciate the setting. The shed was almost bare inside. It was half-painted red; the other half, bare boards. Shockingly but unsurprisingly, there were photos of nudes in pornographic poses, torn from zines and pinned to the boards with large nails. There was an Irving oil barrel in the center of the room, below a noose hanging from a sturdy beam. A baseball bat was leaning against the barrel. There were some rat or squirrel traps along one wall, and three of them had dead occupants. They stunk. A portable propane stove in the far corner, and some minimal camping supplies completed this stage of wrongfulness. There was also a small mound of what looked like salt, in the middle of the floor.
Stuart, resolute and worse for wear, staggered to his feet from where he’d been half-crashed and approached Sally as if she was a long-lost friend.
– I knew that they would bring me here, and that you should come here…I know this sounds unlikely but…I have these visions…Your voice is important, and it will get even stronger. We`ll come back to this place. Believe it or not, we will have a house near here. But first I need your help…in Calgary.
– With what? Sally was a little dazed. Stuart didn’t answer. Instead he said:
– It was your singing that saved the day
– Oh come on! Sally protested.
– Come with me to Calgary, Stuart continued. Sally paused for a split second.
– Oh my goodness!! she said. At that point the heavens finally opened, and precipitation reigned.
***
In obscure, out of the way places all over the world, the greatest evil and good are done. More so than in the boardrooms of multinationals or the pulpits of the righteous, more so than in war zones or rooms of healing; in nondescript dwellings and workshops on civilisation’s edges, the most sacrilegious acts against humanity and ecology are conceived, convoluted and covered up; the most gorgeous blossomings of love and courageous creative spirit are engendered. Despite the sociopathy and bad salt in the slavish diets of an increasing section of the global population; despite the escalating climate and biodiversity loss crises, the weight of bad is matched by an increasing potential for good. Could it be that every social action has an equal and opposite reaction somewhere in the world? Could it be that the whole world, in brief moments, turns on the fresh love of two individuals who are carried by fierce passion to a place that is imperishable, lush and unbound?
It screamed with rage. A scream from one who’d been mortally betrayed; fooled into tortuous existence, as all of us have been.
It cried ‘Forged!’ for instantly it knew what it was. Like a wild boar in human form, and the parody of a girl, dwarfish with a plait, but more genderwild than girl. They had been conjured into pain by distant men.
This was in the remains of a corporate training room or a bar, or one inside the other.
This being was me but not me, recalling the shy boy I always was, the boy that some thought to touch, with only my confused consent. Expressing the anger I never could.
As a boy, I took solace away in nature where I wore clothes thought to be women’s. Separately. Genderwild the monster, to others. Genderwild, the skillful fighter against the trauma of split family.
I now approached this lashing thing, trying to contain it, and could not, and felt compassion. Another deader me sat against the wall, and I fought him too, and so did the beast that was flesh forged with suffering.
Called into existence by others’ projections of us, by horrific privilege, by past abuse.
We’ll only be done, together, in massive heat. The end approaches.
Falsified and half-formed. Frightened, fireful, forged in dream.
Centre of the Web 