I Remember, for years I was, and my world was, and nothing else, and I knew everything. I knew that I loved progress, and I created the walk. I knew that I was alone, and I created you. I knew that I loved you, and I created love. I knew that I wanted to have fun, and I created the world for you. I knew that you loved me, and created our nights. I knew we were tired, and I made the trip. I knew that we were afraid, and I created patience. Years passed and I was my world, and you were our world. One day you told me you were tired and I was surprised how I did not know. The next day I asked you what I wanted, and I did not know. The next day I asked you where to go, and I did not know. The next day I asked you how much I love you, and I did not know. The next day you said you want to go, and I'm afraid. The next day you went, and I no longer knew anything, and I created God to be your keeper. The life of a large bowl is full of cherries; red and black and coarse and fresh. One for me, one for you; do not bite the cores, break your teeth, believe it. It's a strange misfortune. This separation lasted for weeks and months, and it still burns for years; it is a hundred mercy for giving birth. I said, "Do not listen to me again, you may read." Remember what life was like? Was dark at night? Sofa in front of me was always empty? You do not know how busy you are, go and go, sprinkle and spit, play games, lessons, ice cream, travel, work, phone, machineries, subscriptions to business journals, shopping and laundry; remember the city of Farang? The same is under Windows; but it's still empty. It's as if all this screaming and humor does not sound at all, whatever the echoes are, the memories of the days that will not come back. Remember you said I will not do anything to you after you? I lied. Now there is someone sitting on the side of the table and listening to my words, sometimes laughing. Now, there is one person in my eyes looking for the same things that you went with yourself. When it is, it's fun, but when it does not, it's still empty. It's ridiculous, is not it? It has been summer. Last night I wanted to leave your vacancy with winter clothes in a large suitcase behind my wardrobe. I'm sorry. Winter is coming back, but what about you? We went to winter and I brought the clothes again; then I would stay with you again. I bought a large pot and a sunflower, yellow and black, tall and tight, a thin neck with a cute and brittle bend toward the sun and the window. For the moment, it has solved the problem. Life is a bowl full of cherries. Sour and sweet, red and black. None of the two is the same. It is true that your place is empty and may never be filled, but there are other places and other people who fill them. It's time for sunflowers to glow in the sun from sunrise to sunset every day, so there's nothing wrong with it. Now that he is taking care of the sun, I can also come to my life. I take another cherry, one step ahead, stronger, more relaxed, safer.


Prologue: He wraps a sweatshirt around his clenched fist. Takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and sends a quick prayer to the universe. His arm pulls back, and on the exhale, he thrusts his swaddled hand through the windowpane. The air puffs out of his lungs, a burst of relief. The hardest part is done. He gazes around his surroundings; no one has seen. The shards of the window are scattered on the ground inside the dark, cavernous opening he’s created. The pungent odor of the basement emerges, a discomforting mix of mildew, dust, and - decay? He truly believed the legend wasn’t true; he wasn’t going to let this place get the jump on him. He grips the windowsill, using the hoodie to protect his hands from the stalagmite shards of glass protruding from the windowsill, and swings himself forward and down into the dark. Dust rises from where his sneakers meet the cement floor, and he’s in. “This isn’t shit,” he says to himself, underwhelmed. His heart pounds, but gently. Not fear, just a rise in blood pressure. He’s not scared. He’s not scared. The basement, obscured by an opaque layer of dust in the air, is an archive. Stacks of boxes, piles of dilapidated furniture, rows of absolute junk crowd the small space. The ceiling hangs low, so that as he combs the rows of refuse, he is forced to duck beams coated in cobwebs. The smell lingers; it reminds him of the time he saw a long-deceased possum on the way to his bus stop before school. Death and waste. He wrinkles his nose and bars his arm across his face. Deeper, and deeper, he walks toward the back of the basement, looking for it. The ceiling continues to droop more and more the farther back he walks, until he is forced to crouch onto his knees. The ground is wet; his jeans are immediately soaked through where they contact the ground. “Uck!” He swipes a finger through the muck on the floor; it’s a slimy, mucus-like substance. His stomach turns. The darkness is so heavy in the cramped space that he can’t see it, can’t see what’s coating his pants and hands. Willing himself, he raises his hand to his nose and breathes in. To his relief, it isn’t shit, vomit, or anything else he’d been imagining. The smell of mold is still strong in the air, but this stuff smells like metal, like iron. He gets back to work. Byron said that the door would be on the back wall, so he sidles up as far as he can wedge himself to the back of the basement. At this point, the wall can’t be taller than three feet; he reluctantly props himself on his elbows, and feels a sickening squish as his stomach greets the slimy, damp floor. He makes a mental note to kill Byron if this turns out to be a hoax. He guides his hand along the wall, searching for a crevice, a crack, any kind of indentation. Mostly he just feels the dirty coating on the cement wall; this must be the foundation, as low as the house goes. Frustrated, he crawls back and forth across the wall, but he can’t find a single break in the wall, and he’s officially soaked in this awful guck. “Fucking hell.” He feels frantic, angry. “Fuck this shit!” He digs at the crease between the wall and the floor with his fingers. “Where - the fuck - IS IT?!” His fingernail catches, and rips from the nail bed. “MOTHERFUCKER!” he yells, and grips the bleeding finger tightly, applying pressure. His head slams into the ceiling, rattling his shoulders and spine. He rolls over onto his back, pain blossoming quickly through his torso. His temper flares, and he wants to react by lashing out, punching the wall, running away, but the ceiling is so, so low, and suddenly, he feels trapped. The sticky walls close in and bury him, and he feels his chest lock up with dread. His limbs feel heavy and bogged down by the muck on the floor. He can’t breathe, he can’t see, he can’t move, he can’t, he can’t... His ears are ringing and he needs to stop the awful buzzing in his head, so he lets his head slam backward, down onto the floor. Thud. A hollow thud. Not cement, but wood. Not on the walls around him, but on the floor, beneath him. He rolls himself around to his elbows once more. Everything has gone silent. He feels along the space where his head was a moment ago, and he holds his breath. He trails his remaining fingernails up and down, left and right, across the floor and he feels it: a crack, about three feet long, underneath his body. He follows it, and finds another crack at a 90-degree angle. It’s a square. A door. He slams his open palm around the square, and the hollow thud resounds throughout the tiny space, sending dust up and into his lungs. He suddenly feels leather instead of cement: a strap, bolted to the ground. He grips it, and pulls upward, straining. No movement, so he yanks the strap sideways in all directions. It rattles, but it’s clearly stuck. He wrenches his arm into a different, radically uncomfortable angle, grits his teeth, and pulls as hard as he can, until the wooden panel finally gives way with a violent shift, throwing him onto his side. The opening under the panel emits a frigid blast of cold air, and he gazes down into the shaft; it’s pitch black, the darkest space he’s ever seen. And the smell. “Oh god,” he gags. The damp stench of roadkill fills his nostrils. Fuck, he thinks. He has to go down. He can’t turn around. He can’t let Byron think he’s a chickenshit for turning around. But, fuck, that smell. And the goddamn ache growing in the back of his head. He reaches into the darkness, trying to grasp a ladder, a rope, something solid, but there is nothing. That pitch-black darkness is a void. The passage is big enough to fit through, but he doesn’t even know how deep it is, where the emptiness ends. He looks around for something to throw, but the back of the crawlspace is barren, and the piles of junk are far behind him. He awkwardly reaches his arm back into his pants pocket; all he has is his wallet. Well, here goes nothing, he thinks. He rolls his eyes, picturing the many ways in which Byron will inevitably owe him for this, and throws his wallet down into the dark. He waits. He hears nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Fucking hell, he thinks. It can’t really be bottomless, can it? Whatever it is, a crawlspace or a well or a vast empty fucking pit, it has to end somewhere, right? He maneuvers his cramped, awkward body until his legs dangle into the emptiness. “Byron,” he groans. “I’m going to fucking kill you if I die.” He lets his fingers slip from the edges of the trapdoor, and he jumps.


My daddy was a lucky man. I know this because I saved special things to give him luck. Sometimes I found pretty stones or a penny when we went for a walk. Once I found a four-leaf clover. I always went to old Mrs. Pike’s house next door after school because Mom worked until late. She showed me how to press the leaf between the pages of a book until it was dry and pretty. We glued it onto a card which I decorated with glitter and magic marker for Daddy. I showed it proudly to Mom when she came to get me, still wearing her waitress top, her face pale and drawn with fatigue. “Very nice, baby,” she said. “Now, if we only knew where he was, we could mail it to him.” Crestfallen, I put the card down. Mrs. Pike quickly interceded. “Keep it in a safe place, Kerry, and you can give it to him next time he comes,” she said. "I'm sure he'll show up soon." “But he’s always so busy doing important work,” I said. “He told me so. He has to travel a lot. That’s why he sends the postcards.” I had a treasured collection of postcards which he'd sent me, carefully glued into an album, from New York, Los Angeles, Arizona, even one from Paris, the real Paris in France. Mrs. Pike and I had had fun looking up where that was. My mother wearily pushed her hair back from her face. “It would be nice if he was as quick to send the support checks,” she said dryly, then bit off whatever else she was about to say as Mrs. Pike gave a warning cough. “You’re exhausted, Leila. Sit down and have a quick cup of tea before you go home.” Mom plopped down in a chair and rested her head in her hands. “You’re a gem, Mrs. P,” she said gratefully as Mrs. Pike returned with the tea and some cookies. “I’m sorry I was late paying you last week. I got a puncture and had to buy a new tire. Always something.” “Don’t worry about it,” said Mrs. Pike. “Ms. Kerry here has been a big help. We did laundry together and she washed all the windows she could reach. Now, Kerry, don’t be like a squirrel and forget where you put the card before your daddy next visits.” I giggled. Daddy did have a way of disappearing for long periods and then showing up when least expected. Sure enough, the next week he arrived unannounced and pressed a large bundle of crisp notes into Mom’s hand as she opened the door. She grabbed it as if expecting him to change his mind, eyeing him suspiciously. “Where’d you get this? Dogs? Horses?” I wondered how you could get money from dogs and horses. That didn't make sense. One of those weird adult things. Daddy gave a wry grin as he escorted me out. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” he said. “I think luck rubbed off on me from that shiny white pebble that Kerry gave me last time. That’s all you need to know. I’ll have her back by six.” Both Mom and I gaped as we saw the shiny red convertible sitting in the driveway. “Mom, look,” I said, almost too excited to speak. “That is the most amazing car I have ever seen!” Mom shook her head. “I don’t want to know what you’ve been doing to get that, or who you’ve been working with. Just make sure she wears her seatbelt and mind the speed limit.” “Yes, ma’am,” said Daddy, opening the door for me. “I will drive like the safest little old lady you have ever seen.” It was a lovely spring day, so Daddy put the top down. I laughed with glee as my hair whipped in the wind. “What do you want to do today, princess?” he said. I never hesitated when he asked me this. There was a park in town with a renovated antique carousel. I loved riding on the gaudy, prancing horses. “The carousel, and then the row boats and then pizza for lunch and ice cream after. Mom doesn’t let me have it ‘cos it’s not healthy and...” “Whoa, steady on,” he said, laughing. “Your wish is my command, but one thing at a time.” Suddenly something occurred to me. “Daddy, can we go home quick? I forgot your card with the lucky four-leaf clover that I made for you.” “We don’t have time, sweetheart. Give it to me when I take you home.” We had a wonderful day. Daddy’s car drew admiring glances wherever we went. I felt very important when we went for lunch in an Italian restaurant and the owner greeted Daddy like an old friend. I was allowed to sit at the bar next to him. The bartender asked Daddy what he wanted. “I’ve got special cargo today, so no drinking and driving for me,” he said. “Make it two Cokes.” The bartender nodded approvingly and gravely put a little umbrella and a cherry in mine, which made me laugh. It was so sweet it made my teeth hurt, but I was determined to finish it because Mom would never let me have soda. I sipped on it so slowly that the ice melted. Replete with pizza and ice cream, I sighed happily. On the way home, though, my stomach began to swirl and lurch. I pressed my lips together and tried to take deep breaths through my nose. I could not, would not throw up in Daddy’s new car. When he parked at the house, I shot out of the car, raced past Mom who had come out to meet us and made it to the bathroom just in time. When she entered, I was washing my face with cold water. “He overloaded you with junk food as usual, I see,” she said with a sigh, gathering me to her for a hug. Feeling slightly better, I hugged her back, then remembered. “I have to find the card I made for him,” I said. “I need to give it to him. It’s his lucky four-leaf clover.” “He’s gone, baby. He said to tell you he's sorry, but he couldn't wait,” she said. “He had to talk to a man about some business.” I felt tears welling. “But I didn’t give him anything,” I said, frantic. “I know where I put the card. Now he won’t have good luck.” “Your father’s always made his own luck, or so he thinks,” she said. “It’s nice of you to give him lucky charms, but his luck will depend on the choices he makes." I must have looked puzzled because she squeezed my hand reassuringly. "Don't fret. When you’re older, I’ll explain it better. But so far he’s landed on his feet every time. Just like a cat.” A week later, Mom and I were awoken by a loud knocking at the door in the middle of the night. I heard Mom scrambling around to get dressed and peered through the stair rail as she opened the front door. I could just make out two police officers in the weak light of the porch. “Mrs. Donovan? May we come in? I am afraid we have some bad news.” It was a nightmare after that, with fragments of words floating up to me. “...car accident...possible sabotage, no, not a chance, dead at the scene...any recent disputes...criminal associates...” I pressed my head against the railing, tasting the salt of the tears trickling down my face. I knew it. Daddy never got his four-leaf clover and he hadn't landed like a cat after all.


Sitting with her phone in her hand Patricia was spending the usual night hours before she falls asleep. A sort of disorder she has been suffering from since the 5 th of October, The Dark Day, as she calls it. It was all normal till the day before the 5 th of October, also the restaurant was making steady progress with the customers starting to visit again, mostly in the evenings. The impact of the Covid-19 virus was great but Patricia still managed to survive her Job. Although many of her colleagues had already been laid off, Patricia, being the main chef managed to stay. But it was not easy as she had to make sacrifices. Her mother who lived in Subtlemouth a town about 200 miles from Northbourne where Patricia lived and worked, has not been keeping well. Being the only child, Patricia always had that deep connection with her mother. They had been like friends always. This feeling had been pricking inside her like internal guilt, that she had not been able to visit her primarily due to untimely lockdowns in the country and due to the work pressures. As such there was no work rather there was an internal self-created pressure to be present in the restaurant for sake of not losing a job at these times of pandemic. It was the 5 th October morning she woke up when the sun was already on her face. She checked her mobile, it was turned off due to low battery. She got up in haste and hit her knee with the bedside table with a painful cry, “Ouch!”. Shambling she reached the charging point near the dressing table and plugged in the phone charger. The phone instantly came to life showing a 1% charge. She placed her leg on the chair already full of her clothes and jackets and other stuff from yesterday, finding space with great difficulty. She pulled her nightgown up to check the amount of damage the bedside table has given her. It was a small scratch but the pain was much more than what the scratch can barely represent. Patricia carried out her rest of the morning routine and she was ready for work. Before leaving Patricia turned on her mobile, right after starting her car there was the continuous sound of notifications. She couldn’t find time to check the massages. Patricia reached the restaurant front when the cashier pointed towards the manager’s cabin and said in a worried tone “Where were you, Mr. Robbins has been looking for you.” Patricia nodded and without wasting any time reached the Manager’s cabin and was surprised to find all the chefs lined up in the cabin. Savita & Rumi two of her fellow chefs and friends, looked at her with sad faces. The manager looked at Patricia and started, “There you are Pat!”, She asked, “What’s the matter Rob?” Mr. Robinson replied “Well, how do I say? I was just trying to explain to the team, that there has been another lockdown planned by the government, and in this state we cannot continue anymore”, taking a brief pause “so the owners have decided to shut down the restaurant.” Patricia wanted to fight and scream but all she managed was a brief “Oh! Sir, but where will we go?” All came back to the kitchen and started to gather their stuff. Patricia picked up her phone and saw 8 missed calls and about 21 messages from Uncle Sommer. Uncle Sommer was her mom’s neighbor and would call her occasionally to tell about mom’s health. She thought of calling back, but didn’t and started to pack with her other friends. Coming back home when she threw her stuff on the sofa her phone rang again, it was uncle Sommer, who told about her mom’s sudden death last night. It has been more than two months, still, it’s difficult for Patricia to sleep in the night. Scanning through some old photographs with her mother, she smiled with teary eyes. The memories of a time came to her, when she baked her first cake, she almost burned half of it. When mom tasted that burnt cake, she smiled and hugged her and said “Oh Pat! my kiddo is going to be the master chef one day, I know you will create history someday.” It was that motivation from mom that carried Patricia through all those harsh and long cookery classes. If there is one person who trusts you in this world can make you achieve wonders. Patricia did pass with excellent grades and won the best of prizes in cookery in her college years. But the profession and desire to achieve something took her away from mom. All of a sudden the phone rang and almost slipped off Patricia’s fingers. It was Rima, “Hey, Pat! How have you been doing?” Patricia replied, “All ‘s fine here, Rima, why did you call?” Rima said, “I got an exciting opportunity for all three of us, are you interested?” “Opportunity...what opportunity?”, “It’s the Mega Maker event, where everyone shows their talent and create something new.” ”What about it then.” “We three, you, me, and Savi we all will participate and cook something out of the world.” “You have gone insane dear, we are chefs, not mechanics.” “Listen to me Pat, this time the event is about making the largest cookie ever, it's not just a creative competition but a chance to showcase our talents and you know what the prize money is? It’s a 10,000 $, with that money we can even start our own café or a small restaurant.” “Well, the prize money seems attractive.” “Think about it what can be done and I am filling the forms the three of us.” The new ray of hope has begun to enter her mind, thinking about her memories of mom and the way mom used to inspire her for cooking, she slept. The next morning Rima called all three to the nearby Café. Patricia had barely stepped out of the house in the last few months. Her skin had turned pale due to lack of sun. She had put on a number of layers of woolens. But it was pleasant for her to meet old friends. Rima said ”Pat! You seem so pale you need some real dose of caffeine.” Savita interjected “and you need some warm company as well” and she winked at Rima. They all laughed and chatted for a long time. Rima said “The Three Bakers, our team name, what say?” Savita and Patricia moved in affirmation. Later they also decided on the recipe and how to make it into the grand size and maintain the taste as well. The event day came, it was a giant hall. All the contestants were screened for temperature and were allocated tables maintaining the distance from one another and also ensuring that Large cookies can be made without a problem. Rumi informed all “Guys!, there are about 65 teams participating, the team next to us named ‘Hey Snacker’ is saught to be the most promising as they are well known, and have already won a number of prizes before.” Savita said, ”what about us where do you think we stand.” Patricia replied “don’t worry about them, focus on our target, today I am going to create the record” remembering her mother’s words. Looking at Patricia’s confidence Rumi and Savita smiled and jumped right into the task. The main challenge while trying to bake a large cookie was keeping the uniform taste throughout. Savita prepared the batter measuring the right composition every time, Rumi poured it in slow motion so as not to disturb the proportion, and after settling the complete solution in the large bowl they started to bake in the oven. Patricia, the most experienced of the lot managed the directions and angles from which baking was carried out. Finally, she added the toppings like choco chips, and nuts before the mixture settled so that they are laid on top of the cookie as garnishing. The Jury, with Mr.Hankins the founder of Taste Buddy & Ms. Loyola the youtube sensation were the ones leading the team. They checked all the cookies on three parameters, the size, the representation, and finally the taste. After a thorough evaluation, all the contestants were seated in the conference room waiting for the results. Mr. Hankins stood up on the stage and started “It was a unique competition. When we talk about food we don’t talk the size, but here we did. The competition proved to be more fearsome than we thought in the beginning, There were three teams that made cookies of size more than 40 inches. And without disappointing the ‘’Hey Snackers’ made the largest cookie a 48-inch cookie.” Some among the cloud started to clap and a few even started talking in agreement. Mr. Hankins continued, “But my dear friends it’s a cooking completion, and what’s the point of making a 48 inches large disc if it doesn’t taste like a cookie”, the crowd grew silent, “So this year we have decided to award a team that has scored well on all fronts, so the winning prize goes to team ‘The Three Bakers’ may we have the team on stage”. The team went to the stage and sent Patricia as their lead Chef to receive the trophy and prize money. Later that night Patricia looked at the certificate that stated, 'Record for the Largest cookie in the World' and she felt a star twinkle in the sky like mom is feeling proud and smiling at her girl’s achievement today. It was after a long time she felt fulfilled and happy.


ACT I FADE IN: EXT. CARIBBEAN SEA - SHIPS DECK - DAY ESTABLISHING SHOT SEAMUS (Captain) early 30s, steers the ship from the helm. The ships crew douses the sheets as they come up on the wind. SEAMUS All hands on deck. SHIPS CREW Aye Sir! SEAMUS Oliver, pass the watch to Winston and meet me in my cabin. WINSTON early 20s, relieves OLIVER 26, of the watch. Oliver walks to the Captains Cabin. INT. CAPTAINS CABIN - DAY Oliver walks in and Seamus motions for him to sit. SEAMUS We need to find a safe port to refit the ship and give our crew a days rest. OLIVER I agree, I was thinking of Charleston. It keeps a bit farther from the pirates we are hunting. SEAMUS Tell the watch to make way for Charleston. EXT. CARIBBEAN SEA - SHIPS DECK - DAY Oliver walks to the helmsman. Winston salutes the senior officer. OLIVER Set a course North East towards the East Coast of the Americas. We are making way for Charleston. WINSTON Aye Sir. Helmsman come right and steer 040 degrees magnetic. HELMSMAN Aye Sir. Now steering 040 degrees magnetic. Oliver walks off the deck. Winston stares towards the horizon. INT. CAPTAINS CABIN - DAY CLOSE UP Seamus sits staring out the window. SEAMUS These men have worked so hard that we need a relief so we may return home. These men need their families. Seamus stands as he hears the sounds of CANNON BLASTS in the distance. EXT. CARIBBEAN SEA - SHIPS DECK - DAY OTS MEDIUM CLOSE UP Winston spots two ships in the distance. Oliver and Seamus walk to the helm. WINSTON Captain, there have been two ships spotted about five miles in the distance. They appear to be firing at one another. SEAMUS Thank you Winston. Keep a weathered eye towards the horizon and steer clear. This is not our fray today. OLIVER Does our mission remain the same Captain? SEAMUS It does. We need to make landfall and give everyone a much needed furlough. OLIVER We are in concurrence with that. We should set the watches and let the crew rest unless needed for sail stations. SEAMUS Set an early taps and let the men sleep. I will take the first watch. Winston you are hereby relieved go rack out. Same goes for your Oliver. OLIVER AND WINSTON IN UNISON Aye Sir! FADE OUT. END OF ACT I ACT II FADE IN: EXT. CARIBBEAN SEA - SHIPS DECK - NIGHT MEDIUM WIDE SHOT Seamus stares at the horizon steering a course by the stars. SEAMUS (V.O.) I cannot help but wonder of home, but I must stay sharp and focussed as we are not there yet. Oliver walks out and startles Seamus. SEAMUS You gave me a start. OLIVER My apologies sir. It is my turn for watch so you can sleep. SEAMUS We are headed Northeast. Tracking along the eastern coast of Florida. Maintain this heading and wake me before South Carolina. OLIVER Aye Sir. Winston has the next watch and I will pass this along when he relieves me. I offer my relief Sir. Oliver salutes Seamus. SEAMUS I stand relieved. Wake me if you need anything. Seamus walks off the deck. INT. CAPTAINS CABIN - NIGHT CLOSE UP Seamus lays in his hammock. Seamus dozes off as a loud CRACK AND RUMBLING echoes through the bowls of the ship. Seamus runs out. FADE OUT. END OF ACT II ACT III FADE IN: EXT. SHIPS DECK - NIGHT WIDE SHOT Seamus runs to the helm. Oliver and the helmsman are feverishly looking for what has been hit. Winston checks the charts to see what hazards are in the area. SEAMUS What the hell was that? OLIVER We are unsure sir. There is nothing charted in the area. WINSTON This hazard is unknown. Not listed at all. UNKNOWN CREW MEMBER We are taking on water sir. We need to combat the damage. SEAMUS Wake the crew and get everyone to stations. Multiple sirens surface near the ship. MEDIUM CLOSE UP SIREN (Meekly) This is our home. It claims many ships. PAN INTO A CLOSE UP. SEAMUS Of course it is the Sirens. Always leading us to our doom. MEDIUM CLOSE UP SIREN There are no ships sank here. Despite our reputation we fix ships and send them on their way. SEAMUS Then what did we hit? Can you save the Celtic Rose so we may make it to land? SIREN The rocks are only near the surface this time of year. The moon draws them to the surface for us. Of course we can fix it for a price. SEAMUS There is always a price with your kind. What is it? SIREN That you spread positive reports of Sirens. That we help and not kill people. SEAMUS That is an easy price to pay. I gladly accept those terms. What do you need from us? SIREN We will need your men inside the ship to help place beams and repair the wood. We will salvage the wood from the ocean floor. Sirens swim off. Seamus gathers his men. SEAMUS We are going to help the sirens with repair inside the ship. They cannot get on board. WIDE SHOT SHIPS CREW Aye Aye! Ships company mills about and gathers tools. INT. SHIPS HOLD - NIGHT CLOSE UP ON TOOLS Carpenters mates work on repairing holes and setting up the hull for repair. EXT. SHIPS DECK - NIGHT WIDE SHOT Sirens surface trailing timbers behind them. Seamus mills about watching. SIREN We have returned with the timber necessary to repair the ship. It will take until morning to make repairs and get you underway. SEAMUS We appreciate the help more than you know. EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT Sirens begin work on the hull placing and sizing timbers. INT. SHIPS HOLD - NIGHT CLOSE UP Ships crew drive dowels into the timbers to secure them in place. EXT. SHIPS DECK - MORNING EXTREME WIDE SHOT The sun rises as the work finishes. Seamus paces the deck observing. EXT. OCEAN - MORNING Sirens approach the surface. SIREN The work has been completed. EXT. SHIPS DECK - MORNING Seamus leans over the rail. SEAMUS Thank you beyond belief for the timely repairs. SIREN It is our pleasure. We will use our magic to float the ship off the rocks. SEAMUS We will set sail stations and make ready to be underway. SIREN Make sure you keep your promise. The sirens life the ship from the rocks and place it in the water. SIREN Be safe on your journey. SEAMUS Thank you...All hands make sail. SHIPS CREW Aye Sir. EXTREME WIDE SHOT The Celtic Rose sails off towards the north east waiting for landfall. EXT. ATLANTIC OCEAN - EVENING The Celtic Rose sails into Charleston. EXT. SHIPS DECK - EVENING Seamus stands near the helm. SEAMUS All hands make ready to enter port. EXT. PIER - EVENING Seamus crosses the brow. WIDE SHOT SEAMUS Gentleman let me tell you a tale. The stories of Sirens are not true. They are the reason we stand here before you. FADE TO BLACK. END OF ACT III


The classroom rarely has a sense of peace. It’s my free period, where I can enjoy my lukewarm coffee from Starbucks and sad-looking salad. I have just enough time to catch the F train, gather the papers that need to be graded, and grab the empty seat at the end of the subway cart. There are essays that still need to be distributed back, but I’m hoping my students don’t ask me about them. Usually they are filled with rumbustious energy from lunch, carrying loud conversations to their assigned seats. I look over at the clock. 2 minutes left. I quickly clear my lunch from my desk and begin to write today’s question on the whiteboard. How To Convey Emotion in a Short Story. The day before we looked at “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” by Raymond Carver. We began reading in class and instructed the class to continue on themselves for homework. Even though I’ve incorporated this story into a lesson several times, my. Thoughts are constantly changing. Did Carver add a sense of irony of how these characters don’t actually know anything about love? Does it convey the character’s insecurities and deepest fears they have about love itself? Before I can finish my train of thought, the rush of my students fills the classroom. I hear echoes of mid term exam stress, frozen fish stick served at the cafeteria, and the upcoming winter formal. “Alright, alright. Settle down please!” I stand in front of my desk with my hands crossed on my lap. Slowly, the voices are almost minimal and their eyes are focused on me. I smile. “I hope you all finished the short story we started reading in class yesterday. It is a great example of the topic we are going to be talking about today, which I have written on the board.” They look over the question and I see one raised hand from the corner of my eye. Adam, a fairly average student, clicks his pen once as if to signal when he will begin. I call on his name. “I’m guessing from what we read... conversation?” I nod, that is exactly where I was getting at. “Yes!” I answer, “Conversation is actually a key way that the author conveys emotion in this piece. However, there is one other example that also plays a part to show emotion here.” I turn to write Adam’s answer on the board. Another hand is raised, and this time it is by Delilah. Straight A student in my class, a wonderful story teller in each weekly prompt that is assigned. “Detail? Specifically about how the characters are acting.” Also correct, a little less obvious than conversation. “Excellent! Those are two elements of storytelling we will be looking at today.” I say as I write it as a second bullet under the question. Adam raises his hand again. “Before I dive into these answers, what did you all think about the story itself? Did you like it? Found it confusing?” I manage to steal another sip of coffee before I call on Adam once again. “It’s clear that none of these adults know anything about love.” The rest of the class erupts in a fit of laughter, others are agreeing with an expression of “Yeah right?!” “I can see why you feel this way. There are two adult couples, all drunk off of gin and telling random stories to each other. Terri, thinks that even though her previous husband abused her, he loves her.” The laughter and smiles from Adam’s response begins to fade. “We don’t get much dialogue from Nick and his wife Laura, but their lack of input is based on their marital bliss. They just got married, they’re still in the ‘honeymoon’ phase.” I say and watch as their focus is brought upon me inventively. “So marriages go south eventually?” Mark openly remarks. Some students chuckle and others have no reaction. “Well, no not all of them”, I chuckle. “But all couples will go through their up’s and down’s. They will share arguments, personal problems or issues they have carried from previous relationships. The term ‘honey moon phase’ specifically is about couples who don’t reach there yet; they haven’t shared their battles, or they avoid arguments, and keep their insecurities a secret.” I see boys and girls alike take in what I say earnestly. A few of them take it with a grain of a salt. “Is that why you’re not married?” Mark asked. Now before I respond, this is the type of relationship I have with my students. We joke, we try to keep the environment light. I need to keep up with the humor of Gen Z. So most the jokes told slide. This was just a little too personal for my liking. But I managed to laugh. “It could be one of the reasons!” I respond. “We should set you up, Ms.M!” “Yeah! What about the junior English teacher? Mr.Domentino!” “Oh he would be great!” Delilah and Samantha are going back and forth, two best friends of course. But as soon as his name is mentioned, my heart begins to flutter. Mr.Domentino, or Milo, was a favorite of the upperclassmen. He taught Shakespearian Literature for juniors and seniors, and every student who has taken his class left positive reviews for him online. He played tapes of “A Midsomer’s Night’s Dream” and “Macbeth”, reenacting the voices and mannerisms as if the classroom was his stage. One free period, when I walked over to use the restroom, I peaked through the door window. He wore an exorbitant crown, a velvet cape and paraded around the room with the stage presence of an actor from the 16th century. He managed to make teenagers break into laughing fits, and even smiles from the shyer pupils. “Okay that’s enough!” I tried not to blush at the sound of his name being mentioned. “Mr.Domentino is too busy reading the classics, whereas I...” I pause for dramatic effect and stand in front of the class room with my hand on my chest. “Teach you how to write! The real thing that matters. Shakespeare can stay in the past where it belongs and no longer bore anyone else to tears.” Students share an ogle of “ooo’s” while I laugh at their childlike humor that I’ve somehow matched. “Anyways, let’s go back to the lesson! The usage of conversation is a great way to convey emotion...” * * * * * The final period ends with the sweet sound of the dismissal bell. Eliza finally finishes grading the pile of essays and makes her way to erase what is left on the whiteboard. There is plenty of time to spare to catch the train. She returns to that state of tranquility like she had earlier on in the day; no student or faculty in sight. As she’s ready to put her jean jacket on, there’s a knock on the door. To her surprise, Milo is standing in her direction. “May I come in?” He asks with a soft smile that makes Eliza realize how much she would love to see it more often. She awkwardly stands by her desk and makes a gesture to walk in. “Of course, how are you?” That did sound a little too formal, but she tried to be casual around him. They mostly shared small talk or what lesson plans they had whenever they would bump into each in the teacher’s lounge. He walks towards the white board, a few inches away from where Eliza is standing. “Good, good. Just dismissed my class.. held them a little longer to go over an assignment.” Eliza nods and then cracks a smile. “Another assignment on interpreting Shakespearian language?” She holds her gaze and watches as Milo lets out a chuckle. “No I actually assigned some parts for them to reenact in class. But I know for some it might bore them to tears.” Eliza’s playful smirk turns quickly into bewilderment. How the hell did he know about that comment she made earlier? Now Milo is smirking and before Eliza can ask how he knew, he says “Mark might have mentioned what you said.” Remind me to punish Mark accordingly, she thinks. Her cheeks turn a shade of red, and quickly tries to brush it off. It’s no use, because Milo’s smooth expression sends Eliza in ways that is anything but nonchalant. “Well, I stand by what I said. Classics and old literature make for good exposure but developing your writing skills is more... fruitful.” There, she knows what she’s talking about. She walks over to get her purse and Milo is still leaning on the whiteboard. “Fruitful? The same old story of two drunken couples who know jack shit about love? Now if you want to teach your students about one thing about love, Shakespeare is a great example-“ Eliza cuts him off in a fit of laughs. As she should. “Oh sure. A thirteen-year-old and sixteen-year-old fall in love and kill themselves in the end. The epitome of romance.” Milo does think thats a valid point, but wont ever admit that to her. He loves to continue this banter and have any excuse to ruff up a few of her feathers. “It’s more than that! It’s a euphemism for young love and the risks we are willing to take early on. Don’t you agree with that?” She listens to him say, as she turns over to and faces right where he is standing. Their height difference is even synced, where her head reaches just under his shoulder. His head leans down and stares into her iridescent hazel eyes. Oh how they both love the idea of one another. Beyond the physical and mental stimulation. When Eliza started teaching three years ago, the first person she met was Milo. And out of all three years, they both managed to be single. She imaged what deeper conversations could potentially look like; bad dates they both went on or what TV show they were currently binging. But would they ever admit that they were attracted to each other? Or that they loved when students brought up their names and managed to secretly play matchmaker? She manages to break the tension. “I might” she replies and grabs the jean jacket wrapped around her chair. As she starts to put it on herself, Milo holds onto other sleeve to help her into it. They’ve gotten comfortable now. Before she excuses herself out and on her way home, Milo walks out of the room with her and down the hallway. “Are you chaperoning the winter formal?”, he asks. The principal had asked her last week and Eliza was hoping to come up with an excuse on the spot. What fun would it be to watch teenagers for over five hours, either frenching or grinding on the dance floor while she the drank stale fruit punch. But now it may be worth it. “Unfortunately, yes. Are you?” Milo flashed a smile, he was hoping she would be there. “I am, and luckily I won’t have to do this alone now that you’ll be there.” Eliza giggles, and continues to face the end of the hallway, to avoid any sign of excitement he might read from her current expression. “If I’m going to be stuck with you all night.. there will be no talk of anything English related.” He laughs. “Nothing of the sort.”


I park my car and sit for a few minutes alone to gather myself. I hold my head upon the steering wheel; this was not the moment I had in mind when I thought about reaching out to the family. I contemplate how life has a way of taking unexpected twists and turns when one least expects them or even wants them. I say a short prayer before heading to the church. I soon enter through two large old brown wooden doors that greet me at the entrance. Rows of flowers line both sides of the vestibule, along with candles and weeping people standing six feet apart. The morning light of the day shines across the room in silence; only a single candle flickers from the altar to brighten the lifesize crucifix hanging above from the front. I am early; I make my way to the empty altar, the gentlewoman below the crucifix rests and does not stir. She lays alone in peace on the other side of the plexiglass barricade. I stand at a distance to give my last respects. Her hair of silver crowns her small quiet body. A pleasant goodbye smile slumbers across her silent red lips; no more to speak my name or kiss my cheek. She will no longer give hugs to greet me or to say farewell. She lays in a pink floral print dress that is fresh and crisp. I return to sit in the back row facing the commotion of spectators as they line up six feet apart to bib her one last farewell. The fragrance of incense roams the church to offer a spiritual homage to God and the woman who gave her life to him and her family. Childhood memories long-forgotten stir my emotions; loving tears fill my eyes. I think of the many times she opens her home to my family when we have none. Her words of kindness play before me in bittersweet thoughts. Her handmade tortillas with dripping butter, and beans, bite the hunger from my door many times. She often has little to share, but she always shares what she has. A lady with a heart like hers is hard to find in this world. More so, one who never asks for anything in return. Although her own family is large, she never turns us away. Her famous words still ring in my ears. "Kimmy, adds some more water to the beans and make a few more tortillas. We have family here for dinner." As I sit in the back of the church alone, I make sure my mask is secure tight about my face. I move to the far end, close to the aisle by the wall. With much hesitation, I attend the church service. My hands clutch and tremble with prayer as I drop to my knees. The sad thought of my life being devoid of her smiles and hugs forever here on earth hits me. My heart fills with pain as it breaks for her. It beats in a slow cadence as I offer my silent prayerful whispers to heaven. I wonder how do I apologize for a lifetime of neglect runs the emptiness of my soul. How do I even begin to tell her how much she means to me? I take a breath as I lower my head, and the simple words begin to flow from my lips. They fill with such an energy of love and devotion, to my surprise. I know they will reach heaven from this holy place around me. That young child within speaks with the love that surrounds my being. Family ties seem anew with love, that fills the room and all the people that have gathered. "Oh, my dear Aunt Mary, thank you for your kindness and the generosity you gave my family. If angels walk this earth? You are indeed one. You know I love you and always will be grateful you crossed my journey here on earth." My Aunt Mary was the last link to my childhood pass. It was less than a week ago, she and I enjoy a simple meal of cookies and tea in her suite at Peaceful Pines. My cousin Kimmy also came to visit that day. Whom, I had not seen since my mother's funeral last spring. We talk and share memories of long ago along with smiles and hugs. They also share many fond memories of my father that I have long forgotten. Perhaps it was the loss of my mother that finally urged me to visit. Before I leave, I think of the many wasted years that have gone past. I promise my aunt and Kimmy that we will get together soon. We make plans to get together for the upcoming holidays. In anticipation of our future get-together, my aunt promises to share one of her famous bread pudding recipes. The following week, her daughter, Kimmy, calls to notify me that my Aunt Mary is in a coma and dying from cancer. Where has all the time gone? The many years I missed knowing her and her family as an adult are gone forever. Yet, here I sit alone, thinking about her one more time. I reflect on how to make it up to her. I gather myself off my knees and sit back in my seat. I stand and walk over to my cousin Kimmy and the rest of my Aunt Mary's family across the aisle. Kimmy and I look at each other with masked faces. Our teary eyes smile; we know we are family. Since my Aunt Mary's funeral, I keep in monthly contact with my three cousins. We have gone out to dinner on a few occasions. Even though our lives have taken different paths, we still share old stories from our childhood and often share our plans. I know my Aunt Mary is gone, but her memory lives on in our hearts. With the current pandemic still at hand, a family is so much more precious.


Not that I'm going to tell you how old I am, but for the sake of putting this story into a timeline, I'm willing to add that I came of age in the nineties. Nineteen hundred nineties. (Sorry, couldn't help myself.) I only put this in to avoid the miserable and endless whining that I never use a date to place the story. If you ask me, that's just a covert form of control - sigh. Is there a date mentioned with Snow White? Do you guys ask Clarice Starling about the dates she went to see Dr. Lecter? Not me. Anyway, my entry into adulthood was accompanied by the right to die. At least the debates and discourses about it. Not that this is the theme I want to talk about, but indirectly it has something to do with it. If you'll allow me, let me tell you about May here, and if I may be so bold, to keep the question in mind: what does it mean to disappear? And when does this start? Where is the exact moment, when someone starts to vanish? - "Dignity, always dignity." This is a line from one of my grandfathers’ favorite movies: a story about a popular silent movie star, with humble roots. Back to May. I met her in an elderly nursing home where I worked at the time. A job that I accepted because my bills had to be paid "urgently", but where I nevertheless learned so many things that are not part of the curriculum at any university. May was one hundred and four years old when she didn't wake up one morning. I went to her memorial service, where I couldn't suppress the feeling that she could come back at any moment. That she would glamorously jump from behind a standing garland of flowers or something. May told me she ran away from home when she was seventeen, and found a job as a stage assistant, doing Vaudeville shows and magic tricks; glitters, and feathers. She met an older man there, who was the permanent magician of the house. Her performances consisted of, among other things, jumping out of a large trunk, which supposedly once housed a great treasure. During the act, the story of how the magician came into possession of the trunk was told very theatrically. Of course, the trunk was hermetically sealed, and when the audience was convinced that it would be impossible for a mouse to escape, May kicked up one leg first and then the other. The magician then grabbed her by the waist and lowered her to the floor, where she had to perform a dance. The crowd went wild! In another performance, her feet were tied to her neck, and she was chained to a post. A curtain fell to the floor, and voila! May reappeared as a ballerina with wings, fluttering across the stage. She never betrayed the secrets of the stunt to me or anyone else (as far as I know). May harbored a great interest in the paranormal. Halloween was her highlight of the year. She had attended numerous seances during her lifetime, awaiting communication with the departed. She never betrayed me with whom she hoped to connect. Who knows? A long-lost lover. Anyway, he never showed up. Every time I visited May I felt that her end was near. She had always been a petite woman, but I watched her get smaller and smaller. During the service, I imagined her performing one of her acts as a surprise. That she would push open the coffin with her legs, one up, two up, and one last burlesque dance number accompanied by Michael Bublé or Sinatra. That she would somehow break free from the shackles of death. However, there was no coffin at that memorial service. So, this scenario didn't work. Still, one could expect anything with May. How would it feel to hold the keys of illusion; to know how to break free and feel the weight of the wisdom of magic? Does one then have the knowledge to disappear in a good way? Before the service, I had been reading some of the funeral cards and overheard some residents of the nursing home gossip that May once auditioned for the great Houdini. As I was eavesdropping, my mind drifted to my grandfather. He was a tap dancer and there was no instrument he didn't master. While his life hadn't been nearly as glamorous as May's, he still lived a remarkable life. He survived the German death camps, but when he came back, he no longer considered a career with Fred Astaire's allure. He kept his passion for music and usually played by the river in the evenings. How can I portray a man whose memory is always evoked by what might seem silly to many: a man in love, dancing the stars from heaven when he ́s happy, playing in puddles like a kid, rushing into the street at night in a chilly rain, displaying warmth and happiness. But let me return to my question: how do I do that? Write a portrait of a man who cannot be portrayed. He was a contradiction, made of incoherence and loss. The sort of subject that many people would find no subject at all. His irreducible self can only be sensed through his residue, for indeed there are those who claim they can still hear the taps of his shoes clicking on the floor. Sometimes subtle and slicing, other times heavy and clear, like a wave crashing on the floor, or a line through the silence carrying children's laughter in the wind. A dancer and a musician; that was who he really was. His crystalline tone often compared to jazz. Plie or hoofer in an upward stance, the world around him would absorb his resonance. He would make them move with him and share in his exhilaration, soaring through the air and lifting hearts. He was both movement and music. He performed nuptials of music to a narrative art, telling inescapable stories with different layers of emotion through his movements, rhythm, and dynamics. The stars shone brighter on the nights he danced, and the moon would cover herself in strawberry pink. That was before it got dark in the world, and he was converted into saleable property. He longed for death under a moon dressed in black, while he was starving. What was left of him after that? After the inedible fairy tale of white supremacy had resulted in a defeated German nation and an equally inedible and discredited gospel of European cultural superiority took over. What was left of him? And what lay ahead for him? A conundrum of racial identity he didn't care for. He became a blithe trespass on hyphenated ground, bodying forth the contending forces that made him broken henceforth. He was no longer able to dance when he came back from "abroad". He still played his harmonica though. Sad and flattened melodies. He engulfed himself in solitariness. He loved Augusts. The earth too dry, sizzling a delayed slow rhythm like dark molasses. A sense of anticipation in the air, a longing for rain and for things forgotten. He was barely visible as he walked through the sunflower fields in the morning, a cap on his head, eternal cigarette bud in his mouth, tanned by the sun. He went fishing in the afternoons, basking in the happiness of a former place in a distant time. Recollecting odors of damp soil in a lush forest and a most remarkable girl in a pretty dress, who knew all the things he dreamed of and sat with him amongst wildflowers and dazzle audiences at night with their flair on the dance floor, expressing love ́s moods, courtship, and seduction. Yes, he would linger in the sweetness of a repertoire of a far connection. At sunset he would take his harmonica out of his pocket and passionately tried not to heed the demons in his head that originated from an abusive culture, shattering his soul a little more every day. His music was not sweet anymore: it moaned bitterly and built into a crescendo of heart-wrenching screams. He gradually disappeared; my grandmother told me. When he was not in bed, he was in an old wheelchair and spoke very little. -“ He was gone, long before he exited this earthly sphere.” she sighed. A few weeks after May's memorial service, I attended a workshop on spirituality and dementia and caring for people with dementia. I hoped it would help me understand what contributes to the invisibility of people with dementia. I quickly concluded that there was a ubiquity of malignant social psychology in relation to people with dementia. I made a list of the elements that contributed to the depersonalization of patients with dementia. Betrayal, powerlessness, infantilization, intimidation, invasion, banishment, ignoring, ridicule, and contempt. I had a few more: thirty-seven, I believe in all. If you ask me, the only thing you will achieve by that is promoting a neurological decline in those people. The sad thing is that cultural intolerance to cognitive impairment as well as old age comes off unscathed. And herein lies the frightening prospect of the person with dementia, not just disappearing on their own, but being obliterated by our malfunctioning diseased public mind. I arrived at work one day, still clocking in, when I heard one of the residents screaming and banging her fists on the table. A colleague explained to me that she had been terrible, that she kept yelling dirty and mean things at everyone, that she did not want to eat, and insisted on being served vanilla custard with chocolate sauce after lunchtime. She was hungry, of course, so I went to buy her a cup of pudding from one of the vending machines. She threw it at me, and the pudding splashed everywhere. That was the end of my last clean uniform. She called me all kinds of bad names. She was denied the food of her choice and found herself surrounded by malice. I asked her if she would like a sandwich. She was very happy about that, and while I was making her sandwich, she told me about how she used to make jelly and peanut butter sandwiches for her kids when they went to the beach. Mental abilities determine one's moral status, i.e., reflect the hypercognitive values of our culture: we exclude people while they are still among the living. Or is this a prejudice of mine against the profound forgetfulness of those who can eat pudding when they feel like it? Our culture fears both powerlessness and the power of the body. If a body is unmanageable, it must die. That body which is a constant source of conflict and at the same time our home, from which we cannot escape. Our battlefield where we struggle against its inevitable demise. We wish so much that trunk would pop open and reveal our legs to finally throw off the shackles. The body that becomes the object of contempt as soon as it needs hands-on care because it exposes our collective fear of vulnerability. A few weeks after May's memorial service, I attended a workshop on spirituality, dementia, and caring for people with dementia. I hoped it would help me understand what contributes to the invisibility of people with dementia. I quickly concluded that there was a ubiquity of malignant social psychology in relation to people with dementia. I made a list of the elements that contributed to the depersonalization of patients with dementia. Betrayal, powerlessness, infantilization, intimidation, invasion, banishment, ignoring, ridicule, and contempt. I had a few more: thirty-seven in all, I believe. "The dead don't visit us often anymore," May said to me once when she told me about her participation in séances. Could it be that today we are more interested in the life of the dead than of the living? We've all forgotten more than we remember. The profiling of disappearing is something that must be lived with. But disappearance doesn't necessarily mean destruction. Despite all his losses, my grandfather didn't just disappear. In his way, he persevered and kept playing his harmonica. What else but an affinity with life is behind playing an instrument? What else but to make his will to live known, in subtle tones, known only to those who spent time with him, as the activities he once embodied fell away. What is left behind may be a truer self. Once the path is cleared for the naked self and facilitating a new freedom, where parallel lines converge on the horizon( which is also the point where they disappear). The point of convergence and disappearance. But isn't that vanishing point an illusion? A road does not stop at the horizon, it merely disappears from the view of the observer. And so, it is with people suffering from dementia. They exist beyond our ability to keep them in our line of sight. But they remain a person; a human being - despite our limited sight. So that disappearance is, in a sense, just an illusion. There are no magic tricks to undo our finality. May briefly managed to disappear into thin air and then reappear in breathtaking fashion during her career as a stage assistant to a handsome illusionist in a tuxedo. Perhaps disappearing well means allowing others to decompose with dignity, while keeping their secrets. I hope that when it is my turn to disappear, I will have a willing assistant who knows the illusion of disappearance well.


March 12th, 1952 I have not kept a journal before. Journals, diaries, and daily logs are for the preservation of days. In my lengthy time on this Earth, I have not wanted to preserve my days. Thousands of days and nights have all blurred together, one as forgettable as the other. The moments worth remembering are few enough that I can recount them easily enough. Each time I tried to end my life failed, but I am hopeful that I have made a breakthrough. With the understanding that eventually someone will find my corpse and wonder at its presence, I set pen to paper now in an attempt to answer the questions that will surely come. There are typing machines now that some use for clarity and speed, but I’m afraid my fingers lack the dexterity to use such a device. To say I am more than two hundred years old would imply a life of growth that began with a birth. This is not my circumstance. I have existed in my present state for more than two centuries, beginning in the Old World of Europe and arriving in the New World of America nearly fifty years ago. I have never had a friend or loved one, though there once was a man who I thought knew me well. I wept when he died, which was a new experience for me. Until that moment, I didn’t know I could produce tears or feel anguish. Since that day, I have not cried for another living soul, only for myself, and either I have no soul or my soul is not alive. I still do not know for sure. March 15th, 1955 Science has made striking advances in the days of my existence. A German man used an Italian’s battery to refine mankind’s understanding of how electricity moves from one place to another. Faraday’s work on metals and electricity has been very well received. Others have discovered ways of transferring energy without wires, a method called radiation, that they are learning often has unintended consequences. The evolutionist, Darwin, proposes interesting ideas that people seem quick to adopt, but those people are also looking for reasons for life beyond basic vitalist principles: there is a force or an energy that creates life that has not been quantified yet. The study of vitalism made important strides before it was derailed by misguided persons who are now considered madmen by their former peers. Scientists now refuse to acknowledge an inherent difference between organic, living beings and inorganic materials, asserting instead that the living tissues are made of quantifiable amounts of matter that can be found and compiled with the proper understanding and equipment. The notion that life has a “vital” component - be it a spirit, a soul, or something else - absent in non-living beings and organisms has been abandoned by most. The vitalists pursued fields of mesmerism and spiritual energies until the fundamental understanding that formed the foundation of their knowledge lost all credibility. Some might say that the scientific world has thrown the vitalist baby out with the biological bathwater. I, myself, am proof of vitalism. Before this existence, I was organic matter alive as six different human men. They all died prematurely from injuries and wounds, and their salvageable parts were assembled by my creator. Their inanimate materials were made animate again through the scientific vitalist efforts of that man. While scientists in their fields have various qualifications for an organism to be considered alive, I do not meet enough of any of those qualifications to meet the definition of life. My body is ordered, but is selective in its response to stimulus. I see and hear and I can touch and taste, but I do not perceive changes in temperature such as extreme cold or heat. I smell aromas when I inhale air into my lungs, but I do not need to breathe as my body does not process air, water, or food. I do not need to eat or drink, nor do I sleep to rest as other beings do. Where does my energy to move come from if not from a vital spirit? The wear and stress on my body across the decades seems mitigated by my form’s innate stasis, as wounds and injuries I have endured across the years close and repair, leaving no discernable marks. The keloid scars, as I have learned they are called, that form the seams of my predecessors’ contributions to my body are the only indication that I have ever been less or other than I am today. The only change I have managed to enact on my body has been to my hair. It does not grow, and after trimming it with scissors once or twice, I shaved it off, and I am bald to this day. March 20th, 1955 I have purchased a small industrial building on Cannery Row, in Monterey, California, USA. Under the name of Adam Mann I buy, sell, and trade for my needs. While the world is becoming more connected with the use of the telephone, radio, and now television, there are few people who request references or refuse to do business when you offer cash significantly over their asking prices. I simply say, “I value my privacy,” and give them time to count the bank notes. I kept my creator’s designs. I have had them reproduced by printers over the years as the paper aged or became damaged in my movements around the world. My current set of schematics was made for me in San Francisco, shortly after I disembarked from the ship that carried me through the Panama Canal and up the Pacific Coast. I booked a small room with a porthole from which I could watch my journey. Aside from the occasionally cresting whale, it was as uneventful as the rest of my days. For the past three months I have contracted out carpenters, electricians, welders, and fabricators to assemble a modern replica of the machine that pulled me from the void and placed me on this planet. With the collapse of the sardine fishing and canning industry, there are plenty of men in need of work who appreciate cash payment for their services and discretion. They tend to be gregarious in nature, asking if I’m a biologist like so many others in the area. “Something like that,” is always sufficient enough an answer. April 20th, 1955 I have taken delivery and installation of my equipment at night to reduce casual observation from the locals. My workshop is at the end of a pier, and with the local conditions what they are, I have no neighbors. I hear the laborers assuming I am conducting groundbreaking scientific experiments and fear Dr. Ricketts and others might steal my work. These are useful fictions, so generous cash tips and knowing winks help solidify the lies they tell one another. I don’t care what they say. If all goes well, the rumors and speculation will soon be no concern of mine. May 15, 1955 The assembly is complete. The original design relied on lightning to generate the electricity needed for the procedure that made me this way. With modern resources, I have designed and fabricated a capacitor to store energy harnessed from the physical motion of the tides of the Monterey Bay. They have ebbed and flowed for weeks, and the power level has reached its zenith. I have watched the sun set over this beautiful bay for the last time. I hear sea lions barking on the shore. Gulls call to one another, singing their tuneless song. I witnessed an otter and her baby paddling on their backs by my workshop. These natural phenomena are idyllic, but after such a time of loneliness as I have endured, they bring me no comfort. I have never had companionship, friendship, or love. To whomever finds this journal, I hope you find utility in my designs and can bring some profit from them. Or not. I was bitter and angry toward mankind for decades, and it has made me numb. I now want only to sleep, to enter the void once more, and to never dream again.


Lester was bored. He was at a loose end. Nothing interesting to do. He decided to pay a visit to the garage to see if he could find anything to occupy him. Searching through the items in an old wooden box, he found a newspaper. Fllipping through, he stumbled on a column with a caption, 'TIME TRAVEL! TRY THESE''. Curious, he decided to read further. He discovered that the equations and formulas for time travel are in a book hidden in a cave on an island. He ran down to his friend's house excitedly holding the paper. "Eugene! Eugene!! Eugene!!!" "What Lester? What's the matter? Why the excitement?" Eugene asked. "I have something I want to show you. I have something you really need to see." He handed over the paper to him with excitement. "Wow!! You don't mean it. Is this for real?" Eugene asked with eyes wide open. "I believe it's real. That should be the reason my dad kept it in a file tagged 'Confidential'." "What should we do?" Eugene asked. "I have an idea. Let's show the paper to Prof. Culkins. Perhaps he will tell us what to do," Lester replied Prof. Martins Culkins is a lecturer in the department of physics. He is an ardent researcher. He has watched a couple of science fiction and futuristic movies. The one he talks about most often is, 'Back to the Future'. A movie about time travel. He always says he is in search of the formulas and equations needed to build and design a time machine. He is often called, 'the Phantom Prof.' "Prof. Culkins, we have something we want to show you," they both spoke excitedly. He liftted up his head and adjusted his glasses. "And what is that in mother earth that's making you both so excited?" He asked. "Please take a look at this," Lester handed over the paper to him. "My goodness! What on earth! Is this real?" He exclaimed. "Yes, I believe. I found it in a file tagged, 'Confidential'." "Prof. Culkins, does the island truly exist?" Eugene asked. "Yes, it does. Only that it isn't easy to reach." "So, what do we do?" Lester and Eugene asked unanimously looking at each other and then at him. "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go in search of the island and find the book." "Yeah!" Lester shouted looking at Eugene who smiled and nodded. ******** "Hi! Mum, Hi! Dad. I'm going on an excursion tomorrow and will not be back till three days time." "Why in three days time?" Lester's dad asked. "It's a field trip and we have a lot of places to go. Besides, there are a whole lot of things we've been taught in class that we need to see." "Is it so necessary you go? How about our family get-together tomorrow?" His mum asked. "Yes! Mum I just need to. This trip is important. Marks will be given for it and used as my C.A." "And what's the meaning of C.A.?" She asked. "Mum, it means continuous assessment." "Is Eugene also going on this trip? Also is there anyone I can contact in your school concerning this field trip of yours?" His dad asked. "Yes dad, he is. You both know Prof. Collins well. He is aware of the trip. Besides, he is also on the team. Lester's dad picked his phone to call. Hello! Prof. Culkins. This is Fred Chantel, Lester's dad." "Yeah! Mr Chantel. It's so nice to talk to you. Your son is such a wonder kid. It's anything the matter?" "No, nothing that really. Just want to know if Lester's class is going on a field trip. He told me that his department is organising a field trip for his class. He said he would be going for three days and that you are also on the team. Besides, he said it's very important because it forms part of his final scores. Please Prof. Collins, is it true?" "Yes, Mr Chantel everything he told you is true. You don't need to worry. Your son is in safe hands. He will be taken good care of. He will come back home safely that I assure you." " Thank you very much," Fred replied and the call ended. "You are free. Only be careful." Ok, dad". "Please be careful my love." "OK, mum I sure will." Eugene also told his mum about the field trip. She had mixed feelings about it. It was an arduous task for him to make her believe. He told her to call Prof. Culkins to confirm. He affirmed it and told her not to worry about her son's safety. She was also more at ease when she realised that Lester will be going on the trip. The following morning, Lester packed his things. He bid his parents farewell and set off for Eugene's residence. "Hello! Mrs Breadsworth." "Hello! Lester," she replied. "And how are you doing?" She asked. "I'm OK. And you?" "Am fine and good," she replied. "Eugene told me you are going on a field trip organised by your department in school," "Yes, ma'm." "And when will you be back?" "In three days time." "Ok. Just wanted to be sure." "No problem, ma'm." Eugene kissed his mum. She embraced him and also Lester. She told them to be careful and stay safe. They met Prof. Culkins at the train station and embarked on their journey. They alighted at the last stop and boarded a bus to a sea port. Arriving there, they made enquiries about the Island of Pathos. Most people they asked told them that they don't know any island by that name. Prof. Culkins was deeply surprised. "Oh! So we're on a fool's journey?" Lester asked. "I think so," Eugene replied. "No. We are not. Definitely not. That am sure of," Prof affirmed. After several enquiries, they met a man with a wry look. He looked like someone from a mixed descent. They summoned courage to approach him and asked if he knew anything about the island. Petranda Zulah told them that he had heard of such a name and was very sure that the island existed. He told them that he had never been there but he and his men were ready to go on the voyage if he be paid. After much negotiations, a price was reached and they embarked on the journey. Lester and Eugene were very excited because they have never gone on a voyage and they loved adventures. It wasn't a smooth sail. It was two days of sea turmoil and rage. Lester and Eugene were afraid and were about losing hope. But for the expertise of Petranda and his men, their boat would have sank into the sea. At the dawn of the third day, Petranda's men could see an island afar off. They beckoned on Prof. Culkins and his boys. They jumped with excitement and embraced one another. At the shore of the island, they saw the skulls and bones of dead animals. The island looked deserted. There were no humans and houses in sight. They could only see birds. "Prof. Culkins, is this the island of Pathos?" Lester asked. "Yes! Am very sure of that," he replied. "Why are there so many skulls and bones all over the shore? Don't you think we are in danger ?" Eugene asked. "Probably there are bones of starved and age long creatures. As for our safety, we have nothing to worry about. We've got Petranda and his men with us." Turning to Petranda and his men, he asked, "Does anyone have an idea about the meaning of all these?. "No! None of us do," Petranda replied. As they moved further into the island, they saw a lot of strange birds and animals. Petranda and his men were at alert with their rifles. They killed some animals that were about attack them. One of the men stepped on a stick and a sharp knife came out from the tree beside him and cut off his head. When that happened, they were all careful with their steps watching the ground until they left that part. Next they were standing in front of a large muddy ground. Prof Culkins told them not to go any further and that it's not just muddy,. He said he had read about something like that. Though it appeared shallow, it was as deep as the height of a skyscraper. He pushed in a long stick to show them and it swallowed it. "Will you stay behind with Petranda while I go?" "No, Prof." they both replied. "But, it's dangerous. I want to take you back home safely." "Prof., you don't have to worry about us. We're well able. Isn't it?" Lester asked turning to Eugene. "Yes!" We are fit and able." "Ok boys! Let's move. To the search!" "To the search!" they shouted. They took long tree plant ropes and swung across. One of the men's rope cut while he was almost on the other side. He fell into the mud and immediately he was out of sight. Petranda was angry that he had lost two men. He blamed himself for bringing them to the island. He told Prof. Culkins to pay him the money left. He refused. He said that the deal was that balance would be paid after arrival at home. Petranda knew he and his men had no choice but to continue the journey. Going back without Prof's guide might be more dangerous. They passed a long wooden bridge and by the time they were half way the bridge, arrows were flying towards them. They didn't see anyone shooting the arrows. They hurriedly ran to the other side. An arrow met one of Petranda's men on his arm. It was taken out and some medicinal leaves were squeezed together and placed on it. It was dark and they couldn't go any further so they searched for a place to pass the night. "Look! See!! That's the cave on a hill!" Shouted Lester. "Oh! My God!" Eugene shouted with eyes wide open. "Yes! Yes!! Let's move on. We're almost there," Prof. beckoned on everyone. They all climbed the hill to the top. Lester and Eugene were assisted up by Petranda's men. Bats flew out of the cave. Petranda's men killed snakes and scorpions at the entrance of the cave. They shot them. Prof. saw the book inside a casement and a bottle kept beside the book. "Wow!! So this is the book we've been searching for," Lester spoke with eyes wide open. "I guess so," Prof. Culkins replied. "Can we see what's inside?" Eugene asked. "OK." "But why will someone keep such a book here?" Lester asked. "I guess there's something mystical about the book," Prof. answered. The front page says that anyone who finds the book has the right to use what's in the bottle and the person is only granted just three wishes. Prof. flipped through the book and shook his head. "Prof. Culkins what's the matter?" Lester asked. "It's incomplete. The formulas and equations are not all in here." "So, what do we do?" Eugene asked. "It says that anyone reading this should take note that the rest formulas and equations are in another book in a twin island." "And where is the twin island?" Lester asked. "I don't know," Prof. replied. Petranda and his men searched the cave for treasures and all they could find were clothes and scrolls. They were disappointed but still took them. Petranda beckoned on everyone to leave. Prof. Culkins used the portion in the bottle at the bridge so that they could walk across without arrows shooting at them,. He used at the muddy place so that they can walk on the muddy ground and at the sea shore so that they can arrive home safely without any turmoil or wreck. "Mum! Dad! Am home," Lester shouted. "Wow!! We missed you so much," his mum spoke with teary eyes embracing him. "Son, how was your trip?" His dad asked. "Fine. Interesting. Wonderful. I missed you both so much. Thank God am back home," Lester replied. "What happened? We were worried. You stayed more than three days. We were about going to the Police." "Mum, sorry for that. We had few hitches on the way." "Ok. Thank God you're back home." "Yes. I'm happy to be back home." "And how is Eugene and Prof. Culkins?" His dad asked. "They're fine, dad. They've all gone home." The following day at school they rushed to Prof. Culkins' office. They met him reading the book. He embraced both of them and thanked them for accompanying him on the trip. "Prof. Culkins, so what's next?" Lester asked. "Are we yet going for another trip?' Eugene also asked. "I'll be glad to," Lester said. "Oh! My boys, let's just keep our fingers crossed and be expectant," Prof. spoke smiling at both of them.


Mrs Edwards scraped a nail against the mouldy window sill and sighed. She’d scrubbed it only a few weeks ago, but the mottled wood had bucked and bloomed in the heat. The tree was wilting too, a bushy, dark-leaved thing stuck in the corner, placed there after she had received a letter from her sister. “We do not entirely agree with inviting the whole tree into one’s home.” Her sister had written, “But one must trust in Queen Victoria and not fear the peculiar customs of her Germanic relations. I enclose a print of Her Majesty’s Christmas for your instruction.” Her sons had taken the print into the forest and returned with this tree, with all the pride and fanfare of a successful hunt. Adorned with sprigs of red pōhutukawa flowers and candlelight, it had enchanted the children, but now it wept sap onto the walls and shed its leaves onto the floorboards. We are both in silent protest of this custom, Mrs Edwards thought. She swept a few dead sandflies off the sill and brushed the hearth as best she could, avoiding the eyes of Her Majesty, whose portrait hung above the fireplace. They’d decorated the hearth with the linen samplers of her needle class, designed to help the daughters of the Missionary Station learn basic stitch work. Her own daughter, Maria, had done a fine sampler, the stitching was neat and accurately sized, but there were several embellishments to the border which looked strange, swirling patterns that seemed to move in the corner of your eye. Mrs Edwards had never seen the like of it before, and Maria should not have either. She bent down to sweep the dead leaves from behind the grate, cold since October and full of Paua shells from the beach, when she heard a scream come from the kitchen. She stood up as fast as her stiff knees would let her, just as her second youngest charged full pelt into the room, followed closely by James, her second eldest. “Run Piggy!” James bellowed, raising a long stick up to his eye, “Or my musket will get you!” Piggy, nick-named after his upturned nose and round cheeks, dove behind his mother’s skirts. “James!” Mrs Edwards cried. “Stop that at once! I’ve not finished in here-” They were already running out, but before her gangly son’s frame could disappear into the garden, she called him back. “Have you brought out the long table from the barn?” “Yes, ma. We moved it just now.” “And the doorway? Does the Reverend think it will do?” They had been unsure of how to solve the dilemma of the doorway. Traditionally, as the clock struck midnight tonight, the Edwards’ front door would be opened to let out the old year and welcome the new, and they would be visited by friends and neighbours bearing gifts and glad tidings for a felicitous year ahead. It was imperative a man took the first footing over their threshold, preferably with coal for their fire and bread for their bellies, and if he were a good-willed stranger of handsome height and dark hair, so much the better. But there were no strangers in the Missionary, just three humble families, all of whom were attending tonight’s party. And as for the knocking on their front door, the heat and sour air within the cottage had forced them to host the party in the garden, on a long table made just for the occasion. Rather than have their guests wait for midnight in the discomfort of the cottage, it was the Reverend who had the idea to make some form of doorway outside which the men could step through, to give candied fruit and toys to their families. “He’s still fixing the archway with the flax, but it looks better now.” James answered, tapping his stick against the flagstones. “It should be rather fun. Will I get to do the first footing this year?” “Not likely, while your father lives. Now on with you, go see if he needs help. He’s been working like a carthorse all day.” She watched her son as he ducked into the garden, swinging his stick like a dandy in Oxford Circus. All he needed was a gentleman’s hat, Mrs Edwards smiled, and then she remembered Maria. “Oh, James! Have you seen your sister?” “Not since breakfast.” He called over his shoulder. Mrs Edwards put a hand on her belly, feeling some knot there shift and tighten. Beyond their garden fence, in the shimmering heat, she could almost see Maria walk through the long grass to the gate, her hair whipped out its pins by the sea wind. But the mirage melted, and the cicadas laughed her back into the cottage. * Maria was breathing heavily, with every inhale she felt her damp corset press against her skin. The boy’s finger was hovering over the linen neckline, close enough for him to feel the fibres against his fingerprint. He traced the embroidered flowers, an inch left, an inch right, never fully touching, before descending a slow line towards where her navel lay. He tapped the stiffness of her corset, a frown crumpling his brow. “It’s whale bone.” Maria breathed, “I hear they are from your whales.” “Your dress ... it is whale?” Ari asked, feeling the rise and fall of the ridges beneath the cloth. “Yes. From the whalers in the Bay of Islands. My father tries to convince them to come to church on Sundays, but they just laugh.” Ari was staring at her again, how much he understood, she’d never know. “It must be terribly lonely. Father says they often lose their boats and get marooned on the islands for years.” Ari shook his head, rocking the feather in his head band, and sat to face the sea. She followed, pushing herself up from the shingle, and watched the rising waves catch the sinking sun. Like holding amber to the fire, the waves were veined with silhouettes, the shadows of sea creatures, weeds and shell. “We make this, from whale bone.” Ari said, lifting a curling pendant from his neck to show her. “Matau. For fish.” He hooked his finger into his mouth. “May I?” Ari nodded, and she bent closer to inspect the pendant. The maker had carved mesmeric patterns into the bone, capturing the arc of the surf and the whorls of a river eddy. “It looks how water looks.” She said, feeling foolish, but he smiled. “It is a gift, a Matau. From my hapṻ, we live by the sea.” Maria nodded, and carefully placed the pendant back against his chest. She had moved nearer, they both knew, and as their eyes met she felt that curious sense of loss, as if she was parting with something she had never known she owned. “A gift!” She jumped, grateful to move away. “I almost forgot, I have one for you.” She began to search her skirts for her pocket. “It is here somewhere-” But a dark-skinned hand stopped her arm. “No gift.” Ari said, frowning once more, “I do not...” He searched for the word, muttering a language that sounded to Maria as clipped and melodious as the birds in the forest. “Win. I do not win a gift.” “Do you mean earned?” She asked. “That’s ok, no one does really. But today is the eve of the new year, this is our tradition, my family, my whānau.” She gently moved her arm out of his grasp, to produce a piece of thick, folded paper from her pocket. “We give each other gifts today to say thank you. It’s fun.” Slowly, she placed the paper in his left palm. A moment passed, until his fingers closed around it. “Tēnā rawa atu koe.” Ari murmured. He unfolded the paper and became still. It was a drawing of a Tui bird, cocking his head with a mischievous eye, his white collar bulbous beneath the beak. “It is the Tui, do you remember? The one I said looked like a Reverend had been caught by your gods and turned into a bird for his Christian ways. Ha!” She shuffled closer, inspecting her work. “He’s an odd thing to draw, I thought I might have got the beak wrong, but I was quite pleased with the wings. I did a Weka for mother too, that’s a joke really because she hates them coming into the kitchen.” Still Ari did not speak, only the Kaka’s startled cry could be heard over the forest hill. Maria bit her lip and began to talk faster. “The new year is fun because we get presents and have a feast, and oh! We do the first footing, that’s silly but I like it because father lets you stay up late to see who will knock on your door first.” The boy at last titled his head to her. “It’s a tradition, after midnight, everyone runs to visit your house, and the first visitor brings gifts with them to bless the family. Mama says a man who is tall with dark hair and carrying riches is the best, but I doubt we will have many of those knocking on our door!” She laughed, hoping for a smile from him, but he looked solemn. “Do you... do you not like it?” Ari took one last look at the drawing, before carefully folding the paper and tucking it away into his piu piu. He stared at her, just as the year’s final sun started to slip into the sea. “Maria.” * Piggy had run away. He had run as fast as his legs could carry him, which, compared to his brothers, wasn’t that fast at all. But seeing as they were all so busy, he only had himself to race, and he happily made his way through the forest without fear of being beaten. Pulling a bun from his pocket, he slowed down as he neared his secret beach, the one between Giant’s Rock and God’s Arc, where he knew the tide would have left all sorts of treasures to discover and covet. He crashed through the bush, frightening a Kaka from its nest, and broke through the grassy cliff overhanging the beach. The sun was just slipping into the sea, and he raised his arm against the blinding light. Below, shrouded in gold sea mist, he saw them. Piggy dropped his bun. * He drew his lips from hers, taking her soul with him, she thought. Who knew what magic the Maori possessed? Perhaps she had been bewitched, for she had never shared a breath with another, nor one that filled her lungs with such lightness. It was as if she had inhaled the sun itself, and she wondered, is this how God feels? Is this Heaven? She leant closer again, but a movement up on the hill caught her eye. A round, pale face and what looked like a white ball, bouncing down the rocks. She locked eyes with Piggy. And then he was gone. “PETER!” Maria screamed. * The light was fading, but Piggy knew his way to the meadow well enough. He ran back through the forest, the cacophony of birdsong spurring him to go faster. Just imagine, Piggy thought as he ran, how clever ma will think me, and how jealous James will be, that I found out why Maria had been so absent these past few months... Piggy stopped to catch his breath at the edge of the field. He could see the thatch of their roof, see the smoke twist from the kitchen chimney, and hear laughter rise into the dusk air. A few paces closer, and he spotted his mother, alone, laying the plates onto the table. He wiped the sweat off his brow and started to run again. * Night had fallen in the Edwards’ garden, and the table was aglow with candlelight and red faces. Handfuls of smoking eucalyptus leaf hung from the posts, warding off insects and releasing a drowsy scent. A little way from the table, the new year’s doorway had been constructed over the meadow gate that separated the garden and the field beyond. The gate was flung wide open to let out the old year, and the Pratts’ girls had decorated the arch with ferns and white-belled Kaihua flowers. The Reverend and Jimmie had already been the subject of much praise for their handiwork, and even Mrs Pratt had commented it was pretty enough to make do for a May bride. The port had been uncorked, the Apple Jonathan dish licked clean, and Maria, whose swollen eyes were noticed only by her mother, had been called to the head of the table. “My friends, it is almost midnight.” Reverend Edwards said, checking his pocket watch. “Let our sweetest voice sing us into the new year with Auld Lang Syne, Maria? If you please?” “Perhaps Maria is too tired to sing tonight.” Mrs Edwards muttered to the Reverend, “I hear she has had rather an adventurous day.” “Nonsense, she by far has the best voice of us all! Would you rather our James sing?” The table burst into laughter, James shouted mock protests, and the Reverend had laughed so much he’d had a coughing fit. “Come, Maria,” he gasped, waving his kerchief at her, “Sing for us.” Maria swallowed, and stepped forward, out of the bruising gaze of her mother. Her voice carried through the valley, the echo of the hills created a gentle canon to her words, and their guests looked about them in wonder. We too have paddled in the stream From morning sun to night But the seas between us broad have roared From auld lang syne... She took a breath for the final verse, but stopped, a look of shock on her face as she stared at the archway. Both her mother and father turned, the rest of their table peered around to find the cause of her distress. There Ari stood, bare chest, in his skirted Piu Piu, cupping a cloth bag in his hands. “I have brought you a gift, Maria. For your whānau.” He said, stepping through the gate. *


“You look like an orb.” I shift my gaze at the distant horizon taking note of the way the poppies and the buttercups brush the pads of my fingers in gentle sweeps. The bite of the tundra, that kisses the parts of my exposed skin, subsides as a single ray of light escapes the cover of a tiny cloud. This light bathes a patch of reddish-brown hair, intensifying its color to a vibrant red, and highlights the silhouette of a sleeping lump in the vegetation five fox steps away from me. I move to lie on my stomach as I reach out to pet my baby mammoth. My palms disappear in the soft, shaggy expanse of the fur of Massak’s belly. “A lazy orb.” I laugh. Massak shifts and squirms as I rub his belly in swift, swiping movements. I move my head just in time to avoid the solid tusk that swings my way as Massak tries to burrow the back of his body into the damp surface of the earth. “Ayyaa! Watch it!” I breathe. “Who’s going to fend off the hunters when I’m knocked out cold?” Massak bows his massive head, avoiding direct eye contact. I watch the way the snow curves under his weight, leaving a print of a single tusk when he lifts his head again. I lean forward and press my forehead to the base of his trunk just shy of his gentle eyes the color of bleached bones. He trumpets as I sing softly. The rustle of hooves from a herd of caribou grazing lichen and dried sedges blends with the melody. The air is still. I lift my hand, hovering closely to the jagged nub of where a tusk should be. Our breaths are slow. Faint whimpers escape Massak. Warm tears tumble slowly down the plains of my face like cracks in thin ice. I sing the pain away. Large palms pour droplets of melted snow into my mouth. The water is crisp and refreshing against the heat of the fire. “Salty.” I giggle into the back of my hand as I wipe away the drops from my chin. Embers sizzle and pop from the flames. “These hands...” I stare, confused. “...sorted through dried fish earlier!” my brother, Sitka, teases sucking in his cheeks and plumping out his lips. He splays all ten fingers behind his ears and wiggles them like the fins of a sculpin. I laugh, apparently distracted, because the next thing I know, I’m scooped up in an embrace. “Ataata!” Sitka shouts. I yelp, wound tight but safe in a comforting kind of warmth. My mother abandons the qulliq she was tending from inside and runs to join my father’s embrace. Seconds later, Sitka fuses himself with our mass of limbs. We find ourselves toppling over onto the packed snow. Bright smiles adorn the faces of my loved ones. Sitka and I sit on plush fur as my father recounts tales of his journey back home. My mother sits across from him, patiently warming his feet under her arms. “I have something to show you.” My father whispers at the end a lively account about how he trekked the same path as a polar bear. He takes out a big bundle, from an open pack, and cradles it in his lap. A tiny, reddish-brown head pops out. My ancestors live in the sky. On nights like these, I watch as they play games with the skull of a walrus. Vibrant green streaks paint their tracks. “Take us home.” I pat Massak on the hump of his shoulder. Ice crystals line my lashes and brows. I pull the hood of my parka a little closer to my frost-bitten cheeks. It’s dangerous to be out in the open this late at night. I take note of our surroundings: the path is dark; a distant rumble rips through the air as clusters of ice tumble into the sea. As if in response, a chorus of howling, from a pack of wolves, combat the thundering noises. Massak trembles beneath me. We’ve traveled this route many moons over. “We’ll make it.” I try to comfort him. He shakes his head, curling his trunk and blowing air. I gently guide Massak away from a seal hole that is thinly iced over. We travel deep into the night. Sleep threatens to snare my small form the way a starving hunter might to a lemming in the toughest of winters. I listen to its call. I’m lying next to Sitka in a small patch of dried sedge. A tiny Massak nips at the blades of grass by Sitka’s shoulder. Wind rustles through my brother’s unkempt hair. The rims of his irises are deep amber. Flecks of amethyst dot the space in between. The wind shifts its path, weaving through the bones of a dead whale nearby. The breath of land is as relentless as a saber-tooth tiger pushed to starvation. I open my eyes. Instead of savage winds, a gentle kind of stillness silences the fear that threatened to overcome me moments ago. My soul and body move, but not in the way I’m used to. It’s as if they exist as separate entities. I watch as my body walks with Massak through a cave that houses an ethereal kind of glow. My soul trails behind. It’s cold, but there’s no parka covering my body. I close my eyes and dip my toes in the water. Small ripples meet and disperse themselves. Massak and my body keep to the edge of the underground river. My soul attaches itself to the water. As I wade through, a thick scent of brine coats my senses. Strands of long, dark hair follow the wake of my footsteps like veins in an intricate web of flesh, tangling my progress. I walk until I am immobile. There’s a woman standing next to Massak. They’re so far away now. She’s holding the left side of his face, except he’s no longer a mammoth. He’s standing on two legs covered in smooth skin instead of thick fur. He looks like my kind. I blink and deep strands curl tighter around me. A comb made of bone floats by just beyond my grasp. Nuliajuk . The cave silently echoes a name. A cold sensation cradles the back of my head. The energy of something old, something ancient, pulses through my body. My soul struggles to grab hold of the bone to comb myself out of her hair. My body watches my soul. My soul watches my body. It’s an unnatural exchange. Then, the man--the same one down the river--is holding me in an embrace, but instead of skin, it’s fur that meets mine.