NorthWord Literary Magazine - Volume 1, Issue 5

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

northern canada collective society for writers’ statement of purpose:

To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.

call for submissions

Issue number 6 of NorthWord will be published in Fall 2011.

deadline October 15, 2011

theme The theme of the issue will be “Sin”

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volume 1 | issue 5 | summerr | $9.50 volume 2011 5 Summer 2011

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

volume 5 Summer 2011

editorial

northern canada collective society for writers

living in the north has sharpened my need for light. I am clear about

president Jennifer Hemstock

its presence and longing in its absence. The winter days leave me wanting more. The summer days leave me glowing and content. Who doesn’t try

treasurer Suzanne McGladdery

to make the most of the longest days of the year? We squeeze in extra golf

secretary Linda Black

rounds or garden until late evening, watching the reluctant sun set in a northern sky.

managing editor Blair Hemstock media director Kiran Malik-Khan

The long days of light end too soon. Wistfully we brace for shorter days.

The darker days are always punctuated by school routines, schedules and

e-mail northword@hushmail.com

demands that are absent in our summers.

This Issue: Volume 1, Number 5, Summer 2011 ISSN 1920-6313 cover & art Megan Storrar design & layout Kathleen Jacques

In this issue, the theme of light is explored in poetry and prose. I hope you

enjoy both, ideally in a hammock on a sunny day. The power of light has

For all your real estate needs contact Fatima Mian

inspired our contributors. These writers have all written about light and its

780-880-9800 | www.fatimamian.com

painting “Yellow Flowers” captures flowers and sky on a summery Fort

many interpretations. The cover art is by local artist Megan Storrar whose McMurray day. May we all make the most of these luminous days in Can-

editor Linda Black

ada’s north.

managing editor Jane Jacques

Linda Black |

fifth issue editor

contents

Proudly published in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada 56°44’N | 111°07’W

Uzma Syed • nisacollection@live.ca • 780.880.8855

2

solace

Suzanne McGladdery

3

vanity lights

Melodie Campbell

6

our house

Michael Beamish

6

water and blood

Michael Beamish

7

the horsewoman of the red deer river

Jennifer Hemstock

9

reality check

Larissa Betts

9

life passes on

Andrew Williams

10

soar

Leah A. Hoddinott

15

portrait of a sleeping girl

Leah A. Hoddinott

15

contentment

Leah A. Hoddinott

16

light of her life

Blair Hemstock

17

desolate

Judy Koven

17

life is

Bruce Price

18

my husband’s wife

Julia Madeleine

22

marginalia: a column

Douglas Abel

24

contributors

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

volume 5 Summer 2011

solace suzanne mcgladdery

I used to be like the sun.

I used to run and dance

and cartwheel my way across the loamy forest floor.

I used to laugh and sing with wild exuberance.

I was eclipsed.

Fear poisoned me

timidity fettered me

judgment choked me silent.

I curled into darkness, depression, and craven self-doubt.

Now is winter, bleakness, and ice.

I am cold, and all emotion is frozen

like the landscape.

May the sun come again inside me.

Let my sharp edges and brittle flesh soften.

Let the golden light

fill up my frigid, hollow spaces

and melt my heart and shoulders so I can embrace again.

vanity lights

melodie campbell

“stop whining, mandy. just hold it steady — that’s all you have to do.”

She watched Stephen climb the rigid aluminum ladder. With each heavy step he took, Mandy’s sense of foreboding increased.

It was a quiet winter Sunday, early in the morning. Stephen liked doing

things early, before everyone else in the neighborhood was up. For some reason, it gave him a sense of superiority. Mandy had long since given up trying to understand why.

“Are you sure you want to be doing this?” she said. “It’s awfully far up.”

The house was new, and it was just the showpiece Stephen had been after.

Personally, Mandy thought it was crazy to move from their paid off house which was perfectly adequate, even luxurious for two, now that the kids were off at university. But Stephen had a dream, and when he wanted something, he usually got it.Thirty years of marriage had taught her that.

They had moved in four months ago. Only yesterday he had bought the thirty-two foot aluminum extension ladder that would allow him to attach

Christmas lights two stories off the ground. Three stories, if you counted the fact that the front door was eight steps up from street level, and the floors

were a ridiculous ten feet high. How the heck were you supposed to get spiders off a ceiling that was ten feet high?

“The roofline is the best feature of this house. What’s the point of having a swank house if you don’t show it off?”

“Maybe we should get one of those companies to do it.”

“Don’t be silly, Mandy. We can’t afford to pay someone else. Just hold the ladder and I’ll be fine.”

So Mandy held the ladder steadily and stoically, as snow continued to fall on her face. It was freezing out — darn cold for November. Usually they didn’t

get serious snow until December. In fact, there were many years when

owning a big snow-blower was kind of a status symbol, rather than a need.

But not this year. This year, they had already received one large dump, and here was more starting. So much for global warming. Global freezing was more like it.

After several minutes, even Stephen began to grumble. “Damn the snow. My fingers are freezing. I hate winter:” “We don’t have to do this now.”

“There’s no other time. I’ll be away the next two weekends and then it’s the

week before Christmas. We have the Andersons coming over for dinner. I want to impress the smug son of a bitch. He doesn’t have ten foot ceilings 2

and a gabled roofline like this.”

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

Snow continued to fall on her, a light annoying tease.

She tried to blow it off her nose. That only melted it, so she moved her head to one side and rubbed her face

on the sleeve of her down jacket. It was hard not to feel miserable.

Stephen continued to screw in hooks, and she dutifully passed up ropes of lights. For the hundredth time, she

wondered why it was so important to impress his other partners, all of whom had grand houses and big mortgages too.

This time, when Stephen descended the ladder to move

it over a few feet, he was cursing and shivering. “Bloody weather. Just think — a week from now I’ll be swinging my clubs on a golf course.”

Mandy felt a shroud of sadness cover her. “It’s not fair that only the partners get to go, and not their wives.”

This was the first time she wouldn’t be going. When

university, and the huge mortgage on this house, they wouldn’t be going away anywhere for years..

“Besides. You hate wearing a bathing suit. You said so last time.”

Mandy looked up sharply. There it was again, the veiled criticism about her weight.

Insidious, and cruel, how that had happened. After years

of being relatively slim, now that she was over fifty, the pounds just kept creeping on. It used to be Stephen

didn’t mind. Called her pretty and plump; “More to love,” he said. But lately there had been a change. Stephen had started calling her “Hyacinthe”, after that character

on the British TV show. It was meant to be funny, but it

hurt. One night recently, staring at herself in the mirror,

don’t like the partners’ wives anyway.”

She stood aside as he started to mount the ladder again “I like Claire.” It was true. Claire was always friendly, and even kind, which was rather unusual in a senior partner’s wife. Most of the other women were predatory.

“It’s this climate of austerity. The company is doing okay, but with the economy tanking the way it did…” Stephen’s voice was clear and crisp like the winter air.

Mandy sighed. It’s true – she wouldn’t miss the sly smiles of the other women, the thin, well-groomed

wives in their designer bikinis. The younger, second-

few months, Stephen had joined a gym, and lost some

proud of it. Mandy had even noticed him flirting with

other women — something he hadn’t done for years. He

seemed to know that with his full set of gray-blond hair, he was actually better looking now compared to other men than he had been when they were young.

“Mandy, wake up! The phone’s ringing — can’t you hear it?”

“I don’t hear anything.” How could he hear the phone ringing from outside?

“I can hear it through the bedroom window. Better get it — could be important.”

Mandy snapped to the scene and stepped back from the ladder. “Be careful,” she hollered, as she mounted the steps to the front door.

wives reminded her of ferrets…long, slim and sleek, with

She stomped on the indoor mat to shake snow off her

someplace warm. That corporate trip south once a year

through the long dining hall to the kitchen, but the

sharp little teeth and tongues. But still…to get away to

was the only vacation they had. What with two kids in

His eyes were wide open and not moving. She watched

“Hi Mandy, it’s Claire. Mark just told me about your

mother being in hospital — I’m so sorry. I know what that’s like, so I understand why you’re not going on the trip. Just wanted to let you know that we’ll miss you…”

The voice carried on, something about wishing her mother well, but Mandy’s neural processor had stopped

boots. Then she rushed through the two-story foyer, machine had already started recording. She reached

Stephen lay on his back with the ladder on top of him. as a rivulet of red trickled from the back of his head, spreading into the snow, slowly, methodically, turning it from white to pink…

Mandy shook her head. She had told him — oh, how

many times she had told him — that this vain insistence on lighting the rooftop was dangerous.

short.

Her mother wasn’t in hospital. Her mother was dead.

The trip hadn’t been cancelled for the wives. Stephen had cancelled her.

custom glass dining table with the stone pedestal base.

weight himself. He was looking good again, and was

“Hey, you should be happy you don’t have to go. You

pressed playback and Claire’s voice sang across the room.

rested serenely on the black granite countertop. Mandy

it hurt.

taken on that characteristic Hyacinthe shape. But still,

to the time, it was becoming more difficult. Why — of all fair.

But not cushioned enough. Mandy stepped over to see.

Mandy didn’t remember moving from the kitchen to the

This was compounded by the fact that over the past

times — should they cut out the wives now? It wasn’t

the kitchen in time to hear the click. Too late. The phone

Mandy had to admit Stephen was right — her body had

Stephen had told her weeks ago that things were going to be different this year, she held her tongue. Now, closer

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volume 5 Summer 2011

hall. Like a clairvoyant in a trance, she moved past the

Past the carved Mexican credenza in the long front hall, past the ornate carved mirror opposite the archway to Stephen’s home office and library. She didn’t remem-

ber opening the heavily carved cedar door and carrying down the icy steps to the driveway. She found herself holding on to the aluminum ladder like a lifeline.

“So who was that on the phone?”

She answered tonelessly. “Claire. She called to say she was sorry my mother was in hospital.”

The world seemed to stop for a moment. Large flakes of

snow fell more heavily now, blurring her vision. Or was that the tears?

There was a long pause before Stephen spoke from atop the thirty-two foot ladder. “Okay, so I fibbed a bit. But

honestly, Mandy — can you see yourself in public wearing a bathing suit?”

The words hit like a punch to the face. She pulled back instinctively – pulled back with all her might, throwing

that extra weight behind it. The left side of the ladder

teetered and she felt it sway, stepping aside just in time.

There was a muffled thud as body and ladder landed on the driveway, cushioned by snow.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

our house

michael beamish I’m building us a house

with twine and two by fours

because that’s all we can afford.

A house that’s humble but bold with thoughts of you

and dreams of tranquility.

We don’t need marble, crystal, glass cement, plywood, drywall nails or screws.

I’ll use warped two by fours

because they have more character.

Twine that wraps, twists tangles and grabs.

A bitch to rip apart.

We may not live in glamour and wealth

or have the stability of middle class suburbia.

Our house may sway in the wind and leak in the rain

but as long as we’re tied together and supported by characters we’ll be all right.

volume 5 Summer 2011

water and blood michael beamish I am human

water and blood

bone and muscle

I stand on stick legs

jennifer hemstock

sugar rests her left hand on the foal’s shoulder and curries with her right, rubbing the horse down over back and haunches. She wonders how long she’ll be able to stay and where she’ll go.

head held high on a pencil neck

She’d been out riding in the morning, stringing the foal alongside her mother, Shade,

with feather hands

aged to look like a picture. Like you were riding up to a movie scene and expecting to

I grasp the wind heart pounding water, blood

muscle, bone

clinging to the earth with crooked toes.

Two watery sponges

stare out into the eternal abyss.

Loose wires of muscle

connect to a bundle of circuits firing electric shocks.

Static spirals to a projector

and she’d sat awhile overlooking the Red Deer River valley. Even at the edge, it manhit a wall or a screen or something. But then you’d get to the edge and there was the

real thing. The up-close brush and smells were real enough. The fall down the cliff side, four-hundred, maybe five-hundred feet, that was real enough. But then you’d look up and out and there was that movie again.

The peace that was here every morning reached into Sugar, and she gave into it, so

reluctant to give this up, so unhappy at the thought of maybe having to. She wanted to soak that peace up, carry it with her wherever she ended up going, maybe north to

Fort McMurray. She sighed at the thought of following everyone else to the money. She wanted to rise out of the human place where she always found herself, but she didn’t seem able. She was always drawn back into need of some sort or another.

casting grainy flashes of light

So, now, she’s brushing the foal and doing an extra job of it, knowing that when she

Reflecting, shimmering in pools

the horses, but maybe not the same as she would. She wants to lay down that good

onto white bone.

of water and blood oceans of dreams forge my reality

where I mighty and strong

command the primordial wind god of its fury.

Feather hands

stick legs and a pencil neck a buoyant container of water and blood static dreams

I float aimlessly on a current

too strong to predict

through an empty abyss where I am nothing

6

the horsewoman of the red deer river

but the tiniest of specks.

gives the foal to the Entzs down the road, they’ll do a good job of caring for all of memory in this foal. She wants to give the foal something to go on. And, truthfully, she doesn’t want to be forgotten, doesn’t like to think she can be replaced.

Sugar brushes down the back of the foal’s leg and finds a layer of barbs from brush

buried in the animal’s coat. She picks them out, one by one, careful to set them aside for carrying out of the stable.

The light is bright as Sugar steps out of the stable. She reaches back to rub Shade’s nose

and the horse nuzzles under Sugar’s hand. Sugar steps away. Her foot is really grieving her this morning. She stops and bites her lip a little as she squints up at the sky. How big can the sky get? She wonders and shakes her head, amazed, as always.

She eases onto her foot again and makes it carefully to the truck.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Shade, girl.”

If only Bam-Bam hadn’t gone off. Not even to another woman. Off to that good-fornothing war in Afghanistan. Some far off place and he’s happy. Never at home. Never content. When it was so easy to be content. A roof and food. A roof and food for the

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

horses. Hell, she’d be content bedding down with the

horses if that’s all it took. But you can’t just let them feed on someone else’s land. You’ve got to shelter them and make it warm and all that takes money.

The truck was going to need work, too, before long.

Sugar rests her foot still for a minute and lets the throb-

bing ease out. She was going to need new shoes soon, too. That or she’d find herself walking on her knees which weren’t in much better shape.

She misses Bam-Bam in that moment. In a way that

aches like her foot. Not that she wants him to pay for these things. He was never good in that way anyhow. It

was just easier to not be alone with it. There’s Shade and

volume 5 Summer 2011

her foal, though, and in them she’s not alone. She’ll find a way to do for them.

The road rises out of the gulley and up onto the plateau of the prairie. The freshness and cleanness of the air filters no light. The edges on everything, even in the long

distance, are crisp and clear. The light is a living thing here. It knocks a person down a peg or two if you ever get to thinking you’re more than most. It lets you know your

reality check larissa betts

while working laundry in

a mental institution over

summer vacation.

place. Then it soothes you and shines itself on every little

how saucy. how ironic. Almost humorous — the

way the mechanical wind forcefully turned the calendar pages, knocking it to the floor. How rude to be so brutally

honest, time can fly. Potential days frantically flipping before my eyes; Christmas, my birthday, the summer, a

semester. This metal cage entrapped tornado uprooted a dead tree, and now for a brief moment I feel the oxygen grow thin. The washing machine ceases before the tilt-

a-whirl water reduction splatters clothing along the

thing and leaves your head reeling and you’re barely

drums circumference, so I have to peel them off as they

catching your breath at all of it. How it all looks. How all

cling to the steel

that around you reaches your eye and you realize you’re

and to each other.

a part of it all. Part and parcel, just like everything else.

The dryer rattles as the slow, clunky feet of the residents wander by the laundry room. I turn the fan off, put the calendar back on the shelf, and want this shift to be over soon, so I turn the fan back on.

life passes on andrew williams

A hot summer’s day

A cabin filled with cheer and laughter sits on a calm lake The smell of fresh paint and fresh cut grass A butterfly flies and lands on a sandbox Joy and happiness live here

Toys, fishing gear, marshmallows, stories Cousins playing ball

The ball flies across the big yard

Glass shatters, but it doesn’t matter A hot summer’s day

A cold summer’s day

An old crumbling cabin sits on a restless lake The smell of mould, burnt wood, decay

A raven flies and lands on a rotting swing set Silence and loneliness live here Cracks, rust, peeling paint

A ball rests in over growing grass

A beetle flies from the ball to the cabin’s windowless sill The glass had shattered, but it doesn’t matter A cold summer’s day

9

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

soar

leah a. hoddinott

pigeon gently placed the carcasses of two of her birds on a sheet of cloth,

He stood up, his lithe figure silhouetted for a moment

save for the face of a fairly large cave, was covered with

their wounds shut and cleaned the blood off them, as was tradition, she deftly wrapped

along the bare branches that led from tree to tree. Pigeon

so that she could barely make out Kestrel’s form as he

the dull grey of their feathers fading into the brown fabric in the dark. Having sewn

them together into one lumpy bundle. She did not cry. They were nameless, and they had served their purpose well. She just felt frustrated, as the messengers were going to be difficult to replace.

The unfortunate birds would stay in an airtight box for the night, so as to not attract

unwanted company. Quietly, she said a prayer of gratitude for their lives, and then looked up to see a light on in one of the nests, higher up the tree. She blinked. The clouds drew back like a sheet pulled off the moon, and the reddish light vanished, no longer needed. What was Kestrel doing up at this hour?

Pigeon always thought, as she checked to see that the cages for the messenger pigeons were closed for the night, that Kestrel was strange. He was smart, sure, and usually

kept to himself, but it was his work that set him apart. He built her cages so that her pigeons no longer were in danger of losing their feet, sure, but he also invented those ridiculous goggles that he always wore, the ones with the spinning rims. He claimed that they helped him see well, but she didn’t know if he was telling the truth, and they

made his eyes unnaturally large. He invented machines, like the instant pump that

drew water on command from the wells, so that no more children fell in and no one else strained their backs pulling up the iron buckets. Yet he also had many more failures than successes, and usually broke or blew up something at least once a week. It was often said among the other villagers, in whispers, that the only reason why Kestrel hadn’t been sent into exile was because the Elders found him to be useful.

The reddish light appeared again and flickered. Pigeon turned her head to get a better look, but it disappeared again. Her pupils constricted. Fire. It had been banned by the Elders after the moon rose over the tree tops, for in a world of branches and leaves accidents could, and sometimes did, happen.

Don’t take the ladders, they’ll make too much noise. She took off her gloves and bared her talons. With one hand she automatically scooped up her sling and placed it in her

belt, figuring that she could find stones along the way. It only took a moment for her to jump to the trunk that held his platform, and without a word she found the familiar

footholds in the rough bark. She was thankful that it was so late; nobody else would still be awake. In the moonlight she couldn’t hide the pearl-grey of her feathers, and she stuck out like a barnacle against the trunk made black by nightfall.

Halfway up, she nearly fell off the tree as Kestrel appeared in the branches above her.

He didn’t look down, but seemed to be fixated straight ahead. The black feathers on his head were tied back by a leather band, and he was clad in hunting gear, which consisted of only protective wrappings for his legs and a cloth wrapped around his waist for the sake of modesty. A sheathed machete rested in his hands, and a satchel rested on his hip, the strap digging into his left shoulder. Pigeon shrank against the solid wood, clinging to the rough pieces of the bark. Please don’t see me.

10

volume 5 Summer 2011

against the waxing moon, then shot forward, running

aimed for a lower branch and leaped, her stomach constricting as she fell through the darkness. Her arms hit

it with a painful jolt, and she used her momentum to

swing to the next tree and scramble onto the branch. She wasn’t far behind him, and she kept an eye out above for

the swift form that seemed to flow through the treetops

with barely a sound. As Pigeon pressed her talons into

the bark, preparing for another jump, she couldn’t help

but wonder at his haste and marvel that he was even

able to make such good time traveling on the unsteady upper branches of the trees. She could hardly remember the last time she had ever seen him run.

She slowed down just a bit, falling slightly behind so as to not be seen. Five minutes past, then ten. Pigeon’s mus-

cles were beginning to burn. More than once, she lost

her balance and fell several feet before she could grab another branch to keep going, and the gap between the two widened.

Suddenly Pigeon felt nothing but air under her out-

stretched hands. She looked down in alarm to see that, being so intent upon the chase, she had followed him

trees and shrubs. The moonlight was bright enough walked towards the small cave opening. He paused, and then turned his head to the right. His expression was unreadable.

“You can come out now, Pigeon. I know you’re there,” he called out, turning around fully, the glare of the moon

catching on the edge of the machete. Pigeon’s breath hitched and her eyes widened. Something in her chest

twisted, and her skin became like ice even as she slowly moved out of the clearing. On instinct, she reached to her belt and grabbed her slingshot.

“It’s all right, I won’t hurt you.” He bit back a weary smile as she stepped out from the cover of the trees. Seven years, and this was his first trespasser. Now what?

“Why did you follow me?” he asked, his tone formal.

“What were you doing with fire after moontide?” Pigeon

demanded, eyeing the machete warily. They stared one other down as each wondered what to do.

Kestrel broke the stare by rotating back to the cave. “You should not have come.”

straight off the edge of a bluff. She had only a moment

“Why should I?” When did he first realize that I was fol-

it, ensnaring herself in the upper branches, jarring her

running away, but then remembered that she wasn’t

to aim towards the nearest tree before she crashed into

entire body. Stunned, she checked for injuries and, by some miracle, found none. How am I even still alive after that?

lowing him? “What are you doing out here?” She debated sure what paths to take to get back to the village. He would find her there anyway. Her other hand slowly moved to her pocket, containing several smooth stones.

With a jolt of panic, she looked up, only to see that Kestrel

“Did the Elders send you?” Please God, Kestrel thought,

she slithered down the tree and decided to follow him

erwise.

was almost out of sight. With a quiet sigh of resignation, by foot, scooping up the occasional stone as she went, just in case. She didn’t have far to run.

He disappeared through a break the trees, and when

Pigeon came to where Kestrel had vanished she had

to pull up short in order to avoid running into a small

clearing where the skinny creature was now standing, machete in hand. The clearing sloped downwards, only

broken near the end by a bluff that jutted out of it that,

please don’t let that be the case. I’ll have to kill her oth“No.”

“Is that the truth?” Kestrel said, his grip on the machete tightening.

“Yes. Why would I lie to you?”

There was a pause. Then, “You can come in, if you want.”

“Again, why should I?” 11

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

“Why Pigeon,” Kestrel said in a mock-hurt tone, “you fol-

them Pigeon recognized, but some she didn’t. Opposite

to see the end result?”

blue charts and papers scattered across it. It was to this

lowed me all of this way here, and you don’t even want “You know what? I’m not sure if I do anymore.” Pigeon pulled out a stone.

“Don’t you even want to see her?”

Pigeon paused. Something in his voice piqued her curi-

osity. “Her?” Kestrel didn’t respond, only stooped down to enter the cave. “Wait!”

“What now?” Kestrel growled, annoyed.

“Put the machete outside.” Pigeon dropped the stone and her sling on the ground.

“Fine. I only used it for cutting a path, anyways.” Kestrel

ducked inside. Pigeon hesitated for a moment, wonder-

ing whether to pick up her slingshot, then followed him.

A flint was struck, and a sudden flash of light blinded

her. Pigeon closed her eyes, and then squinted at the torch Kestrel held in his hands. He was bent over almost

double, his left hand braced against the cave wall as he felt his way along the length of the tunnel. Pigeon had no choice but to stick close to him.

“You know, it’s a wonder that these haven’t collapsed.”

Kestrel said cheerfully. “I was able to brace the main cavern but haven’t had any luck with this.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Oh, probably around seven years now. I found this

place when I was exploring as a kid and have used it ever since.” The ceiling of the cave rose sharply as they

entered a cavern, and Pigeon stared as the light from the

those bookshelves was a long wooden table, with tools, table that Kestrel walked, lighting a glass lantern at the far end and sliding the torch into a metal brace that

had been fitted into the wall. A cloth was draped from

“A workshop?” Pigeon said flatly. “All this secrecy for a workshop?”

“Look behind the curtain,” Kestrel said from his position

at the table, hunched over an unrolled scroll of paper.

“We can’t stay for more than an hour, because there’s

not much oxygen in here, and the fire’s taking a lot of it.”

Pigeon pulled back the curtain part ways without hesitation, then simply stood and stared. Stretched out on the ground in front of her was…a thing. She had never

really seen anything like it before. It was made of metal, and the main shape reminded her of a canoe before it

is hollowed out for the passengers, but there were two

metal projections jutting out of it on either side, also flattened. Two identical hollow metal pipes, bent into

angles, extended vertically where the pieces of metal

met in a cross position, and the back of the thing was

opened, with a small hollow containing several fanlike pieces of machinery. Several leather straps dangled from the curved vertical bars, with buckles and straps attached to them. Beyond the strange contraption was

a boarded up shelf, containing several round, fat metal containers, sealed up tightly. She tilted her head to one side, then to the other.

several large, sturdy beams and supports stretched out

five years of planning, trial and error on my part. And,

woven wicker baskets which held various tools. Some of

at my place?”

“Yes.”

torch will cause an explosion.”

“This,” Kestrel said, straightening and walking over to

wood hewed flat along one wall, containing books and

“Remember last year, when I had all of those explosions

room in half.

room and secured to two braces, effectively cutting the

It was a fairly tall cavern, with walls of earth and stone

several rickety bookshelves made from fat pieces of drift-

in the back.

“I was developing that at the time. Don’t touch it, it’s

“What is this?”

in various strategic locations in the room. There were

“What are those?” Pigeon said, pointing to the containers

a strange metal pole stretched across the width of the

torch unveiled the room in front of them.

rising about eight feet tall. The cavern was braced by

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volume 5 Summer 2011

her, “is my lady. She’s two years of bird-observation and hopefully sometime within the next two weeks, I’ll be able to see whether she’s ready or not.” There was a sense

of pride in his voice. “Getting her out of here in one piece is going to be the most difficult part, but I have a plan.”

“Not if I can take this elsewhere.” Kestrel nonchalantly picked up a screwdriver from the bench and knelt down next to the machine, tightening the screws that held the metal bars in place.

“Destroy it.”

“No.”

highly flammable, and if the fumes are released the

“Please!” Pigeon was near tears. “I don’t want to have to

“Oh.” Pigeon blinked. “Can I take a closer look?”

“No. It’s too late to turn back now. You shouldn’t have fol-

“Don’t touch anything.”

She wheeled around the entire thing once, then knelt down and began to examine the machine from the

ground, trying to figure out what the machine was. As she moved to the other side, around the front, she sud-

denly spotted a word carved into one of the metal side

see the Elders kill you.”

lowed me.” Kestrel moved onto the next screw.

“Yes.” Kestrel paused. “Actually, I have something else to say. I don’t care. We are too much like the birds not to try and claim the sky. God did not give us wings, so I

will make my own.” He moved on to the next screw. The silent minutes stretched out between them.

panels. She read it, not understanding for a moment.

“Do you want to watch?”

Wait. The shape of it. Bird-observation? Two full years?

“What?” Pigeon was taken aback.

Those flattened pieces, they look like…no. No, I don’t believe this. He wouldn’t be this stupid…would he?

Wings. Bird-observation. Hidden because, if he were found, he would be executed for treason.

Involuntarily, her eyes scanned over the word. She

instantly understood, and she could not swallow her rage and her fear.

Soar.

She stood up slowly, letting her fear fester. “You idiot,”

“Do you want to watch the maiden flight of Soar? I’ll be

piloting, naturally, and you get to watch history being made. Sounds like a fair deal to me.”

“And watch you get arrested or go down in flames? No thanks.” Pigeon turned her head defiantly.

“Oh, come on! I need a witness! And besides, you did

follow me out here…” Pigeon resisted the urge to swear.

She had, hadn’t she? Now she knew. There really was no turning back now, was there?

she said, her voice shaking.

“Fine.”

“I always knew you were smarter than your genes let

“Good. I’ll let you know when and where the launch will

“Kestrel, do you know what will happen if the Elders

“Yes?”

on,” Kestrel said, not a hint of emotion in his voice.

ever find this? Do you know what they would do to you?

What have you done?” She was fighting now not to lose

be held. Oh, and Pigeon?”

“Don’t tell anybody.”

control. “What have you done?”

“Why, I’ve invented a machine to fly, of course.” Kestrel said. “No need to get overly dramatic.”

“Don’t start.” Pigeon said flatly. “You idiot. They’ll kill you.”

Two weeks crawled by. Once again, it was nightfall.

Pigeon was again shutting her cages for the night. The moon was full, offering plenty of light.

13

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

When she walked down the bridge to get to her plat-

night. Pigeon cupped her palms as Kestrel grasped the

against her tree. This time, he was wearing a strange

wondered for a moment at how light he really was. Just

form, there stood Kestrel, his arms crossed, leaning

leather helmet with earflaps, topped with his goggles.

He was fully covered with a pair of old aviator pants and a short jacket, making him appear, for a moment, almost

metal bars with both hands. As she hoisted him up, she like the birds. No wonder he wants to become one.

“See you later, I hope,” she said lamely.

entirely human. The irony of this was not lost on Pigeon.

“Thank you, Pigeon. Goodbye.”

“Time to go, sweet pea.” His voice was lowered. There

She moved back to the tree to wait. For a moment, all

was an air of solemnity about him.

“Where are we going?”

“Down near the Old Iris, I will be launching off a bluff

there. Everything is already set up, I just came to get my witness.” Pigeon couldn’t help but notice the quiet way he approached her. Was that fear in his eyes?

“Let’s get this over with.”

Once again they leapt through the tree tops, but side by side instead of one in pursuit of the other. Pigeon under-

stood why Kestrel remained silent the entire way there.

It only took ten minutes to get to where everything was prepared and waiting, and when they came in sight of

the river, she heard Kestrel softly catch his breath. Hail Caesar! We, who are about to die, salute you!

The machine itself was set up several feet from the edge of the bluff overlooking the Iris River, commonly referred

of the bluff and upwards, and Pigeon’s spirit rose with

him. “He did it,” she marvelled quietly, before shouting out “You did it! Kestrel, you did it! You’re flying!”

trel, positioned horizontally, his arms keeping him above

In the moonlight the word Fuel was written across the

front of the canister. “It took me six months to figure out

how to properly compress and store it.” Kestrel said dryly, noticing Pigeon’s gaze.

“Help me up. Once I climb on move back to the tree over there. If this thing explodes, I don’t want you to get hit with any shrapnel.”

They moved over next to the machine, which gleamed

white with fresh new paint. The word Soar was painted along the side in deep red, which looked black during the

Then forms the shape of golden bars, Forced by cookie-cutter blinds Onto the pale closet doors.

Still she sleeps, The little lady.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

down on the pedal.

Mere seconds later, he rose like a seagull beyond the edge

flying machine banked to the right. She could see Kesthe engine and the heat coming from the blue flames.

He really does have his own wings now, she thought as she watched history unfold. She knew then that all of his hard work, all of the danger and all of the effort were

Feet bare,

And her tangled brown hair,

lifted his head. His eyes flew open as his foot slammed

bluff’s edge. Please don’t let him die!

Her hands are thrown helter-skelter,

Kisses her darkened eyelids

A pedal popped automatically out of the floor. Kestrel

a shriek as he dropped down out of sight beyond the

Breathe out.

The morning light pours over her sleeping form,

Godspeed.

wooden poles right out of the earth. Pigeon swallowed

Breathe in.

The sun rises and, gently,

Pigeon felt her heart began to race.

The machine shot forward so fast it literally ripped the

The chest rises and falls.

One palm facing upward with curled fingers.

the back of the machine began to glow with blue light.

the ground. It wasn’t the steadiest system, but it would

the fat cans that were in the back of Kestrel’s workshop.

leah a. hoddinott

His left hand squeezed a handle on the metal bar, and

Faintly, in the wind, she heard a shriek of triumph as the

do. Nearby, resting at the base of the tree, was one of

portrait of a sleeping girl

was still. Kestrel closed his eyes and bowed his head.

to as the Old Iris. It was balanced about five feet off the

ground on two forked wooden planks, both buried into

14

volume 5 Summer 2011

contentment leah a. hoddinott

Contentment is

Seeing the snow melt at night

And standing in a backyard with friends, Watching the Northern Lights Crumple and unfold across A crisp and starry sky.

Contentment is

Stepping into the cool water Of an outdoor pool

And, with goggles plastered on,

Disappearing under the surface; Seeing the beams of sunlight

Concentrated through the shapeless liquid And flowing across the concrete bottom In eclectic, shifting patterns.

worth it. Even in the end, if the Elders did find out and

Contentment is

flight was possible, and that it could be done.

swirl about in the early night,

they were killed, it would be worth it just to say that She leaned her head back against the trunk of the tree

and laughed as she continued to watch Kestrel do what he was born to do.

Soar.

Being inside when the snowflakes and being curled up on the couch next to a fireplace with a blanket, a good book and a hot mug of Ovaltine,

while you lazily watch the glowing flames

gently beat themselves against the glass and bricks casting dancing shadows along the wall.

15

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

volume 5 Summer 2011

light of her life

“I don’t see how I could miss,” said Hugh. “But, if I do, he’s

Hugh looked across the mill pond to the bridge on the

end up.”

be signing up as soon as they can. Gummer, Tobin, Cec,

blair hemstock

“Right,” said his father. “I’ll take him.” Hugh Henry raised

An excerpt from the novel A Debt to Nature on september 3, 1939, Hugh and his father went for a

walk in the fields. Hugh had the old single-shot .22 and

Hugh Henry was carrying an Ithaca double-barrelled shotgun, one barrel with full choke. They made it to the

top of the hill at the barn without speaking, then Hugh Henry said, “Let’s do a circuit around the place.”

“Okay,” said Hugh, and they trudged off down towards the apple tree, looking for little brown heads poking

through the grass for a last glimpse of the evening sun.

The weather had been good for the past week. It was hot but not sweltering during the day and cooled down to Indian Summer nights after dark. As they got out into the field, father and son were lit up by the full flood of the low-hanging sun. It was a fine evening.

They both saw a brown head looking at them through the short grass at the base of a fence post. “You take

him,” said his father. Hugh raised his rifle to his shoulder, sighted and gently squeezed the trigger. The crack of the rifle and the flight of the bullet echoed off the hill and

off the trees down by the river. The brown head flopped down, but otherwise didn’t move.

“Nice shot,” said his father.

“Thanks,” said Hugh.

They walked up to the rail fence. The groundhog was still partly in and out of his doorway. Hugh Henry kicked

the body with his right boot so that it slithered back into

the hole, lying in an awkward lump at the first curve of the tunnel.

“I hate the darn things,” said the father.

“Me too,” replied the son.

They climbed the fence, one at a time while the other

held both guns, and started off up the hill towards the dump. At the top they could look down on the acres stretching toward the woodlot at the north end of their 16

land. This field was pretty swampy; it was never good

for grain. Hugh Henry had dug a ditch several years ago and put in tile to take the water away, but it didn’t help all that much.

Instead of following the pathway back to the barn, they

continued on westward, angling to the right and toward the far end of the field near the county road. There was a sandy hill leading up to the woods where the sugar-

right on top of the hill. No telling where the bullet would

the Ithaca to his shoulder, closed his finger around the

double-trigger and pulled for the right barrel. The recoil lifted the gun and the boom echoed off the barn and the

grove of trees. The old fellow was blasted off his perch and fell heavily on the other side of the fence.

They walked up to him and found him still breathing.

Hugh clicked home the bolt of his rifle. “Shall I finish him off?” he asked.

ing off took place; it usually held a groundhog family or

“Waste of a good bullet,” said Hugh Henry. “He’s done

himself sixty yards away on his front porch. “I’ll take him

find one. “Leave him,” said Hugh Henry. “He’ll be gone in

two. When they got to the fence, they saw one sunning from here,” said Hugh, and rested the rifle carefully on

the top rail. A crack, the groundhog rolled over, and then they heard the whizzing sound and the thunk as the bullet struck home.

“Nice shot,” said his father, holding the rifle as Hugh climbed over.

“Thanks,” replied the son.

They walked up to the burrow and Hugh nudged the

body several times with his foot until it was over the

for.” They looked for a hole near the gatepost and couldn’t

other side and made one last try. “All the other guys will all of them.”

“Maybe so,” said his father. “Maybe not. Finish school first. That’s all she’s asking. Will you do that for her?”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll graduate first.”

Hugh Henry was cradling the Ithaca in his right arm. He

used his left to reach up and pat his son on the shoulder.

“Thanks,” he said.

Edith was upstairs in the sewing room when Hugh

Henry walked in. She looked up from her work. There were dried salt marks streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t speak.

a day or two.”

“He’ll finish the school year first,” said her husband.

As they were crossing over the dam, Hugh Henry turned

She nodded and kept on with her work.

to his son and said, “Your mother would like you to finish school first, before you go.”

Hugh stopped and stood still. “It may be over by then.”

His father was standing still now, too. “If it’s anything

like the last one, it will drag on for a few years. It will still be going on in the Spring. That’s all she’s asking.”

That piece never did get finished. She worked away at it through until the Spring of 1940 and then all through the war years. She would take her son’s letters up to the

sewing room and read them there, often keeping the

work in her lap while she read. She was never so worried

as when he went overseas. She was never so happy as when he came home.

opening. Then he kicked it in.

The two men walked down inside the fence along the

desolate

life is

took aim and fired. Two more groundhogs were kicked

Cool desolation

Pebbles on the shore,

toward the barn and settled quietly into the home

barren sticks thrust

When I see

county road until they came to the crossroads corner.

They turned left and walked through that field and through the next one, called Tanner’s Field because a tanner had once set up shop there. Twice more Hugh

down their holes as a warning to the others. They turned stretch.

A great old grandfather of a groundhog was sitting on

the gatepost right beside the barn as they came up to

the saltlick. They couldn’t quite believe it; he was huge and fat and fifteen yards away in full sight. Father and son looked at each other.

judy koven

Where wild beasts trod towards brightening sky.

bruce price

Clouds in the sky,

Icy water seeps

exposes the rawness of nature.

Reflections of the chill you left within my breast.

the blues,

the greens, the water,

I do not need to

Wonder Why

Life is Wonderful.

17

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

my husband’s wife julia madeleine

there was a strange woman sitting on my front porch one afternoon.

I didn’t recognize her from anywhere. She sat on the bench with thin arms resting on her knees, wearing jeans and a cable-knit sweater with the sleeves pushed up, head

slightly bowed as if deep in thought. I watched her through the windshield of my SUV as I pulled into the driveway and parked, trying to imagine who she might be, why she was waiting on my porch.

I collected my handbag and opened the hatch to unload the spring perennials; peonies, day lilies, and hydrangea, all in shades of white, for the garden in the back yard. My husband Eric had helped me dig a pond last Sunday and I had a new flowerbed circling

it to fill. Martha Stewart would be proud. I lifted the hatch to let the plants get some air.

It was an unusually humid day for mid-May, and I was sweating through my summer slacks and sleeveless blouse.

“Hello?” I greeted the woman.

She looked at me as I stepped up the brick walkway. Alarm appeared in her eyes, reminding me of a startled bird. I could see her hands, pale and delicate as petals, were trembling. She tucked her hair behind her ears and then smoothed the hands over the knees of her jeans. She peered around herself as if she’d forgotten something and I

wondered if she was lost. There was an odd nervousness about her. Just looking at her made me feel nervous too, and I wasn’t the type to be anxious. Regular yoga and medi-

tation kept me on an even keel. It wasn’t an easy task to rattle my cage, yet I found myself suddenly rattled and I didn’t like it.

“Can I help you?” I asked, standing before her now, only a few feet away, keys jingling

in my hand to keep her attention that seemed scattered.

She lifted her bony frame and stood. For a moment she reminded me of my daughter Sarah, who was away at York University living on campus, even though our house was only a thirty-minute drive outside of the city. But she was enjoying her newfound

freedom, a sparrow flown the nest. They looked about the same age too. Sarah was

taller, though, and her flesh a little fuller, healthier than this anaemic looking woman dwarfed by a too-big sweater on a hot afternoon, her yellow hair appearing as if she’d last washed it in a previous life.

“I’m here for Eric,” the woman said. She released a breath and gave me a shy smile. And I noticed something strange about her eyes. There was an absence of light in them.

I cocked my head and blinked at her, waiting for further explanation.

“Eric?” I asked when it became evident one wasn’t forth coming.

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volume 5 Summer 2011

“Yes, my husband Eric?”

I laughed. This must be a joke. I had always hated practi-

cal jokes. It was like an excuse for being mean disguised as humour. It was just like how people put the words “no

offence” or “don’t take this the wrong way” before an

insult as if uttering those words gave them a free pass to say whatever the hell they wanted. My family knew

me well enough not to play jokes or to arrange surprises, and with my daughter being grown and left home, I

couldn’t imagine who might be trying to pull my leg.

Certainly my husband knew better, having been on the

receiving end of my moods often enough over the past twenty years to gauge the boundaries. And yet, the fool

he was sometimes, he tried to surprise me still. Only a week ago he’d hired someone to change the broadloom

upstairs. He knew what a mistake that had been when I

arrived home before they were done and had a fit. Poor Eric, I thought now. His childlike enthusiasm was always lost on me. We had an argument in the driveway and

he’d left in frustration to cool down. He’d been in such frenzy that he peeled out of the driveway and down the

street before I could tell him his briefcase was sitting forgotten on the roof of his car.

I regarded the woman before me and decided to play at

her game, whatever it might be, and said, “Well gee, what a coincidence, I have a husband named Eric as well.”

She said nothing, only smiled again in a yielding way as if that was all she had to do and everything would be

fine. She made no attempt to leave or explain her pres-

ence. Unease swept through me as I studied her. Just who was this woman and what did she want with my husband?

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Jaylene,” she said, those dark eyes sliding over me, her body ridged suddenly as if preparing to defend herself.

“I don’t know what you’re doing here at my house, Jaylene, but I think you must have the wrong address.”

“He’s not home, is he?”

“No, my husband is at work. Is there something else I can do for you?”

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she said.

I watched dumbfounded as she swept past me, cut across the front lawn, and then hurried up the street in sneakered feet. It’s only after the opportunity is gone that the

right words or actions come to mind. I felt exasperated, yet for my own peace of mind, and so as not to ruin my afternoon plans working in my garden, I dismissed the

entire incident. That evening when Eric got home from the office I mentioned the peculiar woman looking for him today.

“She said you were her husband.” I turned the chicken in the pan. Eric uncorked a bottle of wine and laughed.

“Well, Nancy, I don’t know how that can be and I sure as

hell don’t remember any wild nights in Vegas that could

explain it,” he said with a crooked smile. “Speaking of which, why don’t we get away for a few days? I’ve got some vacation time I’m owed at work.”

He poured two glasses of Merlot and handed me one, then kissed my neck, the sandpaper feel of his chin

scratching my skin. His familiar cologne filled my nostrils and spiralled down inside of me.

The next morning as I was getting ready to leave for a hair appointment, Jaylene rang the doorbell.

“You’re back,” I said, stepping out on the porch. I turned the key in the door lock behind me.

“Is Eric here?”

She wore the same clothing as yesterday but she seemed

different. Her eyes were glassy, her movements sluggish as if she had been smoking up all morning. I wondered if perhaps she was homeless.

“No, he’s not here. He told me he doesn’t know who you

are, Jaylene. He’s never heard of you before.”

“But I’m his wife.” A vertical line sliced between her eyebrows and she frowned.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

“Well, that’s impossible because I’m Eric’s wife. I’m Nancy Kelly,” I said, trying to be gentle. Obviously she was hallucinating or on drugs, likely both.

“Eric is my husband,” she said, her words suddenly heavy like she was talking around a stone in her mouth.

From my handbag I produced my wallet and showed

her pictures of Eric and me on vacation in the Bahamas,

on the porch and went back inside.

A while later when I heard voices outside I opened the

door to find my husband standing on the porch, hands in pockets, talking with the woman. I stepped outside and

greeted him, touching his back and leaned in toward him so Jaylene would see for herself that she’d made a mistake.

hoping that would settle it.

“The police are on their way,” Eric said.

“See, this is my husband Eric and I. And this is our

The news made me relax and yet I couldn’t help feel sorry

daughter—”

“Sarah,” she pointed at my daughter’s photo and smiled.

My heart thumped. “How do you know my daughter’s name?”

Jaylene lifted up the front of her sweater and fished inside a waist pouch. She pulled out a creased photograph, “This is our little girl, Lyra. She’s three.”

I glanced at the photo of a smiling fair-haired child

dressed up like a princess and said, “Look, I don’t know what you want but you’re going to have leave, okay?”

She stared at me, confused.

“Go on now. Please leave my property and don’t come back.”

She smiled her Mona Lisa smile, tucked the photograph back inside her waist pouch, and wandered down the driveway. I thought this would be the end of it. I was firm with her, certainly not rude, but I believe I had asserted myself well and that she would get the message.

When I came home around four o’clock, Jaylene was sit-

ting again on the bench on my porch. I took a few deep breaths and calmed myself for a moment. Without a

word to her, I went inside the house and locked the door.

I called Eric at the office and told him Jaylene was on the

porch waiting for him. A few times I peeked out from the

curtains to see if she was still there. She hadn’t budged

in over an hour. Finally I went out with a cup of tea and two slices of buttered banana bread on a little wooden tray. She seemed pleased and thanked me. I left her there 20

volume 5 Summer 2011

“It’s okay, Nancy. Everything is going to be fine,” the

male cop spoke up. “We’re here to help you.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Jaylene said and touched my arm.

“Nobody will hurt you. It’s okay.”

I looked up at Eric, confused. He stood gazing down at me

with a tight look on his face. He nodded at me and smiled.

I looked down to see a plate in my lap: a half eaten piece

of banana bread still there. The teacup clutched in my hand was cold. What was happening to me?

for Jaylene. What would become of her? If the police took

The female cop’s fingers wrapped around my upper arm

Probably. I felt alarmed at this thought; a fragment of a

me.

her away where would they take her, to the psych ward? memory long ago, wrists and ankles strapped to a bed. I

shivered and pushed the images away. I sat down beside

her on the bench and turned to her with a gentle smile.

If was obvious she was harmless, just very confused. I

and I got to my feet. Jaylene took the cup and plate from “Did you ever recover my husband’s brief case from her?”

Jaylene asked. “My wallet was in there,” Eric said. “Driver’s license, credit cards.”

couldn’t be angry with her, she needed help. If it was me

“We haven’t found it, I’m afraid. I’ll ask her again if she

and understanding.

get it back. I hope you cancelled your credit cards.”

who was mad, I’d want to be treated with compassion A police cruiser pulled up at the curb in front of our house and two officers emerged.

“Here we go again, huh? You just can’t stay away from

these people, can you?” the female cop said as she

walked up the brick path. She looked like Oprah Winfrey.

“I’m going to have to arrest you now.”

“You have any weapons, or sharp objects, any needles?” she asked as she slid her hands up and down my body, and inside my cable-knit sweater. She removed the waist pouch from me and handed it to her partner who unzipped it and poked through the contents.

He pulled out my house key with the queen of hearts Las Vegas keychain and asked, “What’s this key for?”

“She keeps trying to get in the house with it,” Eric said.

“It doesn’t work. We changed the locks when we bought the house but she still thinks she lives here.”

“Okay, Nancy, come on now, we’ll get you a cup of coffee

on the way. You want another of those café mochas with the whip crème?” Oprah-cop asked.

“Yes, but ask them to put the chocolate sprinkles on it

this time. They never put the chocolate sprinkles on and it’s not fair. They should just do it if I ask them to.”

can remember where she put it, but I wouldn’t expect to

I stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned to Jay-

“Yes, I took care of that,” Eric said. He put his arm around

“Of course. I’ll take good care of them,” she said, smiling

Jaylene’s waist and they both stood there on the porch, staring at me. I felt the cold metal of the handcuffs against my wrist as Oprah-cop locked them behind my back.

lene. “Will you make sure to water the gardens?” tenderly.

I said good-bye and let the police escort me to their car

where I would ride in the back and wave to the masses the way only important people do.

“Is that really necessary?” Eric asked. “Can’t she just go back to the hospital?”

“That will be up to a judge to determine. She knows she’s

not supposed to come around here anymore, Mr. Kelly.

We made it clear to her last time.”

I looked at Jaylene and then up at my husband, and back

to the two cops. Everyone was staring at me. A feeling like de ja vu swam inside me for a moment. My vision

faltered and then the world seemed to stabilize. It came into a jarring focus, as if a light had turned on inside my head; blinding white.

“Why are you all looking at me like that?”

21

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

marginalia

A column by douglas abel

The End of the “Set” Book?

definitely exciting work of historical fiction—now a

the paragraph-long sentences and convoluted syntax of

i was intrigued by a recent u.s. news story about changes to the high

nal publication. Grade 13 (yes, I’m that old!): a much

the novelist might be worth a second look. Maybe there

school English curriculum, proposed in some school districts, effected in

others. Under the new scheme, the single “set” novel is replaced by fiction which students themselves bring to class for analysis and discussion. The

motivation for the change is fairly straightforward. English classes are supposed to develop reading, critical and writing skills; students are far more

likely to want to think and write about books they are interested in reading

in the first place. At the same time, an overall love of reading will be nourished if students can pick material they actually like to read.

There are a number of objections to the new plan. One is simply logistical: if thirty students in a class submit thirty different books, how will schools

ensure that all students get access to the books submitted? A more thorny dilemma involves the “suitability” of submitted books. Even when set texts

are carefully vetted, students or—more usually—their parents object to content on racial, sexual or religious grounds. How would this problem be

major motion picture, almost sixty years after its origimore complex and esteemed work, Thomas Hardy’s The

Mayor of Casterbridge. I struggled, however, to find the

titles from the intervening years. Grade 12 first: Babbitt,

by Sinclair Lewis. Grade 10: Nicholas Monsarrat’s The Cruel Sea, in a suitably bowdlerized version—no sex, no booze, no swearing, just ships being sunk and English

sailors dutifully soldiering (sailoring?) on. Grade 11 took some time. I was surprised when I recalled that year’s

novel, Alan Paton’s Cry the Beloved Country, a moving

fictional indictment of South African apartheid. Paton’s work had affected me enough that I wrote a short story

using his style and themes for the school yearbook’s

literary pages. How could the book that so touched me have been so easy to forget?

compounded if there was no “pre-clearance” of class novels, and any stu-

Once I had recalled the titles, I asked which of these

submitted to class? At the same time, what would it do to a particular stu-

works by the same undoubtedly “good” author. The dis-

dent—or parent—could refuse to participate in the discussion of any book

dent’s eagerness to read, and to share that reading experience, if she was told that one of her most cherished works of fiction was judged out of bounds by shifting standards of political correctness?

Yet perhaps the most serious objections to the scheme pose questions, not of political correctness, but of overall literary quality. English classes do not

simply develop reading and writing skills; at their best, they also foster a rec-

ognition, and perhaps even a love, of good—or great—literary works. Left to their own devices and tastes, students may bring to class an endless stream

of Twilights, Harry Potters, teen romance/angst novels, second-rate sci-fi and violence-packed pulp fiction. How will students develop a taste for sty-

listically and thematically great literature, if they are never encouraged—or to be honest, compelled—to read any?

This concern led me to consider my own, far distant, high school English

classes, where the set novel, always a “good,” if not a great work, was the centrepiece. I looked back to see if the works of good literature we had had imposed upon us had encouraged me to seek out further such works.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I had difficulty remembering what those good/great novels were at all.

The books at the bookends of high school sprang fairly easily to mind. Grade

9: Rosemary Sutcliffe’s The Eagle of the Ninth, a relatively lightweight but 22

volume 5 Summer 2011

novels had inspired me to read similar works, or at least turbing answer was that there was only one: Sutcliffe’s Eagle of the Ninth, probably the least great of the care-

fully chosen great works. I read two more of her novels, and believe I developed from them a taste for historical fiction which marked my high school reading “for

pleasure,” and which persists to this day. But no follow-

up to Monsarrat, either with his own works or with

similarly “philosophical” war novels. I intended to read Paton’s second work, Too Late the Phalarope, but some-

how never got around to it. Looking back, I figure I was probably swamped with too much other required high

school reading — in English, and history, and French, and German, and science — to make a real effort. The

same story applies to Babbitt; I thought I “ought” to read Lewis’s Main Street, but didn’t.

As for Hardy, I did read more of his novels, but many years after Grade 13, and I came to them through an odd

route—his verse. In acting school I was assigned one of

The Mayor of Casterbridge, made me think that Hardy was something there I’d missed the first time, when I

was struggling with both Michael Henchard’s existen-

tial guilt and the ominous approach of provincial exams.

That thought, however, remained potential rather than actual for several more years, until one of those unexpected “book experiences” occurred. I was in a branch of

a large chain bookstore. There, on a discount table, was a hardcover collection of several Hardy novels. A little

English teacher-spirit sitting on my shoulder said, “Now! Become a better person, and save money!” I bought; I

read; I was impressed. Publisher’s remaindering fed my fluctuating desire to read “great stuff” as much as earnest high school analysis of “good literature.”

So, did an exposure, however compelled, to good or great

works of fiction in high school plant in me a love of

great literature? The answer to that question is, at best, a qualified “Maybe,” or “Sometimes.” I have read scores of significant works of fiction, but hundreds remain

unread. Many or most of the historical novels I have

devoured since The Eagle of the Ninth do not qualify as great literature. I will easily choose a gritty English or

Swedish detective novel over a masterpiece of Russian

literature. Yet I do have that nagging feeling — shared, I think, by most fairly well educated people—that there are established works I should read, and which are on my list titled, “Some Day, When I Get Around to It.” I am

also uncomfortably aware that, as the span of years between my high school days and the present increases

inexorably, the number of available “Some Days” grows disturbingly short.

I find that last thought very uncomfortable. I need to go and read something. There is a copy of Flaubert’s The

Flowers of Evil on my bookshelf. It’s been there for years.

Or maybe I’ll just revisit Ian Rankin and Inspector Rebus.

his poems, “When I Set Out for Lyonnesse,” as a voice and

speech exercise. The luminous, almost magical simplicity of the poem, which seemed so out of keeping with

23

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

volume 5 Summer 2011

contributors douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, and drama instruc-

educated from Grades 1–11, her passion for writing started

tor with a keen eye on the world around him and a fascination

when, at the beginning of grade 6, she was handed a notebook

with the stories the people he meets have to tell.

and told to write one full page per day of anything she wished.

michael beamish is primarily a theatre artist, though he dabbles in all art forms from abstract painting to bass guitar.

judy koven is a teacher in Terrace, B.C. She has a passion for

Michael graduated from Keyano College, Visual and Performing

writing and hopes to inspire and kindle that passion in some

Arts program in 2003 and went on to receive a Bachelor of Fine

of her students!

Arts in performance from the University of Lethbridge in 2005.

Michael continues to work as an actor, playwright, and director for the stage. Be sure to catch Michael’s shows at the 2011 Wood Buffalo InterPLAY Festival, where he will be directing the Fort McKay children’s show “Silly Pants” and Francis Menningke’s original script “Rubbish,” and will also be starring in “The Santaland Diaries”. larissa betts grew up in Newfoundland, then moved to Fredericton in 2001 to attend the University of New Brunswick. She received a Double Major in Psychology and Women’s’ studies and a minor in English. She married in 2007 and moved to Fort

suzanne mcgladdery likes words, especially when they’re strung together in a pleasing arrangement in order to convey information or relate ideas that speak to human emotions. She thinks that the ability to record words on paper, so that people who will never meet can communicate with each other, is just about magical. julia madeleine is a thriller writer and tattoo artist living in Mississagua, Ontario. Her latest novel, No One To Hear You Scream, was released in June 2011. Visit her website for more information: www.juliamadeleine.com

McMurray with her husband in August 2008. He is a High

robert bruce price was born and raised in Burlington, Ontario

School teacher and she is currently working with the homeless.

and has lived in Fort McMurray over 30 years. He loves his

Larissa misses back East but enjoys making the most of this

wife, their life, his children and grandkids. He enjoys camping,

adventure in the North!

travelling, meeting people, and entertaining children every-

melodie campbell has been a banker, a marketing director,

where.

a college instructor, a comedy writer and possibly the worst

As well as being a painter, megan storrar is also a Profes-

runway model ever. She has over 200 publications, including

sional Engineer and works at the Nexen Long Lake Site as

30 short stories, and has won 5 awards for fiction. Her comic

an Environmental Advisor. Although she chose a technical

fantasy novel Rowena Through the Wall (Imajin Books) is avail-

career, in her off hours she has never stopped pursuing her

able at Amazon in ebook and trade paperback.View trailer

passion of painting. Megan loves to travel and tends to paint

and excerpts at: www.melodiecampbell.com Follow Melodie’s

subjects in series. The latest include landscapes of the area

comic blog at funnygirlmelodie.blogspot.com

around Fort McMurray, Alberta, landscapes, and portraits.

blair hemstock is a long-time Fort McMurray resident who has taught literature for three decades. He is more a reader than a writer, but sometimes he can’t resist the temptation to create.

He has no other bad habits. jennifer hemstock has published fiction and non-fiction. She was nominated for the Mystery Writers of Canada’s Unhanged Arthur award, and her short story “Chicken Coop” was performed on CBC Radio. leah hoddinott is a lifelong resident of Fort McMurray. Home24

The rest is history.

Megan’s philosophy is that life is an amazing blessing and

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www.meganstorrar.webs.com andrew williams grew up in Fort McMurray and watched it grow from a small quiet community hidden in the woodlands to a booming city. Most of his writing has been inspired by his

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she wants to capture the joy and the beauty of God’s Creation and of other people in her paintings. See her work at

family and friends over the years, and he feels very blessed for their support and encouragement. He’s currently enrolled at Keyano College.

780·791·4800 ı 1·800·251·1408 ı www.keyano.ca