volume 2 | issue 5 | FREE
contents
northern canada collective society for writers
2
editorial
Buffy Close
president Suzanne McGladdery
3
community report
Kiran Malik-Khan
treasurer Cathy Yard
4
all things considered
Cathy Yard
secretary Buffy Close
6
watch out
Angie Gordema
7
boogie man was not the only joke
Reinalie Jorolan
public relations director Kiran Malik-Khan
8
defining superstition
Kiran Malik-Khan
8
a seven year sentence
Dawn Booth
9
that cat and me
Kimberly Jean Fiske
10
the ghosts
Theresa Wells
12
steinhauer bridge
Dane Neufeld
cover Michele Paull
12
wishing
Elizabeth Hamlyn
design & layout Rachel White-Murray
13
and so we live
Neha Gandhi
issue editor Buffy Close
17
sunday
Troy Thomas
managing editor Jane Jacques
19
the devil rides my bus
Cathy Yard
president emiritus Jennifer Hemstock
20
marginalia: a column
Douglas Abel
22
contributors
26
and now a list poem for our favourite superstitions
Kiran Malik-Khan
Thank you to the YMCA of Wood Buffalo for the
generous donation of a room for our monthly meetings. Check NorthWord Facebook and Twitter
or e-mail NorthWordMagazine@gmail.com for meeting dates and times, and please join us!
e-mail northwordmagazine@gmail.com
This Issue: Volume 2, Number 5 Spring 2014 ISSN 1920-6313
Proudly published in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada 56°44’N | 111°07’W
editorial webster’s dictionary defines superstitions as “a belief or practice resulting from ignorance, fear of the unknown, trust in magic or chance, or a false conception of causation” or as “a notion maintained despite evidence to the contrary.”
Canadians are not generally known for their belief in magic, nor for their
ignorance. However, we maintain a great amount of trust in chance and a peculiar drive to honor old superstitions even when we know them to be based on ‘false conception’.
Whether engrained in belief or language alone, superstition is a part of our
daily lives. We unconsciously step over the cracks on the sidewalk while
knowingly crossing our fingers to ward off bad luck. While some superstitions have worn away with time, others thrive and grow, passed on through generations of rhyming and repetition.
The cover artist Michele Paull has been a resident of Fort McMurray for 5 years. She graduated from Langara College in 1996 with a diploma in Professional
Photography. Her piece, “Do You Honor Your Reflection or the Fire Within?” is a
photograph of an authentic Fort McMurray raven, transformed into digital art. The raven, she comments, is a “perfect northern icon” noting that the “warm and cool colors reflect the duality of our relationship with superstition” while alluding to the familiar themes of Hitchcock and Poe.
I hope that you enjoy the selections made for this issue of NorthWord. Sifting through the words to discover what superstition means to our contributors was a fascinating journey through time and tradition, a journey that I gladly share with you now.
Buffy Close |
eleventh issue editor
volume 2 | issue 5
community report
by kiran malik-khan Public Relations Director
new philanthropist, new website, and issue #10 launched
thanked Keyano College, and University Studies depart-
It took Colin Hartigan all of five minutes to sign on the
“Keyano has always been very supportive of us. We appre-
Owner is our newest philanthropist; and we thank him for
our launch event. Keyano has been a supporter of the arts
dotted line. Coldwell Banker Fort McMurray’s Broker/
his kindness. True community leaders see the importance of a thriving literary arts scene, and Colin is certainly one.
ment for the collaboration.
ciate the venue, and the technical support provided at in general as well in our community, and that’s always great,” said McGladdery.
Readings from local writers and poets, and an open microphone rounded out the activities.
Board Members Kiran Malik-Khan, Buffy Close, and
member Tara Munn were on the judges’ panel for the
Regional Municipality of Wood Buffalo’s 2014 Words in Motion poetry program. All three ladies enjoyed the
chance to select wondrous verse from local youth and
adults—all of which made it on to city buses to celebrate Thanks to Buffy Close, our Recording Secretary we have a
new website as well. It’s beautiful, and full of information about our publication. Visit: www.northwordmagazine. com, and tell us what you think.
We launched our milestone Issue #10 in collaboration
with Keyano’s annual Arts & Humanities Conference on
March 8, 2014. Buffy Close interviewed Nathan Berube, Issue #10’s guest editor.
“Nothing is all light, or all dark. That’s why I picked the theme of Chiaroscuro—which is an artistic term for light
April as National Poetry Month.
Remember to pick up a copy of our new issue. To advertise, or sponsor, please contact us via: northwordmagazine@ gmail.com. Or, message us through our social media portals listed below.
NorthWord is available free of charge at the Keyano Col-
lege Bookstore, Keyano Reception (front desk), Keyano Library, Frames and More, and the Thickwood YMCA.
Like us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/northword and
follow us on Twitter: @NorthWordYMM.
playing off dark,” explained Berube, who is a local poet.
When asked about his editing experience Berube said it was fun to see so much talent in our community, and he appreciated all the submissions.
“It was just great. I had fun, and Jane Jacques, NorthWord’s
managing editor is a great help if you are stuck on which piece to select,” he added.
Suzanne McGladdery, President, Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers that publishes NorthWord
L-R: Nathan Berube talks about the editing process with Buffy Close at Issue #10's launch event at Keyano College.
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
all things considered cathy yard
Tobias knew he should be up; the sun, four inches above
didn’t leave much room for his skinny frame. He wiggled
by his calculations. The house sounds had settled back
be a good day—a safe day.
the window ledge, indicated it was after nine o’clock
to a fuzzy quietness after the morning crowd had for-
aged and left. He wasn’t particularly taken aback that no one had called up the stairs; no one had missed him
in the morning melee of eight people all going in different directions. It didn’t matter because this year he had
decided to sit out the day anyway, especially after last year’s debacle. He rubbed his right arm in memory of the
painful breakage, still able to hear the sickening crunch
followed by a pain he had never previously experienced, and never wanted to again. He wasn’t superstitious; it was just that Friday the thirteenth’s odds had never been in his favour.
No, he decided to stay in bed and review his rather extensive vintage comic book collection inherited from
his father, which, with careful planning and foresight, he had piled along the bedside edges the previous even-
ing. Along with a couple of loosely wrapped now soggy
Around noon, thoroughly engrossed in his Hulk adven-
ture his spidey sense kicked in. His foot tingled and a
tickle wandered up his back causing downy hairs to
stand. A presence was about to invade his sanctuary, and in the middle of deciding if evil or good was about
to pay a call, he looked up as Missy Midnight Mew slunk
into his room carrying something furry in her mouth, the snowy fur the colour of Jason’s pet hamster. He was undecided if good or evil had arrived.
He stared into agate eyes and frowned, “That better not be Hammy. Come here, let me see.” Whether it was his
fault or not, he would suffer Jason’s retribution if anything happened to the overfed rodent. The fact that Miss Mew wasn’t even his cat, but his mother’s, wouldn’t
matter either. It had something to do with being the second youngest in a line of six boys.
peanut butter and honey sandwiches cut in lopsided tri-
Missy glared and halted halfway between the door and
because his mother subscribed to an apple a day theory
cent tail.
angles just the way he liked them; one Ambrosia apple and even though he no longer liked apples he felt for her
sake he should at least be mindful; several long necked bottles of homemade ginger beer pilfered from the cool depths of the basement filled with effervescent bubbles waiting to be uncapped, and a mason jar half-filled with
hoarded rubbery gummy bears. The last item had been
bought months before with birthday money from Gram. Even though Gram never specified what he was to spend
his bed, disdain signalled by the twitch of her magnifi“Here kitty, kitty,” Tobias wheedled. He watched as the cat gathered her haunches and launched towards his desk in
front of the window. She soared over his chair and landed
with a thud, scattering three of his favourite Pokémons
onto the floor. Once situated, she dropped the matted fur and growled as she batted with her paws, pouncing and releasing only to recapture as she relived the hunt.
the money on he knew she wanted him to purchase
“Aw, come on. Bring it here, that’s a good girl.” Blood
time to reconsider, their sticky mass was lodged firmly
prize before it was too late he reached under his pillow,
books, but the gummy bears shouted and before he had
in his backpack and he stood on the sidewalk blinking in
the sunlight. He hadn’t regretted his decision and it was lucky he was small for his ten years as the crowded bed
4
his toes. As long as he stayed on the bed it was going to
dotted his desk top. Desperate to distract the cat from its
fingers seeking the garlic bulb he kept to ward of the nightriders that rode his dreams after he finished the
second Twilight book, and launched the missile at the
volume 2 | issue 5
cat. Bull’s-eye. The cat leapt upwards clawing the win-
ten year-old boys—he had to know what it was. His
her yowl. His anti-lightning acorn collection bounced
ing the rails across a lonely prairie nightscape: if he had
faced Tobias, claws clicking against the wood.
or Superman’s cape or … the list proved endless. But no,
dowsill, arched back and flattened ears underlined by
across the floor. Missy turned, golden eyes slits and A timely retreat was in order and Tobias dove under his
blanket, bracing himself for the inevitable assault. He waited. Twenty-two pounds of midnight vengeance landed on the floor with a thump. He flinched, tension
stretched like Elastic Man’s extendable body, and unable
to wait a moment longer he peered out and sighed in relief as Missy’s backside slunk around the doorframe.
A quick glance revealed the scrap of fur abandoned on his desk. There was something about the stillness that
bothered him – as if life had hit a pause button and he wouldn’t be able to restart it. He estimated the distance
between the end of the bed and the desk – too far, even if he took a running jump. Besides, if he overshot he’d be
through the window without a cape. A quick survey of the room revealed nothing helpful. Slithering his upper
body off the bed he searched underneath for anything that could possibly help him reach the desk without touching the floor. Because that was the deal: if his feet didn’t touch the floor, he hadn’t truly left the bed and he
was still safe. He wasn’t sure if it was a rule or when he’d
decided this debatable point – and it didn’t matter – if he truly believed it then it became an undisputable truth.
The dusky eggplant umbrella took him by surprise. Several weeks ago he’d told his mother he didn’t know where her umbrella had got to, and he hadn’t known
when he’d said it. It could work. He fished it out. The curved handle could possibly hook the furry thing off the
desk, but kneeling at the end of the bed he discovered it was several feet short no matter what contortions he
tried. The umbrella wouldn’t even reach the chair tucked under his desk. Disappointed he sat back.
Unsure why the lump of fur mattered now, he believed with a conviction so pure, so unadulterated by experience, with a ferocious belief only known to undersized
mind churned ideas faster than an oncoming train heat-
Spiderman’s web castings cuffs or Green Lantern’s ring
he only had himself, all sixty-five pounds of bruiseable flesh and breakable bone. He flopped on the bed and
studied the water-stains undulating from the corner of the ceiling. The squiggles looked like ripples generated from skipping stones when they hiccupped across glassy
water. Like the past summer when he had broken his personal record of seven skips. Even Jason hadn’t been able
to beat him. A vision of Renaud Lavillenie breaking the pole vault record for the first time in years flashed.
As he closed the yawning gap between the bed and the desk, for a nanosecond his weight delicately balanced
on the umbrella handle, he heard the snick followed
immediately by the whoosh of an eggplant blooming. The opening of the umbrella, uncounted for in his cal-
culations, forced his free arm to pin wheel, allowing him to miraculously gain a foothold on the edge of the
desk. In an effort to secure his perch he gave one last
push, knocked his chair to the floor and surrendered
the umbrella to the room where it bounced, coming to rest against the bed. Not the most graceful move, but certainly victorious. Feet tucked under him, he leaned
against the window frame until his heartbeat settled and his breath evened.
Thankfully, the scrap of fur proved not to be Hammy, but a rabbit’s foot. Not soft or pretty with a gold top and
chain, or dyed green like Jeff’s at school that he coveted, but a lumpy bit of fur with blood and sinew protruding
from the upper end. Nothing that a bit of trimming and
tape couldn’t fix. He rummaged in the desk drawer for
scissors, tape and a shoelace. It was still a rabbit’s foot, and because none of his five siblings owned a pet rabbit he didn’t spend any time considering whose it might
have been. Luck was like that, it happened all around
him, good and bad. He’d learned to grab the good and duck and dodge the bad.
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
With his newly acquired treasure secured around his
up again. She’d also told him if he sniffed dandelions he
back to bed, no food or drink, no afternoon spent lost in
good measure, because he’d inherited his mother’s long
neck, Tobias surveyed his room. There would be no going super-hero-dom. He was going to be grounded when
his mom discovered the phone messages from school. He’d probably miss his favourite TV shows for the next week, and it went without saying Saturday’s visit to Dino-o-rama was off the table as well. It wouldn’t hurt
to try balance his luck quota. He whipped off his t-shirt, turned it inside out and pulled it back on. Gram had told
him it was lucky to wear your clothes inside out when
he’d asked her why her shirt seams were on the outside, even though he suspected she had just gotten mixed
watch out! angie goredema
would pee his bed. It was just old people talk. Then, for skinny feet and slender toes, ‘monkey toes’ his broth-
ers called them, he crossed his toes. Crossed his fingers, his legs and his arms in a final attempt to tilt luck in his favour, and waited out what remained of the afternoon
hunched on the desk as he thought how he would wear the rabbit’s foot causally around his neck to school the next day. How his friends would crowd around, want to touch it, want to trade him for the privilege of wearing
it for a day. All things considered, it had been a good day.
It happened for a week. I would wake up and go to bed thinking about it. I knew it. I knew it would happen. The only question was when? Everyone
seemed all right, but I could tell, sooner or later I would find out what it was. It bothered me so much that I couldn’t play with my friends. How could I? I was so afraid. I feared the unknown because I was certain it would happen.
Then on Sunday, early in the morning my mother almost confirmed. “Your father is not feeling well, he is asking for his twin brother, I am going to get him and I will be right back.”
Consumed by fear, I went to a nearby quiet forest and sat down with my back leaning against my favorite tree. I wanted to look at the sky and clear my mind, but my eye kept bothering me. After an hour or so, I heard my friend Emma running towards me saying something and calling my name.
“Angie! Where are you? Your mom is back, she is crying uncontrollably. Angie! Angie! Angie! Angie! ... …” I could and can still hear Emma’s voice.
As we were walking towards the house, Emma grabbed my hand and said, “You can’t do anything about it Angie, he is dead.” Yes, he was dead, just like that. A few days later I was told he died of liver failure. But I knew it. My left eye warned me, it twitched for a week before my papa died.
6
volume 2 | issue 5
boogie man was not the only joke reinalie jorolan
In the land of my distant childhood
Where dream catcher was kept untold And violence at home hit the roof
Like hungry bats swooning in the kloof I thought of the boogie man as a joke
Prancing about on its stinky hairy cloak All because… In some nights,
I was chased by a pack of hybrid wolves Dressed in silky fangs and devil's robes
Their howls of horror melted a brick wall
Then stringy sharp claws punctured my soul And with no delay swallowed me whole! In most nights,
Those sordid spirits emerged from the gory sea And stole my mommy’s hugs and heart away
Then buried them in the neighbour’s bales of hay! So I searched and searched for what were stolen from me And prayed and prayed for sunbursts everyday Alas! One night,
I hung out with insomnia and poetry
We then came up with a bold conspiracy—
We told the world the crimes of the hybrid wolves And of those sordid spirits' conniving moves!
With sharpened metaphors and crafty words We poked and poked their meanest souls, And with no delay they ran like fools.
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
defining superstition kiran malik-khan
She said—it’s when belief meets disbelief Fascinating
It’s as if she’s got a microscope to study souls Should I tell her
I’m not good at untangling things?
Cords, chains, riddles, convoluted people— What does it mean?
Should I also tell her
I don’t listen to the “in case of emergency instructions” on an airplane
lest the plane go down, and I would have to apply said instructions
That’s not superstitious at all now is it? Yet, I stay suspended between belief and disbelief
a seven year sentence dawn booth
Shattered reflection. A soul broken, damaged, trapped.
Seven years’ worth of revenge for a careless act. Mastering misdirection. Spin, spin, spin.
Breaking the series of misfortune, for a new cycle to begin.
Neutralizing the negativity, havoc, and
mayhem.
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volume 2 | issue 5
that cat and me
kimberly jean fiske
Walking, he follows; a thin, black stray down past the moment, over the morning hills,
behind a late spring sun and underneath the umbrella forest of me.
Thick, lush leftovers of living;
a foundation of rot and nutrients, damp at my feet. Trees sweat drips of winter chill in superstitious quivers
along the feline’s spine. He is quick to hiss a catty retort.
Sap stirs a dozen rings of history alive. Secrets whirl through the grain.
Words wrapped in the bark of youth;
ravels of letters dispatched to the tips of lanky limbs. Roots till the tangled magic of time, pushing dirt and physics
to their unlimited potential.
A season remembering itself long tucked under a sleepy blanket of pause. Sharp claws dig deep, with
the nervous, abstract breeze in a songbird’s mock, familiar tone.
“Why did I follow her?” I hear him think. “Shhh,” I whisper, wishing for a pen.
We are the rot and the sap, the lush leftovers.
The underneath, the up above. Kissed by a waking summer sun
I turn back toward the heat in the hills and climb the softening dampness;
quivers and secrets and ravels of letters at my feet. That Cat and Me.
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
the ghosts theresa wells
He curls around my legs, meowing with anticipation and desire for the can
of food in my hand. I am about to pull the lid off when she speaks, just two eyes and a forehead visible above the back of her laptop screen.
“Poor kitty,” she says, “so slow with the food. What kind of establishment is this?”
And I stand frozen in time. “Where did you hear that?” I say. “Have I ever said that to you? Have I ever asked that establishment question?” I demand.
The eyes, sometimes brown and sometimes green, look puzzled. Concerned. What has she said wrong, she wonders? And then she shakes her head and says, “I dunno, I just thought it. Why?” Her eyes are inquisitive now, not understanding my reaction, my face, my trembling hands.
“Your grandfather,” I say shakily. “Your grandfather. He always said that, about the cat, whenever the cat was unhappy,” and I stare at her with wonder, as her
grandfather has been dead for years, and her memories of him are faint and few. It is one of those moments when I am filled with awe, because I have never
believed in ghosts. I have never been a spiritual person, never religious, never
thought there could be more than what was in front of my eyes and in direct
view, and yet in recent months I have seen glimpses of things I don’t understand. Packing up my garage to move after my husband and I separated, in tears as I
sorted through the detritus of almost 30 years of a life together. I take her bicy-
cle and move it against some boxes, and my bicycle falls over on the floor in the process, lying there like a dead thing on the dusty floor. I need a break from the
sorting and the pain and so I step outside the garage. The door is in my view the entire time, and it is just me and the ghosts of my past life, or so I think.
I go back inside the garage and the bicycle that was on the floor is now
propped up against some boxes, lifted by an unseen hand. I fling myself
against the wall, convinced someone is in the garage with me as I can feel
them there, but there is no one. I am alone. And yet the bike has been picked up, just as my father picked up my bicycle when I was a child, the bicycles he always bought me as a surprise, arriving home unannounced with a new
bicycle for me even when I didn’t need a new one. The bicycles he was constantly picking up and propping against a wall when I left them lying on the lawn or the driveway or the garage floor.
The ghosts in the garage were not the ones I expected. Unpacking in my new house, feeling uncertain and overwhelmed at a life now
suddenly my own, just her and me and the pets. I am working for hours in the 10
volume 2 | issue 5
kitchen, unpacking box after box, frantically trying to make
are here and real and in my life. And yet here they are, no
work without a break for hours, and then suddenly decide
times they are so close I can feel them. Sometimes I can
sense of my new cabinets and new home and new life. I
to go sit in the living room for a moment with a cold drink. And then I hear it, the smashing of glass as the light fixture
denying their presence and their guiding hand. Some-
detect the scent of cedar wood shavings from his shop, and cinnamon buns from her kitchen.
directly above where I was working explodes, spraying
Perhaps they were never there before because I did not
been injured, no doubt, as I find shards of glass embedded
closed to their presence that even if they showed them-
glass all over the room. Had I been there I would have in cardboard boxes on the floor. My mother, long gone, had always loved her kitchen, loved to cook, and loved to
take care of me, keeping me from harm and from shards of glass that threatened my skin and my heart.
I have never believed in ghosts, and have resisted giving
in to the inevitable, to the acknowledgement that they
need them. Perhaps my heart and mind had been so selves I did not see them. But they are here now, in an unseen hand that picks up a fallen bicycle, a thought to
leave a room a moment before a light fixture explodes, a voice that comes from a child that carries their legacy. They are not the ghosts I expected. They are the ghosts I have needed.
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
steinhauer bridge dane neufeld
Four white tails caper across generated shadows Sharp as ice, etched onto gravel and grass, paled
In the dying strength of the highway’s moan, which Breaks on a row of trailers trickling into the woods.
The dark morning slides along the industrial curve, Opening safely against the bluffs, a cycle enclosing Our days—smoothed stones crumbled from black
Hills, washed and buried in the bones of a new age. Flat beds rattle on their axels and skip across the
Joints; an engine brake sears the chilled air as red Lights flash and blur in frantic swirls of exhaust; Somewhere a sub throbs blindly beneath it all.
Along the banks a strange-faced fox stares vaguely Into the breeze as ravens dive beneath the bridge’s
Bulk, deep and obscure: massively stilled in the sky, Brittle white, and solid straight down to its core.
From below, the muted, distant thrum of tires hiss—
Heard like rapids through the trees—and carry off to Make us wonder if our wills, girded like steel, can
Settle the human heart to hover, where the silent River reaches through soft earth; its murky body
Eases into a final breath, held less for permanence But peace, winding its wounds toward the north:
The spruce-hedged horizon of our southern souls.
wishing
elizabeth hamlyn
12
Fingers crossed, hopeful.
She watches in calm silence Maybe this one time…
volume 2 | issue 5
and so we live neha gandhi
The young man was one of the many sons of a prominent family. He was an idealist, reader of Hemingway and Tolstoy, ardent follower of Dag Hammarskjold’s work with the UN. He thought of education as basis of one’s life
and teaching is where he gravitated. He fought his way to an assistant professorship in Sciences much to his business savvy family’s puzzlement. His name, Narayan.
She was from a small village living with a friend’s family in the big city in pursuit of a college degree in Arts. Having lost her mother at a tender age she had
found solace in books and earned the unenviable place of being the only girl
to reach matriculation in the small village school. It was a challenge, coming from a community that saw women as docile home makers. “What good
would educating a girl do? Once a girl steps out of home she never returns to it fully”, was the general consensus. Educated, young women were known to rebel at traditional domesticity. Her name was Nirja.
The two different orbits converged at a friend’s wedding and there begins the tale.
Narayan and Nirja’s few furtive meetings were chaperoned by concerned cousins for whom they became an embodiment of all things youthful— courage, defiance, passion, independence. They wanted to give up all they
had, for what they wanted to create together. A family affair was out of the equation; two people from different castes and backgrounds did not sit well
with either side. They were married by a civil court judge. Angry at their defiance, the family ‘s doors were shut—both literally and emotionally. Few
friends and secretive siblings maintained a covert and sporadic contact, avoiding the ire of the elder generation.
Initial shock at the dismissal led to an insight; free from norms and confines of family they could define their own life. Devotion to each other and the
call of mysterious future gave them a heady start. Money was not much of a worry; they had his college earnings to survive on. They rented a two room
facility to call home right in the middle of a practical, world weary farming community. Those living there were hard folks, all love spent on coaxing
grains out of the sun baked earth. There was little tolerance for sentimental acts. It was not a choice but living together each day that forced them in to
harmony with their neighbours, more so than with families that distanced themselves; so much so that even a year later the young woman’s approaching motherhood did nothing to soften their stance.
Nirja’s eldest sister, married and a mother of four children herself became the surrogate mother. She had the mother – to – be under her roof to oversee the
birth of the baby and care for few months. There was displeasure from the rest
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
of the family, especially the old father in the village but
something beyond his understanding, he was unable
and husband supporting the disowned young couple.
eager anticipation just hours ago.
there was little he could do to affect the eldest daughter
The baby’s arrival was eagerly awaited. A living proof of
“And, what do you think happened?” My aunt’s myopic
gression into the accepted societal practices, the circle of
never heard of such a baby in my life too, but you were
their love and ability to carry on in the battle. It was pro-
life offering them a chance at mending hurt and finding acceptance. The birth itself came as a terrible anticlimax
—the infant, a girl was born with two teeth. Two small, pearly incisors peeking out from the pink, lower mandible; further proof of nothing they ever did falling within acceptable, normal.
“God in heaven!! What kind of life form is this?” the midwife assisting the birth had stepped back in horror. In all
her years she’d had some hard and even gruesome expe-
riences; never this. “ I will not touch the demon; better still, I will not step in to this place again till this thing
is thrown out lest it cast its evil eye on me and destroy
me.” All mythological stories she’d ever heard seemed to come alive in this evil before her.
The news spread in the small town nursing home like
flash floods and with the same intense destruction of goodwill and reasoning. Patients, their relatives, visi-
tors, employees—all lurked around the recovering room, hoping to catch a glimpse of the abnormally healthy baby girl born with two teeth ready to devour every-
thing, starting with the mother. The young mother, Nirja oblivious to all this, unconscious with a terrible infection contracted during the birth lay at the door of death.
“What more proof do you need?” the onlookers hissed at the young Narayan. “ You must throw away this evil child, abandon her at the garbage dump for dogs to
finish before it preys further. Just a few hours to her
appearing in this world and look at the poor woman”, they referred to Nirja. The young father, with all of the
sensitivity of a twenty five year man, husband for a year, father of only few hours now, was torn apart by the con-
eyes seemed larger behind her thick glasses. “ I had my younger sister’s daughter and until she was strong enough to do so it was my duty to look after the life she
brought forth. I was too loyal to be afraid, your father
too raw in the ways of the world; I took over. I could not
have cared for you alone so your other aunt who had just given birth to a boy about fifteen months ago and
was a night’s travel away by the rickety state transport
bus, was then sent for. She was still nursing her boy.” She urged me to understand the unsaid. “Your mother
was in and out of delirium for twenty one days. The medical facilities we had in the 60’s were more a doc-
tor’s skill than implements and drugs. Her infection and raging fever left her only after a British doctor on a mis-
sion of mercy with a local church was brought in with
his expertise. It was his last day before he headed back. Your mother had a Christian friend,” it mattered to her to state the varied people who played their role at crucial
moments to contribute to the course of my life “whose father was the priest in the local church. He was instrumental in getting the doctor to look at your mother. She
was laid on ice as a last resort to reduce her fever. Antibi-
otics, cold compresses...all that could be done, was. Your father kept vigil each night by her side, checking her
fever, changing the compresses, caressing her hands as they lay on the white bed sheet. I walked to the hospital
at first light each morning with a metal canister carry-
ing your father’s tea. I would relieve him for a few hours’ precious sleep and shower and then he came back after
a meal to leave me free to go home and look after the six other children at home, cooking, washing, cleaning. And
of course there was you. Thank God you were healthy and slept through most of twenty four hours”
flict that raged inside him – overwhelming fear for the
She drew a deep breath, letting it all go. Little did she
born, angry at the gawkers and their hatred. Faced with
story behind my birth was being divulged to me in its
life of his bride, all tenderness and protection for his first
14
to do anything but despair over the ruins of what was
realise that she had shifted the great burden to me. The
volume 2 | issue 5
entirety for the first time. I was overwhelmed with vari-
were ascribed to his approval of my good health and
stark medical support, spartan living conditions, sheer
they had come to accept me as amazing but normal.
ous scenarios my brain conjured up of the days past. The commitment from so many relatives and people I came
to know only later in life who had persevered to see my
mum and me alive and well through those first few days. So many men in the family who were left to deal with
their cooking and washing for weeks to have their wives, my aunts, nurture me. Tradition dictated that my every trip to India began with visiting relatives to pay my
respects, inquire about their well being and assure them of mine, allow them a glimpse of my thriving through
my husband and children. “ Not pleasure; an unpleasant task that needs to be done”, I would console myself; “ it pleases mum and dad so much”. They were a chore for me, until that moment. No more. How would I ever be able to down play my youthful arrogance and avoidance of my ‘clingy’ ‘third world thinking’ relatives?
It was divine intervention that had brought forth the
doctor at that precise moment in time to make the difference of life and death, literally, and win for the whole
team rooting for me. Slowly my mother recovered. For
the joy and color that I brought to her life she called me ‘Pinky’, a moniker that I carried through life. My parents returned home from the tender care of the family
to their own little dwellings. There was another battle that awaited them. The salt – of – the earth community
around them had no understanding or patience for a ‘quirk of nature’.
“Look at her”, the neighbourhood women would crowd and jostle each other for a glimpse of me. Sometimes
shamelessly prodding my chin downward allowing them a glimpse of my offending feature. They would
even fetch their out of town visitors to marvel at the local freak. Sari ends tucked in their mouth to stop them-
selves from hurling further insults, they would giggle and elbow each other in uncontrolled mirth.
“The British doctor was God. If it weren’t for him neither
of you would be here today,” they would quote often; as if reminder was needed. It was only after my teeth
over indulgence in milk by my village raised mother that
My mother’s fortitude and burning desire to do the best for me was still unacceptable. It was a slap in the face of their conservative attitude that wanted me to be kept hidden behind doors. I was a girl and not even
like the others, in their opinion. They jeered at my mother at seemingly wrong rearing and never passed
an opportunity at insulting her ‘educated but ignorant and unwise’ choices. She learned to isolate herself behind closed doors and short conversations. The only
time she stole out was at sunset. As the womenfolk got busy with evening meals, tending to their children and
work weary husbands, my mother would swaddle me
in a shawl against the cool winds and sit outside on the
stoop trying to blend in to the shadows. She would gaze
up to the skies finding strength in its unmoving infinity. As I grew up and toddled out to play in the streets or later, walked to the school, her fear of the uncouth
women remained. She was forever vigilant for my
safety; it wasn’t unheard of women harming others’ children out of spite. She never forgot that she was living
amongst those whose sense of ‘right’ had been violated. They were outraged humans focussed on punishing the
ones who caused the disquiet. I remember clearly many evenings when I would wander indoors from my play
she would stand me in the doorway holding a metal
water container in hand with a bowl of mustard on top and rotate her arm in circles around my head to ward off
the evil eye. A lamp was lit and incense burned at the
small shrine in the house to invoke her favorite deities
for my protection. Everyday bath and braiding my hair
ritual ended with her dipping a finger tip in black kohl and dotting my forehead, marring my sweet looks and ensuring security from poisonous stares.
Years passed quickly for Narayan and Nirja, in a whirl of
other—‘normal’—kids following their first. Families reconciled as the kids grew up, their first few years were now
mentioned with a detachment that comes with distance
15
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
in time and place. Pinky was now grown up and mar-
Nirja’s voice came down the line suddenly. “Pinky, how
normally her core like the molten earth under the crust
offspring and her grandchildren when she should be
ried; a family of her own. While she went about her days pulsed with incredible attachment to her birth family.
center of attention.
Narayan and Nirja were aging now. Their health and
“Mum, I am so keen to see you”, Pinky said tactfully
strength in the familiar, their sphere of activity getting
the earliest flight I can manage.”
courage to face life, ebbing. Increasingly they found smaller with each year. Nirja, bereft of mother very early
in life yearned for her adult Pinky to help her on the jour-
ney to death. Her youngest, a son, called Pinky one early morning. The distance of thousands of kilometers briefly shortened with the shared feelings.
“Mum’s health is fast worsening. You should come and
stay with her for a few months. It’s not as if you need to rush. She can go around her daily chores, can sleep
through the night; well, nearly the whole night anyway. You can organise things there, maybe even wait for the next school holidays but look for the first chance you get . It’s been couple of years since you last visited.” He kept his voice low. Maybe mum was walking around in
the room, trying to put one unsteady foot after another; trying to walk through unending boredom and closing
walls, thought Pinky. She knew her visit would cheer her parents no end. Her mind was already working out the possibilities as she talked shop with her brother.
"Get mum on the phone. I want to reassure her. I am
making arrangements to leave at the earliest”. Her
brother was not the one to speak loosely. His voice, though even, had conveyed his urgency. Pinky’s whole life focussed in to one need—to be there for her mother.
16
are you? How are the children?” Still asking about her
avoiding any reference to her health, “I am going to book
“You will not”. her mother’s strong voice travelled down
to her. “ The kids are young still, they depend on you for their school days to go smoothly. Do not disrupt any part of their lives. Don’t you forget, your girl is grown to a stage where you had better be there for her every minute. Inattention at this time in her life will start a fire that will engulf your very being. You will come and see
me only in the holidays. Bring the children along, your
husband can fend for himself’, she ordered. A few more civilities and the call ended.
Not for Pinky though. Her immediate response was to follow up on her decision – book herself on the earliest
flight out. But she would never disrespect her mother’s
orders. The woman who had gambled on her own life to nurture her was denying Pinky the satisfaction of being able to comfort her in her last days, exhorting her
instead to care for the young girl, her grandchild. The
commitment to nurturing the young placed above self. The dilemma between what she wanted and where her
duty lay shook Pinky to her very depth. The contradic-
tion, the distance, the helplessness: all wrung her heart out through her eyes.
volume 2 | issue 5
sunday troy thomas
It leaves the house with them after breakfast and before noon on crisp mornings that are always the first day of the week and piles into the antiquated but well-kept Wagoneer with the wood panels that are charming It carries on down the road with them;
the road that has pot holes because it is just outside of the city limits (but barely, they say)
and those boys will not do a lick more than they have to (or maybe it’s the management; there is a lot of talk)
When they get to main street it slows down with them
so they can look through the windows as they pass the bakery that has not yet opened and the hall that is always open because they have bingo there
and a farmers’ market from ten until one before everyone goes home
(Young people are frequently wed there — three couples this summer!) In the parking lot it steps out with the family who is early
because they want seats close to Him where everyone can see;
they are still slightly ashamed because she did that before they were married (many times, everyone knows that)
even though she could vote and buy cigarettes by that time It is the crossing of the middle and index fingers
when their son steps up to the plate in the sixth inning (the coach put the Powell kid in?)
on the reddish dirt in the green diamond, late in the Spring when this sort of thing matters a great deal
17
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
the devil rides my bus cathy yard
Bag slung overhead, winter coat stowed, earbuds stuffed deep, I seek sleep. A few precious minutes, maybe forty-five
if I’m lucky, before I face today’s endless tasks: FIMs, SAPs,
RCMs, IPFs, KPAs, FLOCs and morning group hugs, followed by meetings galore. Between paper slapping, back tapping, I might even manage to fit in some work.
Two stops on, the distinctive clip – clop – of
cloven hoof against metal step. A malodorous,
a sulphurous stench rolls down the aisle, poking and prodding
nostrils flared. I know through half lowered lids who has boarded, the devil has arrived.
Two rows up and one over, a chess move in play, a voice
grumbles, ‘not today buddy, move on’, a seat is blocked by
conviction, backed with grievous righteousness disguised
as a purposely placed backpack. Eyes glitter and ear tips glow, the devil moves on.
Crinkle of chip bag – breakfast missed, rustle of gear, temperatures rise. I slam shut
my eyes, shift to the other cheek, hold fast to the pretence
that I am not here. A throat cleared, mucus clot dislodged, a rumble hidden under tires as we bump up 63, heading north – always north. He settles in the adjacent seat.
Grinding up Super Test Hill with the glow of Fort McMortage behind us, the sniffer begins, and begins – and begins – . I think about where I have been and
how life unrolls, advancing in a measured tread up and over a horizon, the thinnest of wavering lines. Retirement plans, decisions of where and when to go, will she come too? Mostly I ignore the now. The heat emanating from the next seat, a reminder the devil is near.
Rustle of papers, flap followed by flap and click of pen, he checks his lists not looking for who is naughty or nice, nor who can be bought
with shiny new things. He searches for those who will give into the darkness we all carry. He roots and wedges, seeking, seeking
that pre-dawn moment, when defences weaken, when we all give in, even if only a little. The devil rides my bus.
18
volume 2 | issue 5
Along the flat and around the bend the sky hung towers of Mordor loom in a fog of
contradiction. Heat verses cold, wrong verses right – the degrees in-between. Lights unearthly glow beckons those who struggle the difference. I have tried to walk the thin line, but know I have slipped a time or two or more. Let it all go on the ride of my life, picked up pieces, counted bruises, flung regret into the Athabasca’s flow. Yes, I have slipped
a time or two. Sweat collects, runs between shoulder blades, the devil has come to collect his IOUs.
I have also tried to do better. For doing good takes more effort
than sliding down. Stack my deeds against one another hoping
to weigh the scales in my favour: raised five kids who care, stayed married through thin times, and believe me there have been many, helped those in my path with hands extended. I present my case. And wait –
time stretches long. Maybe I could have done more, maybe I could have done better,
as the devil ponders. Negotiations begin with a deity whose very existence I question. Acceptance of one means acceptance of the other. Two sides of a coin, two tales told,
two paths converging. Am I ready for answers to questions unasked? I plead, only human, a speck in the world’s largeness,
such weakness I carry. Please – closing arguments evaporate in mouth. In silence long, the devil rides my bus.
Two kliks north of the Bridge to NoWhere, heralded by
a muffled cell phone buzz, a rattlesnake hisssss ‘yesssss dear – ’ Who would have guessed
the devil has a demanding spouse whose tune he dances to. The devil rides my bus
as he rides yours.
19
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
marginalia
The Hamlet Whodunnit?
A column by douglas abel
superstitions are irrational beliefs, not supported by hard facts or sound logic, but I believe there is something more involved than simple lack
of evidence. Most superstitions posit an unproven and unprovable sequence of cause and effect: if you do/do not do X, then Y will/will not happen. Such
unfounded beliefs are not confined to everyday life and “popular” culture. They can be found even in the top chambers of the Ivory Tower.
The pervading superstition, unspoken but active, in the scholarly world is
that advanced education is somehow a necessary condition for intelligence and creativity. If you have gone to university, you thereby have the ability
to be intelligent and creative. If you have not gone to university, you don’t. This unstated academic belief forms the shaky basis for one of the current “hot” scholarly controversies in English literature: the Shakespeare authorship “debate.” A small but extremely vocal group of scholars of English
literature, and their supporters from the public, insist that Shakespeare did
not have the background or education to write what Shakespeare wrote. Therefore someone else must have done so and, for various complicated reasons, kept his identity secret and used poor Will from Stratford to take the credit. The current leading contender for Shakespeareship is Edward de
Vere, Earl of Oxford, and Oxfordians and traditionalists have been going at it with metaphorical hammer and tongs in recent years.
This tempest in a teapot—although tea hadn’t yet been brought to England in the first Elizabeth’s time—boiled over last fall when a conference on the subject was held in Toronto. Two respected universities gave some modest
financial sponsorship to the get-together. Oxfordians were delighted. Other Canadian universities, most English departments and dozens of
scholars were publicly outraged. Many traditionalists pointedly refused to
attend the conference, leading one of the organizers to compare himself to Galileo, persecuted for his revelation of the truth. The comparison ignored the fact that having “colleagues” snub your invitation to a gabfest is not
quite the same, in kind or in degree, as being imprisoned and then threat-
ened with torture, and with death both physical (execution) and spiritual
(excommunication). But then, when the debate is in the Ivory Tower and
the subject is drama, statements do tend to get a bit . . . theatrical. It was Henry Kissinger, among others, who pointed out that academic battles are so vicious because the stakes are so small.
I must confess that I have not studied the “facts” of the authorship battle in
any detail. It simply doesn’t seem worth my time. Some of the arguments I have encountered seem rather silly and a bit mean-spirited. For example, Shakespeare was too ignorant and unlettered to be a genius, because
he spelled his name in different ways. The fact, written and observable, that almost every other Elizabethan did so, too, is ignored. We have records 20
volume 2 | issue 5
of Christopher Marlowe’s name being spelled a dozen
What I find disturbing about the Shakespeare contro-
of those aberrations were his own. But Christopher
that lie beneath the arguments of the anti-Willites.
different ways, from “Morle” to “Merlin”; at least some Marlowe was a Master of Arts from Corpus Christi College, so inconsistency is forgiven.
I am quite content to let William Shakespeare of Strat-
ford-Upon-Avon be the author of Shakespeare’s plays.
His father was a small-town glover and tradesman. Academic darling Marlowe’s father was a cobbler, and not always a successful one. John Webster’s father was a
coach-maker. Ben Jonson’s stepfather was a bricklayer, a trade in which Jonson himself may have engaged. Thomas Kyd, the author of The Spanish Tragedy, prob-
ably the most popular play of the Elizabethan period, started out as a scrivener—a letter-writer and docu-
versy are the intellectual snobbery and social elitism It’s the same snobbery that discourages “bright” kids
who really want to work with their hands and build things from going into “the trades.” After all, the people
who have to do those kinds of things can’t really be very intelligent. If they were, they wouldn’t be mere
tradesmen, would they? The only-half-concealed class prejudices of the Oxfordian argument might seem
somehow appropriate to a highly stratified and class-
conscious society such as Shakespeare’s, and Oxford’s. But they certainly ring false and pretentious in our own. How would we react to the following contemporary denial of authorial possibility?
ment transcriber for others. And Sackville and Norton,
“You see, there’s this . . . woman . . . and she claims to have
blank verse, were (gasp!) lawyers. Parental or personal
ground! She grew up in a hick town in southwestern
the co-authors of Gorboduc, the first successful play in occupation is not an automatic barrier to genius.
It is true that Shakespeare did not go to university. Neither did Jonson, Kyd, or Webster. Marlowe did, and
his plays are still revered and performed today. Francis Beaumont, John Fletcher, Philip Massinger, Robert Greene and Thomas Watson all went to university, in
some cases receiving multiple degrees. Seen any dazzling productions of The Knight of the Burning Pestle or A New Way to Pay Old Debts recently?
Shakespeare did go to school, if not to university, and
the education he would have received was fairly standardized and highly literary, with a heavy emphasis on
grammar and rhetoric. Students were taught the intricacies of argument and poetic expression, in Latin, English
and, possibly, Greek. They memorized constantly, and
written all this really good stuff. But look at her backOntario. Sure, she went to university, but she dropped
out to get married. Didn’t finish. No piece of paper. She became just a wife and mother. What’s worse, she helped her husband run a . . . business! All right, it was
a bookstore, but she was just selling the things, she couldn’t have been writing them. There is no way that
she could have written the stuff that won her a Nobel Prize, for God’s sake! Will the real Alice Munro, with at least one degree in hand, please stand up?”
Even those of us with advanced degrees might dismiss such a response to contemporary genius as knee-jerk
ignorance. It’s unfortunate that precisely such arguments—more elegantly phrased, of course—came from academic and critical circles when Ms. Munro first began to be recognized for her amazing talent.
were encouraged to recite and perform, using suitable
Stevie Wonder put the problem of irrational prejudice
physical gestures. Hardly useless subjects for a master
Stevie Wonder didn’t go to university. I wonder who
rhetorical forms, effective vocal delivery and appropriate playwright, whether it be Master-of-Arts Marlowe, or scrivener Kyd, or Shakespeare, the glover’s son.
into dynamic musical form: “There is Superstition.” actually composed his stuff.
21
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
contributors
douglas abel is a writer, actor, director, and novice digital movie maker. He was recently “renovicted”—a wonderful Vancouver tradition—but has found a new home even closer to the beach. Take that, exploitative capitalism!
dawn booth has recently launched her own business, Media Booth - a multimedia offers service for editorial, creative writing, content branding and feature photog-
raphy. She is also the co-founder and Editor-in-Chief of snapd Wood Buffalo. With a diploma from the School
of Media Studies & Information Technology at Humber College, Booth enjoys touching into her creative side by writing poetry on a regular basis. Her poem, "Pinhole
Treasure" is currently being featured on a Wood Buffalo City Transit bus. Learn more at www.mediabooth.net & follow on Twitter @MediaBoothYMM.
kimberly jean fiske grew up a child of forest and fog, near The Bay of Fundy, in Nova Scotia. She has been
“working it out” with ink and paper from the time she could hold a pen. She credits four, very funny, twenty-
something children for keeping her on her toes and husband Sans for keeping her grounded.
When not engaged in writing, neha gandhi's love of
adventure draws her to open skies, where, winter or summer, she can be found exploring local trails. She
takes pride in her relocation from the Arabian desert's +40s to northern Alberta's -40s, and loving it.
angie goredema was a scholar at the Global Young Leaders Conference (GYLC) which took place in the United
States in 2006. She is a proud young mom of two beautiful children: Nathan & Nathalie. She currently holds a Team Lead position with HIVN Society and is a part time shopaholic who is also into scrapbooking and writing.
elizabeth hamlyn is originally from Newfoundland and moved to Fort McMurray 6 years ago. She is currently working towards her Bachelor of Education and loves writing poetry and short shories.
reinalie jorolan is an immigrant local self taught emerging artist who enjoys subjects that capture family 22
values, landscapes, women and cultural trends. Reinalie
immigrated to Canada from the Philippines in 2004. As a community member, she enjoys contributing to the
many causes in our community particularly those that advocate diversity, culture and the arts.
kiran malik-khan is the communications specialist for Keyano College. She is a freelance journalist, poet and
writer. She contributes to every print media outlet in Fort McMurray and loves telling community stories. For McMurray has been her home for 13 years now. You can follow Kiran on Twitter via @KiranMK0822.
dane neufeld writes, “I recently moved with my family from Toronto to Fort McMurray. I am completing aca-
demic studies in theology while working as a minister in the Anglican diocese of Athabasca. It is exciting to be surrounded by so much forest, and we are looking forward to exploring the region by foot, bike and canoe.”
michele paull is a Digital Artist and Photographer
located in Fort McMurray, Alberta. She combines photog-
raphy and digital techniques favouring the integration of
contrasting elements. If you would like to learn more or
to contact the artist please go to www.michelepaull.com. troy thomas is a recent graduate of the University of Toronto (majoring in English literature, double minors in political science and sociology), living and working
in Fort McMurray. Troy has been working for the Fort McMurray Public School District as an EA since moving here in October of 2013 and currently has no plans other than to patiently take things as they come.
theresa wells is a writer, blogger, and mother. She is a passionate advocate for her community and a lover of great shoes, and finds herself often writing about both in her McMurray Musings online blog.
Mostly living bush, cathy yard learned early in life to forage in the forest and can be spotted chewing
questionable leaves and bark even today. Although a
procrastinator extraordinaire, her work can be found in several literary magazines and anthologies including Canadian Stories, Island Writer, Verse and Vision, Portal, and of course, NorthWord.
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Keyano College congratulates Kiran Malik-Khan, our Communications Specialist on the publication of her thesis as a book!
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and now a list poem for our favourite superstitions kiran malik-khan
northern canada
collective society for writers statement of purpose: To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.
Stepping on cracks
call for submissions
Breaking backs
NorthWord Volume 2, Issue 6 will
Black cats crossing Salts-a-tossing And to boot A rabbit’s foot Penny pickers Lucky clovers Breaking mirrors Friday the 13th shivers Walking under a ladder Right away growing sadder Are you good? Knock on wood Quit being malicious I’m not superstitious All of this — Just happens to be true Don’t believe me? Just try a few!
be published in 2015. deadline October 30, 2014 theme Surprise We’re always looking for prose (2000 words or fewer, fiction or nonfiction), poetry (50 lines maximum), excerpts
from current projects, and visual art. please submit as a microsoft word or image attachment to: The Editors,
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