Meetingplace

                                                            

                              A typical New Year morning on the Coast. After a bright, promising sunrise, the earth surrendered its stored-up coolness to condense the water vapour which was invisible not five minutes ago. Now it's so misty that trees barely a hundred feet away are only hazy outlines like an old man's short term memory.

               He went outside to gaze at his trees. They were pearled with dew and dripping in a restful way. He smiled to see tiny fat birds hopping on the slender branches like outsized Christmas ornaments. The air wasn't exactly cold, not like what it was like up North. There, they would have killed for a mild January morning like this. But at least when it wasn't snowing in the higher latitudes, it was piercingly bright. The Coast was more like an impressionist sketch, all muted tones and softness. The North was photo-realism: all clearly demarcated planes, and sharp edges. Naked sun reflected off of snow will do that. Nobody ever suffered snow blindness on the Coast.

               Coastal sun was like your granny's hugs, gentle, soppy, undemanding, hidden in endless folds of old woman clothing. It was more hinted at than realized. Even the weather reports on the Coast were cursed with a sense of maybe-not-likely-but-maybe. Only a weatherman here can get away with the imprecision of a forecast suggesting that there was a 40 percent chance of rain, clouds, partial sun. Why not throw in a 5 percent chance of a tsunami to make it interesting?

               His wife was a Northern girl. She mourned the insipid winters here, moaned at the continual lowering skies, gray and dull. She was like a rainbow trout forced to live in a duck pond, muddy and opaque. She remembers mad Viking winters that killed and laughed in the killing. Blizzards that closed down the interstate, and plows working twenty-four-seven. She remembers jumping off the roof of her parents' barn with her brothers  into snow drifts five feet high.

               Here on the Coast, it could snow too but generally it would create just a momentarily frosted landscape subject to almost immediate melting and blending into a dirty slush, an Ovaltine smoothy.

               It had snowed just before Christmas which sent the children into a frenzy of  snowman-building and their parents into a less enthusiastic campaign of driveway-clearing. It didn't last, of course, because on the Coast there is an unwritten rule stating that all snow must be melted by Christmas Day.

               He passed by his little garden and smiled to see flower buds under the weather-beaten leaves of his hellebore looking as though they were pondering the risk of opening earlier this year. It must be difficult to be a plant here, he mused. You never know when the weather would toss an unexpected curve ball at you. He remembered a November several years ago where a sudden Arctic outflow had shocked some of his plants, killing half a hydrangea that wasn't planted far enough out of the icy wind. All of his careful pruning next spring could not hide its quadriplegia. He eventually had to dig it up and consign it to the compost heap.

               He looked past the cold drizzle into the sky past the power lines. There was a dim pearly brightness to the west which promised what? More rain? Torrents of rain? Buckets? Cats and dogs? He thought about a hike into the green hills. Sometimes when the clouds were low enough, you could climb right through them up into blue skies. It made him feel a little like a Norse god, enthroned in light while his poor huddled humanity struggled blindly in bleak darkness.

               The hill was ringed about with hiking trails courtesy of the local mountain bike club. So devoted to their obsession were they that they carved miles of switchbacks over bridges of split-cedar and jumps that chilled him to consider flying off. No wonder the most avid ones were armoured and helmeted like they were about to be shot out of a cannon.

               It was a truly crappy day for a hike but as he liked to brag to his long suffering friends, "If we don't go up when the weather's terrible we'd never hike here." His wife was stoically accustomed to his muddy wet boots tracking up the front hall and him appearing hair plastered flat to his skull and  as bedraggled as though he'd hiked through a waterfall. Getting dreadfully wet always made him feel like he'd accomplished something great for which he could reward himself with a steaming cup of tea elevated by a shot of Grand Marnier.

               He called to his cocker spaniel and plucked his car keys from their hook. For some reason, the dog would not venture out into the rain. He found himself dragging her by the leash if she judged it to be too wet for her ebony curls. But jingle the keys and she was in the car like a shot not wanting to miss the potential fun. Once they had driven to their parking space on the hill, she was as gung-ho for a walk as he was despite the deluge.

               She stole onto the passenger seat where she could fully enjoy the drive. He preferred her in the back where his wife had laid out on old blanket but the dog could not be dissuaded. "I should have called you 'Shotgun'," he said to her. She just wagged her tail.

               He felt restless, thinking about which path he would take. He had climbed them all so many times. On impulse, he drove past the usual hill and pressed on to another place where he liked to hike. It was another wilderness area sitting cheek by jowl with a Planned Community that they'd built there in the last ten years. He had taken advantage of their brand new roads and alleys to teach all his children how to parallel park. It was a curious place full of beautiful houses built so close to each other that it reminded him of the pretty girls in middle school walking with their shoulders huddled close together to exclude the less popular girls. All the streets were named after prominent Canadian cultural icons so that some of their glow would adhere to the upwardly mobile home-buyers. They had no fear of the homeless on their privileged properties; they were at least ten miles from the downtown area. The poor would have to take a bus.

               He parked by the school that the developer had built for the Community. He noted that it was a Traditional school. It was another sign that these people longed for a mythical past where all their neighbours were good people and all their kids played together in their tiny yards. He couldn't really blame them. Homeless people always made him feel vaguely guilty for being a homeowner with a dog and a nice car. He was judging the Community for being just like him, if a little more brazen about it. Time to hike.

               He knew that somewhere behind the school he could catch the trail that lead into a good hiking area. After a few red herrings involving trails that suggested the right direction but petered out under massive cedars and hemlocks, he found the right trail and started down the brisk descent to the creek. There was a couple of logs for a bridge but he didn't know how rotted they were so he trod lightly. The spaniel had no such hesitation and raced across as if to say, "Hurry up! There's great things to smell over here!" No sooner had they crossed over than he could see the road ahead. He hated the thought of just walking on asphalt to link up with the return trail so he decided to probe the bush to the north of the road. Perhaps there would be a trail roughly parallel to the road?

               He wandered along the road until he saw a bright yellow meridian laid across an obvious trail head to keep the 4 by 4'ers out. God bless the government for making such an obvious signpost. He started to hike up the steep muddy trail. As he climbed, willing his middle-aged body to keep on going, he noticed the spaniel frisking up the trail like she was a pup, like gravity didn't apply to her. He stopped at the summit to catch his breath and look out over the vista. He saw the Community where he'd parked and was surprised at how far away it looked. Time to get a move on before the winter sun gave up the ghost around four o'clock.

               The trail was covered over with dead leaves and difficult to make out in the shade of the evergreens. He just followed the spaniel. Dogs always knew which way to take. She was always looking back as if to say, "This way, right?" "Good girl!" he would say. It was a good partnership. They walked under trees that had been blown over in the last windstorm. Many of these trees were covered thickly with luminous emerald moss and leaning over precariously as though bowing to him. It was a bit like walking through a green fairy land, he thought, especially when the sun burst through the clouds and lit up the trees. Green fire, he thought to himself. He wished his cheap cell's camera could capture such glory.

               I stopped to look all around him. It was like being in a royal court, all lit up and hushed with expectation, waiting for the king to take his throne on Coronation Day. What a curious thought, he mused. Too much Tolkien lately. Nevertheless, he didn't move but joined the trees in wordless expectation.

               It occurred to him that the air was charged with a Presence. He dropped slowly to his middle-aged knees. He felt like he had the time he was in the ancient monastery scriptorium. Was he in a holy place like Jacob sleeping with a rock for his pillow? His dog, spiritually deaf and dumb, nosed him indicating the trail ahead of them and how wonderful it would be to get back to it. "Hush," he whispered to her, scratching her under her chin. She sighed and settled down beside him to suck at one of her paws.

               Through the canopy of the Douglas firs over his head, the sun send her rays down illumining him as though he was under a spotlight. He felt compelled to wait. But for what? he wondered. Patience, counselled an inner voice.

               He heard a flock of birds fly overhead singing and as he watched them flying north to south, en masse, they abruptly wheeled around and -still singing-landed in the firs all around him, like a congregation taking their seats in the pews. Why were they singing? Why are you kneeling?

               I am in the presence of God, he said quietly stilling the voices competing inside his head. He could feel a Presence ever more acutely all around him. If I had eyes to see, would I see angels? Would I see a bush burning? Wheels within wheels a-turnin'? He shivered with ecstasy, tears streaming from his eyes.

               And just like that, it was gone and he was alone again. No, not alone just maybe a little less Together, he thought. The birds flew off to follow the angels into the suddenly cloudy sky.

Meeting

                                                           

 

                              A typical New Year morning on the Coast. After a bright, promising sunrise, the earth surrendered its stored-up coolness to condense the water vapour which was invisible not five minutes ago. Now it's so misty that trees barely a hundred feet away are only hazy outlines like an old man's short term memory.

               He went outside to gaze at his trees. They were pearled with dew and dripping in a restful way. He smiled to see tiny fat birds hopping on the slender branches like outsized Christmas ornaments. The air wasn't exactly cold, not like what it was like up North. There, they would have killed for a mild January morning like this. But at least when it wasn't snowing in the higher latitudes, it was piercingly bright. The Coast was more like an impressionist sketch, all muted tones and softness. The North was photo-realism: all clearly demarcated planes, and sharp edges. Naked sun reflected off of snow will do that. Nobody ever suffered snow blindness on the Coast.

               Coastal sun was like your granny's hugs, gentle, soppy, undemanding, hidden in endless folds of old woman clothing. It was more hinted at than realized. Even the weather reports on the Coast were cursed with a sense of maybe-not-likely-but-maybe. Only a weatherman here can get away with the imprecision of a forecast suggesting that there was a 40 percent chance of rain, clouds, partial sun. Why not throw in a 5 percent chance of a tsunami to make it interesting?

               His wife was a Northern girl. She mourned the insipid winters here, moaned at the continual lowering skies, gray and dull. She was like a rainbow trout forced to live in a duck pond, muddy and opaque. She remembers mad Viking winters that killed and laughed in the killing. Blizzards that closed down the interstate, and plows working twenty-four-seven. She remembers jumping off the roof of her parents' barn with her brothers  into snow drifts five feet high.

               Here on the Coast, it could snow too but generally it would create just a momentarily frosted landscape subject to almost immediate melting and blending into a dirty slush, an Ovaltine smoothy.

               It had snowed just before Christmas which sent the children into a frenzy of  snowman-building and their parents into a less enthusiastic campaign of driveway-clearing. It didn't last, of course, because on the Coast there is an unwritten rule stating that all snow must be melted by Christmas Day.

               He passed by his little garden and smiled to see flower buds under the weather-beaten leaves of his hellebore looking as though they were pondering the risk of opening earlier this year. It must be difficult to be a plant here, he mused. You never know when the weather would toss an unexpected curve ball at you. He remembered a November several years ago where a sudden Arctic outflow had shocked some of his plants, killing half a hydrangea that wasn't planted far enough out of the icy wind. All of his careful pruning next spring could not hide its quadriplegia. He eventually had to dig it up and consign it to the compost heap.

               He looked past the cold drizzle into the sky past the power lines. There was a dim pearly brightness to the west which promised what? More rain? Torrents of rain? Buckets? Cats and dogs? He thought about a hike into the green hills. Sometimes when the clouds were low enough, you could climb right through them up into blue skies. It made him feel a little like a Norse god, enthroned in light while his poor huddled humanity struggled blindly in bleak darkness.

               The hill was ringed about with hiking trails courtesy of the local mountain bike club. So devoted to their obsession were they that they carved miles of switchbacks over bridges of split-cedar and jumps that chilled him to consider flying off. No wonder the most avid ones were armoured and helmeted like they were about to be shot out of a cannon.

               It was a truly crappy day for a hike but as he liked to brag to his long suffering friends, "If we don't go up when the weather's terrible we'd never hike here." His wife was stoically accustomed to his muddy wet boots tracking up the front hall and him appearing hair plastered flat to his skull and  as bedraggled as though he'd hiked through a waterfall. Getting dreadfully wet always made him feel like he'd accomplished something great for which he could reward himself with a steaming cup of tea elevated by a shot of Grand Marnier.

               He called to his cocker spaniel and plucked his car keys from their hook. For some reason, the dog would not venture out into the rain. He found himself dragging her by the leash if she judged it to be too wet for her ebony curls. But jingle the keys and she was in the car like a shot not wanting to miss the potential fun. Once they had driven to their parking space on the hill, she was as gung-ho for a walk as he was despite the deluge.

               She stole onto the passenger seat where she could fully enjoy the drive. He preferred her in the back where his wife had laid out on old blanket but the dog could not be dissuaded. "I should have called you 'Shotgun'," he said to her. She just wagged her tail.

               He felt restless, thinking about which path he would take. He had climbed them all so many times. On impulse, he drove past the usual hill and pressed on to another place where he liked to hike. It was another wilderness area sitting cheek by jowl with a Planned Community that they'd built there in the last ten years. He had taken advantage of their brand new roads and alleys to teach all his children how to parallel park. It was a curious place full of beautiful houses built so close to each other that it reminded him of the pretty girls in middle school walking with their shoulders huddled close together to exclude the less popular girls. All the streets were named after prominent Canadian cultural icons so that some of their glow would adhere to the upwardly mobile home-buyers. They had no fear of the homeless on their privileged properties; they were at least ten miles from the downtown area. The poor would have to take a bus.

               He parked by the school that the developer had built for the Community. He noted that it was a Traditional school. It was another sign that these people longed for a mythical past where all their neighbours were good people and all their kids played together in their tiny yards. He couldn't really blame them. Homeless people always made him feel vaguely guilty for being a homeowner with a dog and a nice car. He was judging the Community for being just like him, if a little more brazen about it. Time to hike.

               He knew that somewhere behind the school he could catch the trail that lead into a good hiking area. After a few red herrings involving trails that suggested the right direction but petered out under massive cedars and hemlocks, he found the right trail and started down the brisk descent to the creek. There was a couple of logs for a bridge but he didn't know how rotted they were so he trod lightly. The spaniel had no such hesitation and raced across as if to say, "Hurry up! There's great things to smell over here!" No sooner had they crossed over than he could see the road ahead. He hated the thought of just walking on asphalt to link up with the return trail so he decided to probe the bush to the north of the road. Perhaps there would be a trail roughly parallel to the road?

               He wandered along the road until he saw a bright yellow meridian laid across an obvious trail head to keep the 4 by 4'ers out. God bless the government for making such an obvious signpost. He started to hike up the steep muddy trail. As he climbed, willing his middle-aged body to keep on going, he noticed the spaniel frisking up the trail like she was a pup, like gravity didn't apply to her. He stopped at the summit to catch his breath and look out over the vista. He saw the Community where he'd parked and was surprised at how far away it looked. Time to get a move on before the winter sun gave up the ghost around four o'clock.

               The trail was covered over with dead leaves and difficult to make out in the shade of the evergreens. He just followed the spaniel. Dogs always knew which way to take. She was always looking back as if to say, "This way, right?" "Good girl!" he would say. It was a good partnership. They walked under trees that had been blown over in the last windstorm. Many of these trees were covered thickly with luminous emerald moss and leaning over precariously as though bowing to him. It was a bit like walking through a green fairy land, he thought, especially when the sun burst through the clouds and lit up the trees. Green fire, he thought to himself. He wished his cheap cell's camera could capture such glory.

               I stopped to look all around him. It was like being in a royal court, all lit up and hushed with expectation, waiting for the king to take his throne on Coronation Day. What a curious thought, he mused. Too much Tolkien lately. Nevertheless, he didn't move but joined the trees in wordless expectation.

               It occurred to him that the air was charged with a Presence. He dropped slowly to his middle-aged knees. He felt like he had the time he was in the ancient monastery scriptorium. Was he in a holy place like Jacob sleeping with a rock for his pillow? His dog, spiritually deaf and dumb, nosed him indicating the trail ahead of them and how wonderful it would be to get back to it. "Hush," he whispered to her, scratching her under her chin. She sighed and settled down beside him to suck at one of her paws.

               Through the canopy of the Douglas firs over his head, the sun send her rays down illumining him as though he was under a spotlight. He felt compelled to wait. But for what? he wondered. Patience, counselled an inner voice.

               He heard a flock of birds fly overhead singing and as he watched them flying north to south, en masse, they abruptly wheeled around and -still singing-landed in the firs all around him, like a congregation taking their seats in the pews. Why were they singing? Why are you kneeling?

               I am in the presence of God, he said quietly stilling the voices competing inside his head. He could feel a Presence ever more acutely all around him. If I had eyes to see, would I see angels? Would I see a bush burning? Wheels within wheels a-turnin'? He shivered with ecstasy, tears streaming from his eyes.

               And just like that, it was gone and he was alone again. No, not alone just maybe a little less Together, he thought. The birds flew off to follow the angels into the suddenly cloudy sky.

Another Unlikely Adventure for Tim, Boy Magician

               Tim was infuriated. His granny had, once again, overridden his explicit instructions not to wake him up before noon. "Senile old bat," he muttered well under his breath. Granny Hazel might look fragile but she had the unpleasant habit of punctuating her main points in any debate with a knitting needle.

               He went on muttering as he sluiced cold water on his face. Why did he go out drinking with Ted the Indistinct and John G. Fabulous? They were losers and probably budding alcoholics. He knew that he couldn't handle such activities with his inexperienced liver but he was bored, bored, bored! Living with Granny H. was like living in  a public library: no loud talking, no spitting, and no fun. But at least she had been willing to take him in after his big blow-up with Dick Deadly, the Necrotizer. Gad, what a miscalculation that had been! If he was lucky some of his body hair would grow back before middle age.

               Meanwhile, he needed a job so that he could get away from Granny H's tender care. He went back to his bed stand and gave Wizard's Weekly (motto: spells by the ell) a determined perusal. He was in luck. One of the ads in the back was seeking a magician with pluck and panache to rid a well-situated village from the depredations of a ruthless band of dwarves. Dwarves? Tim snorted. He would clean up the half pints and collect his bag of gold in a quick hour!

               He sneaked his way quietly out of his Granny's cottage to avoid an unpleasant argument and was soon on his way to Lower Swithin to make his fortune.

               You'd like Lower Swithin. Lovely town center with an actual Italian fountain bubbling merrily in the middle, spacious meeting hall where the franklins meet with the mayor each Wednesday, and a merry brook running along its western wall. Tim whistled, impressed as all heck. This was a rich village. Perhaps, he'd settle here, marry and build a nice bungalow. Things were looking up for him.

               "Hold on, you!" said a hairy voice, which belonged to a green skinned goblin. A goblin with sharp claws and even sharper fangs. Long and unpleasantly white fangs which were glistening in the bright August sun.

               "Who are you?" asked Tim politely.

               "I'm a goblin, you ijjit!" snarled the goblin. "'Oo t'hell are you?"

               "Er...I'm just here to visit my sick uncle. I mean you no harm," said Tim, hoping to placate the hideous creature.

               "You mean me no 'arm?" laughed the goblin. "Pipsqueak  like you!"

               "Appearances can be deceiving," said Tim, a little stung by the goblin's snide words.

               "Yeah, they'd 'ave t'be!" snickered the goblin. "You look like a soft-palmed, lily-livered bit of baby's puke!"

               "Oh yes?" said Tim, heatedly. "Allaka-reelo, chango-forrealzo!" he chanted, pointing his left hand directly at the goblin's misshapen snout. Immediately the goblin's nose turned into a butterfly which fluttered off, leaving the goblin looking nonplussed.

               "A magician?" gasped the goblin in an excessively nasal voice which I will not even attempt to reproduce.

               "That's right, punk. And if you don't want to risk losing another body part you'd better take me to the mayor immediately!" Tim was feeling pleased as punch with his spell. It's nice when it works on the first go and Tim's spells did not always do so.

               "Now you're for it!" snarled the goblin, running into a nearby hut.

               Immediately, a troop of goblins came raging out brandishing unpleasant-looking swords and hooting with rage.

               "These are not dwarves!" said Tim, who was pretty quick on the uptake. "Allaka-smoothy, Gravitas removy," he said quickly. Now, that spell should have caused the goblin horde to start floating in the air like dandelion seeds (only more hideous) but unfortunately he got it a bit wrong. He started to float himself which worked out rather well because at least he was now out of sword-slash range.

               The wind carried him over to a large oak tree where Tim grabbed a nearby branch and tried to remember how to do the spell removal spell. There was something about lifting....shifting? drifting? Tim tried to concentrate with the horde of goblins racing to the oak and trying to climb with outsized swords in their claws (rather harder than you'd imagine).

               Tim saw that one of the brighter goblins (damning with faint praise, I know) had dropped his sword and was flinging himself up the oak like an oversized (and hideous) squirrel. Tim was forced to let go of the oak and continue floating away. The goblins hooted with rage and followed him on his cross-country flight. Tim thought furiously. You can appreciate that his options were limited: cancel the spell and he would be goblin food, or keep on floating and hope that the goblins would tire of their sport. Tim decided that he would try to outlast them. Goblins are a determined lot though and these ones followed him for the better part of the day.

               Then Tim finally had a cunning idea. Goblins can't swim, can they? He would say the wings spell, sprout a pair of fine wings and fly to the sea. Let them come swimming after him! Brilliant!

               "Allaka-zingo, presto-chango-wingso!" he intoned.

               He immediately plunged to the ground where he was seized by the horde of angry goblins. Stupid wings spell thought Tim to himself.

               The goblins carried him back to the village where they had taken up residence. Tim was jostled up and down so vigorously that he felt his brain would come loose at its moorings. It made it hard to remember any helpful spells.

               Tim was tied to a large pole in the village square and goblins started tossing bits of wood and paper at his toes. Tim had a bad feeling about all this. Apparently goblins like their food well cooked. The wings spell was a dismal failure but every spell cast yields some sort of result. And although Tim's "wing spell" did not give him wings, it wasn't without effect, as you will see.

               A particularly hideous goblin (his teeth were perhaps a little more jagged than the rest) brandished a torch and with a revolting chuckle he lit it and thrust it toward the fire. As soon as the torch got within ten feet of Tim it blew up like a firecracker in the startled goblin's claws. All the goblins hooted uncertainly. The very hideous goblin jumped up and down trying to put out the fire which engulfed him.

               "Gaaah!" said the V.H.G. in pain and outrage. He was echoed by all of the other goblins. Being a goblin (determined if not so bright) he relit the torch and marched on poor Tim to set the bonfire ablaze. The same result occurred: and once more the V.H.G. was jumping around putting out the fire on his rather blackened claws.

               Tim was greatly cheered and his brain began working again. "Had enough?" he called out. The goblins fell silent, even the V.H.G. "Maybe you'd like me to set you all on fire?" yelled the plucky lad. All of the goblins howled out a strong protest, especially the V.H.G. "Then you'd better untie me or else!" he cried. Instead all of the goblins lit out for the safety of forest leaving Tim alone at his post. Tim said some unkind things about goblins at that point.

               "Did they all leave?" asked a tiny voice.

               "They did," said Tim wondering who he was talking to.

               "You must be a great wizard," said the voice.

               "Why thank you," said Tim politely. "With whom am I speaking?" he asked, displaying some of his excellent grammar. (He'd always had top marks in English)

               "It's your fairy grandmother," said the voice, as musical as a bell on Easter morning.

               "Don't you mean fairy godmother?" asked Tim.

               "I do not," said the voice, now curiously familiar. Tim gulped. It was the voice of Hazel.

               "Gramma H?" he gulped. She appeared and poked Tim in the stomach with one of her knitting needles.

               "You're (poke) lucky to (poke) have me!" she said. "You're also lucky (poke) that I followed you. What (poke) would you do without me?" and she gave Tim another juicy jab with her needle.

               "But Gramma, you saw me defeat the goblins, didn't you?" he whined.

               "That was me, you foolish boy. Now hold still while I untie you and get you home. It's time for you to rub my bunions!"

               Tim shuddered.