November-December 2020 RCLAS Ezine Wordplay at Work, Issue 78

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Her Story © Nasreen

Pejvack

Charlotte sits at her apartment window, looking outside while thinking about her exams. The semester is over, though she is not happy. Not that she did badly; no, the exams all went as well as could be expected. She is worrying more about her next term and how she will manage the tuition and her other expenses with her meagre income.

Birds are chirping, soaring and dancing around within the branches of a huge willow tree outside her window. She smiles as she realizes that the cheerful activity means the rain has ended. Puffy white clouds are emerging, which also means the sun will be out soon, perhaps instilling a new energy into her day.

She is thinking of seeing the faculty’s adviser to explain her situation and perhaps ask for more scholarship funds, but then she becomes distracted by the sky and starts to make stories with the clouds before they disappear. There’s one, that big one, which looks like a whale; there are a few smaller ones around

it that look just the same. She whispers, “Hmmm that looks like a mother whale and her children; it seems as if they are following her.”

Suddenly there’s a lump in her throat as she remembers her mother and how she suffered before leaving her and her brother all alone in this unkind world.

She misses her. Getting up, she goes to her mother’s picture on the wall to confirm once more that she really was the most beautiful woman she has ever known. She puts her finger on her lips and blows her a kiss...

She calls the university to make an appointment with the student adviser, then gets ready to go to work. She has a part-time job during the term which becomes full time between terms. No mystery as to why she’s always tired and looks so pale.

After completing her shift for the day, she gets to her appointment with time to spare. She is reviewing what she needs to say when she hears her name: “Charlotte, you can come in now.”

After a short question and answer, Charlotte asks, “Why do you guys change all the time? I would like to talk to Nancy; she knows everything about me. Where is she?”

The adviser smiles kindly, “Nancy is not here anymore my dear. My name is Kate, and I hope I can help you. Everything should be in the computer.” Then she sits back to look at her, and continues, “You are in your third year. You have been a very good student with a very high GPA, but since last year your marks have been going down and you are not doing as well. May I ask why?”

“I have to work! I take care of myself as well as my brother who is in grade ten.

Don’t ask about my parents; there are none. My student loan is not enough for the two of us, and welfare does not help because they want me to work, which would mean dropping out of school, which would mean being poor forever; but I will not quit! So I am both working and attending school, but most of the time I am so tired that I barely have the energy to study. And we can’t get enough nutritious food, so when I do study, I keep forgetting the material. My brother even works part time, but it’s still not enough. I work, I don’t have time to study and I’m not eating properly; that’s why my marks are going down.”

Kate looks at her for some time, and then says, “I still would like to know about your parents.”

Charlotte looks agitated and angry, but she knows she has to answer. “My father passed away in a car accident when I was ten. My mother passed last year; she suffered after a long agonizing battle with a devastating sickness, that wiped out all her life savings because medications were very expensive and she had no insurance. We thought medical care was free in our supposedly advanced country, until my mother became ill. Since last year, I have been taking care of my brother and myself. The student loan is not covering all our expenses, and our part-time jobs don’t pay enough to cover rent, utilities, food and above all the expensive tuition and books. To be honest, I am already up to my eyeballs in student loan debt, but I can’t see keeping this up without taking on even more. Every day after I leave school, I go to work, most of the time until

midnight. So lack of sleep has affected my health, my emotions, my attention span, and of course my memory; with the end result that my academic work is suffering.

“You know, it’s so ironic. For my sociology class I wrote an essay about poverty and education. In my research, I learned that the UN designated October 17th as the International Day for the Eradication of Poverty. That was in 1993, and now more than two decades have passed, we all seem to be struggling just the same, if not worse.”

Kate looks impressed, “You are very smart. So how was your mark on that assignment?” Charlotte responds that she hasn’t received the mark yet, but that at this point her only concern is whether or not the school can help her.

Kate examines Charlotte’s file, looking for a way to help her. But she already has a scholarship, and with her marks going down, the calculations just don’t add up for her to qualify for more assistance.

Charlotte watches Kate clicking away intently at the computer, anxiously hoping for a satisfying answer. She feels trapped in a cycle of poverty. She remembers those times after her dad died and her mom had to provide for the three of them, and they would go to sleep hungry. Nevertheless, Mom always made sure that Charlotte studied well and went to classes, helping her enter university with some of the highest marks of her senior year class. Yet here she was now at a crossroads where she may not be able to complete her studies.

Charlotte feels that a long time has passed. She tries to be patient as she occupies herself with looking around the office. From time to time she looks back at Kate, trying to read her face. She thinks about the latest assignment she just handed in, wherein she learned that in a recent UNICEF survey, Canada ranked below average for child poverty in relation to other rich nations. She smiles cynically and thinks about how, even though she is not a child anymore, she and her brother nevertheless were in that category, all because a broken system failed to protect them. She thinks, “The circle of poverty will make sure people like us fail because no access to higher education results in the lack of a well-paying job, which then dooms my children to live in the same circumstances, and onward it goes…”

Kate stops her sad train of thought by saying, “I am so sorry Charlotte, but you are not eligible. I tried everything I could to see if I can enrol you in some kind of compensation, but the result is negative.”

Charlotte feels cold. She also looks pale, which worries Kate who gets up to approach her, saying, “I want you to know that I too believe our system has not been set up properly, and it is not fair to many. I wish we were like the Scandinavian countries where universities are free, where the young there don’t have to face what you are facing here. But this is our system and I don’t know what to say. Look, how about you work a few more hours and take fewer courses? You may graduate a bit later but eventually you will.”

Charlotte won’t hear her anymore. She rises from her chair, gives Kate a chilly look, and leaves her office.

Kate runs after her to shout, “I will try more, and I’ll call you.” Charlotte doesn’t respond. She leaves the school and walks toward her apartment, remembering that they have not had a good nutritious meal for a couple of nights now and the fridge is empty. It kills her to think she may have to go to a food bank.

As she walks into her home she angrily whispers, “I was a gifted student throughout my elementary and secondary years, and I entered university with a good scholarship. Now here I am falling behind because I’m hungry, tired, sleepy and constantly worried about my brother. Was I not a good child of this country? I do not want to go to a food bank; nobody should be forced into such a situation.”

“Who are you talking to? Are you okay?” her brother asks anxiously.

“Ah, sorry. I didn’t notice you are home.”

“Sure, I’ve been home for a while now, but why are you talking to yourself? You look so upset.”

Charlotte holds his hand and guides him to a chair in their tiny kitchen. She sits across the table still holding his hand and looks at him lovingly and kindly, then softly says, “I am not getting any more money from my school, at least not for this term, so I’m going to have to drop two of my courses so that I’ll have more time to work more hours.”

“No, you are already in university; I can pick up more hours!”

“No! No,” Charlotte says angrily, “You are to graduate from your high school young man! Concentrate on getting good marks for me, and never, ever say such a thing again. We will manage. I am sure it will only be for this term; next term I will be full time again. I promise you, no matter how long it takes, I will not quit.”

He has tears in his eyes as they grip each other’s hands, and he cries, “I miss mom….”

“I miss her too…”

Then they get up and go to the window hand-in-hand, where they hold each other to look up at the clouds into an unknown future.

--

--------------------------------------------------------- copyright Nasreen Pejvack “Her Story”

If we care enough to know what is happening around us by following our daily news and analysis from different sources, we witness and learn: Africa is burning; Iraq is shattered; Syria is bleeding; and uprisings here and there in different parts of our planet are wreaking havoc.

Also, our climate is changing and affecting us in ways that should have our direct attention in light of disturbing new patterns in hurricanes, wildfires, floods and more.

People are traumatized and their livelihoods are crushed. The earth has been offended for too long and is losing it’s capacity to support us as it once did; our air is polluted, water in many areas has been contaminated, whole ecosystems are transformed into commodities.

Luyten’s Star, my new Sci-Fi novel, proposes that there is no way to turn this around except by changing the economic system, from one that caters primarily to oppressors and exploiters, into one that caters to all. Not seeing any plausible near-term solutions along those lines for Earth, I have developed a utopian world that emerged eons ago by necessity from a crisis similar to our own. I use story-telling based not on war or Hero and Villain tropes, but on the potential for society to choose a different path by using the power of women, the ones who care for and nurture the children of her planet, to wisely allocate the resources of a planet differently, in contrast of the madness we have created on our planet, with its wars, pain, poverty, and displacement.

In that solar system a dozen light-years away from Earth, a much more advanced and balanced society operates on the basic principle of people first, holding out hope for Earthlings brought there to experience it.

The story begins in Africa with members of a humanitarian aid organization who are unaware that they are working closely with an alien. In time, the main female character finds out, and gradually comes to realize that a few others know too. Events move quickly to force several members of the aid group to flee with the alien to his planet as Earth begins to fall apart.

Once we are on the alien’s home planet, we find a society that has freed itself from the greed driven by the commodification of money.

This is done by eliminating any financial or currency system, and basing production on what people need and want, though limited and weighed against respect for ecological balance.

We find people that live much longer than us because of technological breakthroughs on the aging of cells and management of diseases; a benefit enjoyed by all, not only by a moneyed elite. They, and the people of another nearby planet, look quite similar to Earthlings, the premise being that the universe’s natural forces tend to converge development of intelligence into a standard form, with local differences. For instance, the people here have purple eyes, developed to protect them from the special light of their binary stars.

An important part of the story is the love that develops between the alien and the main character from Earth. They live together on his planet until it is time to return to Earth to help the women leaders there rebuild the ruined planet and implement the same money-free economic system that they experienced light-years away.

Nasreen Pejvack, author of Amity, Paradise of the Downcasts, and Waiting Available for purchase --https://www.examine-consider-act.ca/NasreenPejvackBooks.html https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/nasreen+pejvack?_requestid=346233

Risking Life to Earn Crust Š Diary

Marif

On the last day of my final exams in the third grade, I excitedly anticipated joining my father, a Kulbar (porter) - who is someone who takes items across the Iran-Iraq border - and thereby putting myself at great risk. Kulbars have little means of survival other than depending entirely on transporting a variety of items across the borders to support their families.

I begged my father to let me travel to help him. At first, he said the journey of more than 8 hours was too risky for a child, but he later agreed, and I was overjoyed. It was the beginning of several years of living dangerously like a Kulbar for several reasons. Scores of people were killed by the Iranian Revolutiony Guards; tortured by Kurdish militias, looted by robbers, or even mauled by wild animals. Not to mention often having to endure the harsh weathers.

It was 1995, and I was just 11. My family used to live in a village called Bardabal, at the foot of Mount Soreen, 65 kilometers East of Sulymani province in Iraqi Kurdistan. Bardabal was one of 5000 villages bombed and destroyed in 1978 by the former Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein, who forced villagers into camps, not allowing them to return to their homes. But in 1991 the Kurds overthrew Hussein's regime and elected their own, independent government, enabling the people, full of hope and expectation, to return to their villages. They

expected the Kurdish government to rebuild any remnants of the almost destroyed villages. Still, their dreams and hopes came to fruition.

The 1990s became the most challenging decade for the Kurdish population in economically sanctioned Iraq due to civil wars, adverse weather conditions that affected the agriculture, spread of diseases and sever poverty. Moreover, the population bore the brunt of the international sanctions imposed on Iraqi. Additionally, the Iraqi regime also imposed internal sanctions on its Kurdish population in the north as response to their aspiration for freedom and selfgovernance.

During this period, some of the Kurd leaders formed their militias, looting the nation's wealth and selling it to Iran. Thus, Kurdish people had no other option except to work at the borders, jeopardizing their lives just to survive.

Before the 1990s, the Kulbar "business" suffered because of the Iran/Iraq war 1980-1988. After 1991 however, Kurdish residents along the border began to re-engage in a grey economy across (Iranian/Kurdistan also called Rozhalat (East of Kurdistan) villages.

They transported a variety of items: car parts, contraband goods, and various electronic items such as light bulbs, fridges, heaters and sometimes also alcohol.

My father had 2 horses, and it was hard for him to manage them along with his other responsibilities, which included farming and building mud/stone house for the family. He was always so exhausted, which is the main reason I wanted to help him.

Another motive was that my Kulbar friends told me about Ameen's a delicious Iranian drink called Nushabe- local Pepsi. Ameen who sold drink and cake became the only person whom I was eager to see. I

wanted to take on this dangerous journey to drink Nushabe for the first time in my life!

Once my father gave me permission, I slept a little and woke up very early, in the quiet of dawn, to pack the necessary things. I had so many high hopes of the outcome of this trip with my father; maybe I would become a hero in my village, or perhaps made vast amounts of money and quit to school, or maybe even buy another horse. I just wanted to prove to my father I was useful and capable of taking this journey.

I took some snacks and went out to the area where the men loaded the horses. I yanked the reins of one of them, leading it to the house where my father had already made a deal for the horse with a trader, who put both hands on his waist and said, " Did you bring your milk bottle little boy?". When I did not respond he jokingly continued, "Hey baby, didn't you go to kindergarten today?" By then I was annoyed by his remarks. My father told him that he did not think I was old enough for this work, but that he believed I could do it.

After loading the horses, my father handed me a stick which he usually used to beat off snakes or simply to avoid losing his balance and slipping off the horse on the slope places. This stick was hefty and much bigger and longer than I was. The many horses made a long convoy, with the men walking beside them. Throughout the journey I noticed my father kept observing me. For the first hour, I managed the walk very well, but there were 3 more hours to go. The route we had taken passed through a ridge of grey rocks over which we had to climb.

I recall the weird smell of the horses' urine and the long dusty route made me dizzy. Sand got into my shoes, my clothes stained with dust and, to make matters worse, black flies bit us always. I was drenched

with sweat from head to toe, and as I wasn't wearing socks, my plastic shoes kept making a fart-like sound. This made everyone look at me and laugh at my embarrassment.

After a while, we took a short break in total silence, when suddenly my gut started making noises. Someone joked that my stomach rumbling wasn't coming from my shoes this time. I felt so humiliated; my drab, stained clothes and downcast eyes must have added to my depressed look, but still, I did not want to give up.

I ate some snacks and felt much better. We reached the peak of the scenic mountain ranges, where the sound of birds singing, the smell of wet grass, the vibrant, colourful flowers, the remnants of snow in the shaded places and the fabulous blue skies filled me with awe and wonder. For the first time during the trip, I enjoyed the feel, sound and smell of nature.

We eventually arrived at the terminal, where we must submit the loads, around midday. All brokers, traders, and Kulbars spoke Kurdish with the same accents, sharing the same culture and on the same soil. But we had become strangers divided by a border between Iraq and Iran, since 1921. This was the vital issue – we were dispossessed of our land, our values, and our culture.

I was surprised at the large crowds of people trading. Kulbars were working, bargaining, shouting, laughing and eating together. I seemed to be the only one searching for one of my main reasons to be there, to try Nushabe, and my father pointed me in the direction where I could find it.

Finally, I thought I shall try it. But Ameen, hadn't come to the trading centre that day. I was furious; I wanted to boast my friend when I would return to the village. Sadly, returning to my father for a lunch of rice with salad, which I could not enjoy at all.

When we returned home I stayed in bed for days – I was so disappointed as well as tired. My dream of ever drinking Nushabe had been shattered, and my father kept teasing me that I was his recovering champion.

Days after my first trip, I started my second with my father. The traveling this time felt easier I was prepared for the difficulties, and the trading was successful. However, just a few kilometers after we left the trading terminal in Rozhalat, a horrible event occurred. We could hear the commotion, and we fled for our lives and hid. We heard the Iranian Revolutionary Guards coming, and we detoured from the main trail to avoid them. The guards were shooting at horses. My friend, who was detained, later informed me that the guards callously kicked youths, tortured elders, and mercilessly arrested children. They sent a man who had mental issues to bring them clean water from kilometers away. They forced another to sing a song they laughed at him. "If you come back again, I will kill you," a guard told him. The Kulbars vowed to not go to Rozhalat, but they had no other options.

Day by day, business got worse. The Iranian guards controlled the border- they planted mines alone the route again. It was for two months the Kulbars hoped re-engaged the job, but the guards built an offshoot and shut up the border completely. The Kulbars were desperate.

By spring 1996, the Kultars re-engaged the job on a new route which was longer- they had to walk some 10 hours. By my first trip in a new way, we walked through a dense forest inside Rozhalat. My father told me we would arrive at a spring-Kani Hafe to take lunch- that was good news. Four men surrounded us and ordered us not to move. They wore leaf-colored uniform and black masks. One of them shouted and told us to put all our money and items on the ground, and they collected our money and belongings. They

slapped a Kulbars because he had nothing to give. They left as quickly as they came, and we did not see where they went. My father informed me they were robbers. In the same time, the Kurdish militias, who belonged to several parties, sometimes forced Kulbars to pay for their protection.

Land mines were another grave concern. Years earlier, my two older cousins had lost their legs from land mines. On another previous trip, a man informed us, a Rozhalati Kulbar, Aubaid, lost his leg when he stepped on a land mine. In these remote areas, far into the mountain, the chances of people surviving a mine explosion were very low given that there were no vehicles, let alone medicine.

Sadly, he died before the volunteers who had carried him arrived at the hospital. The borders had been planted with mines since the Iraq-Iran war in the 1980s. This appeared to have become our fate as many more Kulbars before and later lost legs, and others their lives.

This savagery was not the only problem we were grappling with. The dangerous possibility of a snowstorm and an avalanche were concerns too, especially during the freezing winters. We had to step slowly, the snow crunching under our shoes; I put both my hands into my pockets to keep them warm, but I slipped many times.

I recall an incident where one of our Kulbar neighbors called Taha, of whom I was very fond, had been trapped for several days alone on the edge of the mountain and froze to death. Many other people, after ordeals, told of their experiences being snowed in and stuck in the mountains.

Besides this, we were also at risk from wild animals, such as bears, wolves, wild dogs, and snakes throughout these treacherous mountain ranges.

When I started the awful and tedious work of being a Kulbar, I did not realize the extent of risks. I worked there from 1995 to 2003 when the Americans invaded Iraq. People had hoped the Americans would change their lives so that they no longer needed to take the risks associated with being a Kulbar. After a few years, our border work stopped altogether; the Kurdish government vowed to provide other jobs. During this period, I first cut the job, and then left my village and finally my country, to study in India.

The memories of these events have traumatized and given me nightmares for years. I used to imagine Kurdish militias detaining my father and torturing him. I also envisaged, the Iranian guards placing their guns on my forehead or robbers thieve our belongings, I had visions of bears attacking me. My thoughts, feelings, memories, imaginations and dreams were never those of an average child.

I now live thousands of miles away from the country which in I was born. I still hear the same sad stories of another border, and I am filled with immense sadness. In the winter, I heard, yet again, about the death of a group of Kulbers who froze to death in the mountains.

These stories still haunt and affect me profoundly as I too have experienced such horrific conditions, but I am fortunate to survive.

Recently, the Iranian guards also murdered several Kurdish Kulbars I wonder if I knew them.

Diary Marif is a Kurdish political analyst.

Marif has a M.A. in History from Pune University in India.

His writing has appeared in the Pasewan, Awene weekly, Daily Hawlati, Lvin, KNN TV, and other outlets. He is currently based in Vancouver, Canada.

You can follow him on Twitter: @diary_khalid

Luna © Ruth Hill You have left these shadows for me, tree shadows on the snow, so I’ll know you’re there.

You have left drops of menses blood for me, or swollen belly, round, like you, and round breasts, full of milk, white, like you.

You have left this wedding dress, round, white, and floating, like my feelings in love.

Even the Stars pale beside you; the Sun, too, pales beside you.

And clouds, too: round, white, and drifting, like you; or at night, black veil across your face, shadowy burka.

Tonight, have you brought us high tide or low, warmth or snow? Earthquake or volcano?

Are you aligned, or at war with the Sun? Are you hiding from his chiding, or have you won?

Tonight, do you have a sliver of a chance, or full favor of his glance?

Have you attracted the Sun? …or has the Sun attracted you?

You, mother of everything on Earth that the Sun Fathers, cannot escape what you mother; yet Earth is the Sun’s, and still you smile.

Distant cold or close fireball, my life paralleling yours: hiding, sliver of a chance, glimmer of a glance, then full on howling.

Upon whose lyre are you riding: sonogram of a beating heart, white globe of dandelion fluff, bird’s eye winking?

The kitten in the barn licks its paw, curls up to rest on her mother’s breast.

You are white and round like this spider’s belly; her web radiates out from her, like these tree shadows, radiating out from your light.

Soon you and she will have hundreds of babies.

3rd Place Alabama State Poetry Society Spring 2011 Published Online May 2011Winning Writers Newsletter Published December 2012 Little Red Tree 2012 Anthology

The Woods Of Boulter Š Kathy Figueroa

This is when the story Really has its start For it was then that something sad Broke that kind soul's heart

Deep in the woods of Boulter Lived a woman who loved deer They'd stroll to her log house And she liked to see them near

To the woods of Boulter Came people, each with a gun Saying, "We're gonna go hunting And have us some fun"

In that forest kingdom Which was as wild as could be seen All creatures were very happy Because that kind soul was their queen

In Carlow/Mayo Township, on that November morning cold and bright The hunters did something That wasn't honourable or right

an eco story in the form of a poem

Each day, by her window She would sit and wait For her white-tailed friends To step up to the gate By her fenced-in garden The deer would stop for lunch She'd graciously serve leafy greens Which they loved to munch Thus, she came to know them And soon they grew quite tame So it wasn't very long 'til Each deer had a name There was Dorothy and Daisy Rudolph and Dawn Then, one day, a mama deer Brought Hope, her fawn Hope looked around in wonder As her proud mama stood guard And the woman went to greet them Outside in the yard

At the edge of her yard Near the woman's home They set loose their hunting dogs To run and to roam They knew that her land Was private property It was clearly marked "No Hunting, No Trespassing" For everyone to see But the hunters had a plan A scheme, a grand design They said, "Well, our deer hounds can't read A No Hunting, No Trespassing sign" With noses trained to track The dogs soon picked up a scent And straight through the trees To the woman's home they went The faces of the hunters Twisted into smirks As they whispered "Look! Our little plan works!"

Then they watched And waited, full of glee For the dogs to chase the deer And the deer to flee There was silence in the forest When the birds were stilled By frenzied howls of hounds Savage and thrilled The eerie quiet was in direct contrast To the sudden sound Of a shotgun blast When the mother deer was killed Deep in the woods of Boulter Is Ontario's secret shame Because in the woods of Boulter "Deer dogging" is like a game Sometimes they use a Walker Hound Often they'll use a Beagle But whatever dog they choose Local law won't consider it illegal Because of unclear regulations Deer hounds are not barred They're allowed to chase a deer Right out of your back yard In this great big country Almost everywhere you go Off-leash dogs can't be Used to chase or "drive" deer But they can in Hastings County, Ontario When people are persecuted By laws that are unfair They may enter a church And claim "sanctuary" there

But where can wild animals run When unleashed dogs relentlessly pursue?

If they are ruthlessly hunted and killed Will they only survive in a zoo?

When the hunting dogs entered her yard And chased the deer about In front of the woman's eyes And the shot rang out She came to realize That a doubt does not remain The "off-leash laws" for hunting Must be changed to be humane We can make this story Have a happy resolution By making our voices heard And suggesting this solution: If a hunter wants to use a hound To locate and "drive" big game It's only fair that the dog Be kept securely on a chain Though the woman from Boulter Is no longer with us Her spirit is always near In the woods of Boulter Watching over the deer A slightly different version of "The Woods Of Boulter" was first published in The Bancroft Times newspaper on October 18, 2007. It was later posted, by an editor, in the Full Comment section of the National Post Newspaper website on October 8, 2008. This poem is also included in Kathy’s books, “Paudash Poems” and “The Cathedral of the Eternal Blue Sky.”

RUN! © Jerena Tobiasen

“The gods of Vesuvius are displeased,” my father said loudly as he entered the foyer of our villa. He frowned at his feet, as if pondering whether to remove his sandals, per his usual habit. Instead, he marched into the main chamber still shod.

He gazed at my mother seated regally on her chaise, where she stitched the hem of a new gown. My sister and I sat at a low table nearby, nibbling from a plate of fruit as we discussed our schoolwork. We promptly ceased what we were doing when his shadow fell ominously across the sunbeam that illuminated the room.

“The wind is carrying debris toward Pompeii, and clouds are thick with ash and flying lava.” His voice sounded urgent. His fists rested on his hips as he paced before us.

Meat of the last purple grape that I had popped in my mouth lingered on my tongue, its sweet taste turning sour as my father continued.

“We must evacuate immediately. Gather what you need quickly. If the wind shifts, the ash could divert this way. Better we are at sea and nothing happens, than be caught in the villa amidst a disaster.”

“Such a shame,” my mother said, folding the fabric and setting her work aside.

“Another few hours and my gown would be ready for the celebration.” She swung her feet to the floor.

“If the wind turns, my love, there will be no celebration,” Father said, peering at my sister and I. “Cicero, Domitia, for what do you wait? Did I not just tell you to gather your things?” He clapped his hands, then waved one impatiently to shoo us up the stairs. “Off with you. Make haste.”

I swallowed the remains of the grape and grabbed my sister’s hand, tugging her behind me.

“Hadriana, come, we must prepare,” Father said, extending his hand to help Mother rise. “Gather food. I don’t know how long we’ll be away. I’ll collect our valuables and meet you upstairs to pack essentials.”

Photo by Jerena Tobiasen, Herculaneum, November 2019 His words faded as my sister and I bounded up the staircase and raced to our rooms. Thrice in my life, Father had taken us to visit his boyhood home on the Island of Sicilia. The first thing we had been taught was how to pack our own necessities.

We each dived into our sleeping chamber, collecting our leather travel pouches from hooks hanging on the inside of the door. I could hear Domitia stuffing clothing into her bag, as did I. I cast my eyes about my room trying to decide which game to take along. From the sudden quiet of Domitia’s room, I guessed she was addressing the same conundrum.

“Children!” my mother shouted as she hastened up the stairs. “Hurry. Downstairs.

Meet us at the entrance.”

A moment later, we heard our father’s heavy tread advancing up the stairs.

Domitia and I almost collided as we scooted out of our chambers. Father turned left at the top of the stairs, glaring at us over his shoulder, and strode briskly along the corridor toward his chamber. Domitia and I ran to the right along the great squared balcony, and down those same stairs.

Baskets of food rested in the doorway to the street. When I spied a cluster of purple grapes, my belly curdled with excitement and fear. A cacophony of voices filtered into the foyer from outside, drawing our curiosity.

“People are returning home,” my sister said, her voice anxious as she peered into the street. She coughed and waved as if to clear the dusty air. “They sound frightened. Look!” She held out her hand, palm upward. “Flower petals are falling from the sky.”

“That’s ash,” I said, gazing at greyish flakes landing on her pink palm, “from Vesuvius.” I leaned beyond the threshold and glance toward the rumbling mount in time to witness the first pine-tree-shaped column erupt over our beautiful city of Herculaneum, A fearful frown furrowed Domitia’s forehead and she coughed again.

“Look there!” she said pointing toward the sky as flocks of birds swirled above us.

“Even the birds are unsettled.”

“Don’t worry, Sister,” I said with misplaced confidence, trying to stifle my own cough. “Father and I will keep you and mother safe.” I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and squeezed her small bones gently.

Above us, we heard the urgent murmuring of our parents. Domitia turned her innocent face toward me, wringing her small hands. She lowered herself to sit on the small stool that Father used to brace his foot as he tied his sandals. I leaned on the door frame, arms folded across my chest, and gazed inside, beyond the foyer.

Until two years ago, we had lived near the public library. Then, father decided to build a new villa - closer to the sea with easy access to the boat houses. Now, without much forethought, he and I could take any of the boats out fishing without first having to pass through the city centre.

I relished time on the boat with my father. He referred to those occasions as our bonding-time: a time when he could share his knowledge and experience, a time when I could discover what it was to be a man.

During construction of the villa, I had often accompanied my father when he inspected the craftsmen’s work. I had admired the decorative patterns created by the tile setters, and the small fountain that Father had them build in the centre of the entrance hall, so Mother would no longer have to carry water from the well. Local artists painted murals on each wall, murals that either marked the purpose of the space or celebrated memorable events.

Photos by Jerena Tobiasen, Herculaneum, November 2019

Mother had designed a tiled mural in the guest hall, illustrating her own talents.

Photo by Jerena Tobiasen, Herculaneum, November 2019 I wondered whether I would ever see our beautiful home again. Sighing heavily, I inadvertently inhaled air ladened with dust and ash. Coughing uncontrollably, I almost missed the sound of Father’s rapid footfall on the stairs.

“Marcellus, do you have our coins and jewels?” my mother asked breathlessly, as she came upon us.

“Yes, here,” Father said, tapping the small satchel slung across his shoulders.

“Have you two packed everything you’ll need?” Father asked us. “We may be away for a while.”

“Yes, Father,” my sister and I said as one.

“Very well,” he said, pulling the three of us to him as the ground rumbled beneath us. “Tie one of these rags over your mouth and nose. I heard you coughing already because of bad air.” He helped us with the masks, then he and mother tied their own.

“Now, listen carefully,” he said, his voice muffled. “Head for the Sea Nymph boathouse. She is the largest of our vessels. We’ll fare better in her, if we can’t return. If anything goes amiss between here and the boathouse, go directly to the ship.”

His piercing brown eyes held ours while he waited for a clear response from each of us.

“Very well,” Father said again, stooping to lift some of the baskets. “Let’s go!”

We stepped into the street where neighbours stood milling, looking toward Mount Vesuvius. Even with the mask, I could taste a mixture of sour grape and ash coagulating at the back of my throat.

“Run!” my father hissed, loud enough for only us to hear. “Run as if your life depends upon it!”

We obeyed his command, my sister and I falling in behind our mother, while he shepherded us from behind. Mother lifted her long skirts, clutching a handful of fabric around basket handles, freeing her sandaled feet from encumbrance.

The streets had begun to fill with neighbours - shouting adults, confused youth, crying children - milling in groups as they wondered what to do next. Mother snaked her way around and through them.

Within ten minutes, we had woven our way to the top of the steep stairs that led down to our row of boathouses on the canal. While I helped Mother and Domitia onto the Sea Nymph, and passed our baskets and pouches aboard, Father untied the lines and began shoving the boat clear of the dock.

Row of Boathouses (recovered human bones in left two spaces, Herculaneum, November 2019. Photo by Jerena Tobiasen.

“Get aboard!” he shouted at me, heaving the boat free of its moorings before leaping aboard and grabbing one of the poles.

“Take the other pole,” he said, nodding in my direction. “Help me navigate the stream.

As Sea Nymph caught the current that would take her into the sea, other boat owners began arriving and loading their vessels.

“Put your back into it like a man!” my father shouted. “We need to be clear of the canal before the others crowd our path.”

I jammed the pole into the silt and shoved with all my might, driven by my sense of Father’s urgency. As I brought the pole forward preparing for a second shove I glanced above. Sea Nymph was about to pass beneath the bridge that carried pedestrians to the shoreline. A mob had begun to form, vocal and full of terror. Beyond them I saw the dark and looming cloud of ash, particles falling like rain over the city. Panic prickled my spine, and I shoved harder drawing my pole forward again. Minutes later, Sea Nymph cleared the shore and entered the bay.

Father unfurled the sail and turned it to catch the outbound breeze. As other vessels cleared the canal and began to fill the bay, Sea Nymph cut through the waves effortlessly and sailed beyond them.

“What will we do now?” I asked turning toward Herculaneum and the mass of hysteria swarming the shoreline.

“I don’t know,” my father said, his voice flat. “An old potter told me stories of passed eruptions. He said that the lava usually flows toward Pompeii.

Herculaneum is never touched, but he did caution that rubble cleared by the moving lava can be sent this way. Nothing significant ever comes of it, he told me, but he warned that if debris ever crests the hill above the library-” His words fell away on the breeze as he gazed at the growing black cloud that roiled above us. “For now, I think we’re safer out here. I doubt the work of the gods is finished. See there,” He pointed toward the frothy mouth of the mountain, “lava is beginning to flow.”

Photo by Jerena Tobiasen, Mount Vesuvius, November 2019 He shielded his eyes against the moody heavens. Time passed slowly. We sat quietly watching and waiting. Father seemed preoccupied, lost in thought as he contemplated our situation. Occasionally, his attention returned to the present, and he adjusted the tiller or the sail, correcting the ship’s bearing.

Above us, azure sky dotted by autumn clouds darkened as more ash wafted from the mount. The smell of acrid smoke mingled with salty sea spray.

“When can we go ho-?” Domitia asked expectantly.

Suddenly, screeching alarm cut through her words. Flocks of birds that had recently soared above our home as one mass, shattered into smaller flocks of like kind and hastened toward the horizon in ever direction.

“The birds” I said, “Where are they going?”

“They’ve sensed the danger,” Father replied waving his arms to deter sea birds from perching on Sea Nymph. “They’re telling us to leave.” He pointed toward Mount Vesuvius. “See how the lava pushes a wall of mud and debris out of its way? That wall is directed at Herculaneum, just as the old cobbler warned.” He rubbed his eyes with his fists.

From where they sat in the bow, Mother wrapped her arms around Domitia and kissed her dark crown, as if to reassure my little sister.

Sea Nymph bobbed on gentle waves while we bore witness to the throng of vessels swarming into the bay, bow to stern, each one over-filled with citizens

hoping to escape the threatening disaster. Others whipped donkeys, urging them to pull carts piled high with possessions along cobbled roadways, headed out of the city. While yet others simply ran for their lives.

Din and chaos rose above the thunderous roar of the red-glowing lava and liquified mud thrusting hungrily toward the two cities. Far out at sea, we could only look on in helpless despair.

“Father,” I said, “the mud . . . it’s going to reach the hill!”

“Yes,” Father growled, gripping the tiller forcefully and turning his attention toward the open sea. “Clearly, the gods are angry!” He straightened his back and squared his shoulders. “Well, now so am I! We worked hard to create a life here, but no more! We will rebuild in Sicilia!”

Photo by Jerena Tobiasen, Tyrrhenian Sea off the coast of Herculaneum, November 2019