I wish there was a way I could share this perfect moment,
to roll it up in a parchment made of mischief
and pass it along with a smile.

Friday 23 September 2011

The Highway Incident

1

There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the way the day dawned across the forest. For the timid little lemur, about to make his run to the other side of the two wheel ruts (which the locals called a road) the breaking dawn of this day was essentially no different than any other day he’d ever known. Yet through the astonishing quirks of chance, disparate lives will often converge resulting in a complex set of unknowable consequences… each consequence representing a change to our comfortable routines. And so it was, with blissful ignorance, our little lemur left the safety of the trees, unaware he was about to spark a debate on philosophical ethics. For not more than five-minutes up the road, mounted atop a steam driven carriage, two tourists assaulted the morning’s peace most rudely.

“Why don’t you just admit you are lost?” Emerson Lighthouse goaded
       “Please enlighten me as to just what indications I have given that would suggest I don’t know where we are?” Petharic‘s patronizing tone was a well-honed skill.
       “There’s just something about this that doesn’t seem right.”
       “Listen, we were instructed to continue riding straight until we reach to the first major intersection. We then turn right. We’ve passed no major intersections therefore we continue going straight.” He punctuated the last three words by synchronizing them with three consecutive hand chops.
       “There was that road about a mile back.”
       “On the left.” Petharic’s every breath reeked of exasperation. “And, as I said back then, ‘T-intersections don’t count.’”
       “I think you should pull over at the next sign of civilization and let me get out and ask someone.”
       “I’m not pulling over just to satisfy your anxiety.”
Emerson remained quiet for almost a minute before breaking the silence: “How is it possible that you can drive stick,” his voice rising above the clamour of the steam engine, “and still manage to point that offensive weapon so steadily at my head?”
       “You don’t need to start worrying about my driving skills.” Petharic defended with a touch more testiness than was required.
       “It’s a little odd, don’t you think? I mean usually the bad guy forces the good guy to drive so he can concentrate on being a menace with a gun.”
       “I never realized before just how incessantly you chatter. You haven’t shut-up since we left… and besides, I am not the bad guy here.”
Emerson remained silent for at least a half minute before suggesting: “Why don’t you let me drive, you sound a bit stressed out and I wouldn’t want that thing going off because of nerves.”
       “Listen, I drive. You keep your eyes on the road and look for signs of trouble.”
       “You’re the only trouble I’ve seen.”
       “What did I tell you about your chatter?”
       “I just want to go back to New Babbage now.”
       “The sooner you help me find the airship port the sooner we can board a flight back to New Babbage.”

Emerson started to tap his fingers against the side of his leg several times in apparent nervousness before calling out, “Would you mind pulling over, I have to relieve myself.”
       “What?” Petharic sounded incredulous at so obvious a ploy.
       “Are you going to make me repeat myself? I need to pee.”
       “Hold it.”
       “I can’t, I really have to go.”
       “Are you serious, we’ve been driving for less than an hour.”
       “What can I say other than… pull over so I can pee!”
       “You know, there’s probably a better place to stop just around this next bend, perhaps an inn or something. Try to hold it.” Just then a small ring-tailed lemur ran into the road!
      
“Look out!” Emerson grabbed for the wheel causing the carriage to veer sharply to the side thus narrowly missing the stunned creature. “You nearly hit that animal.”
       “So!” Petharic shouted, hitting the braking mechanism. “Never turn the wheel like that again. If we hit the animal we hit the animal. That will be one less dumb lemur to reproduce… better for all the smart ones.” Petharic had been reading a lot lately.
       “But if you can reasonably miss the animal with limited risk to yourself then isn’t that the compassionate and thus the morally responsible option. You surprise me Mr. Morally-Uptight-Bounty Hunter/Judge or whatever.” Emerson countered Petharic’s sanctimony with the hypocrite defense.
       Petharic responded by employing a tone of academic erudition. “I believe it was John Stuart Mill who said: logic clearly dictates that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.” Petharic paused relishing his own sagacity. “In this case, we are the many, and the lemur is the few.”
       “Or the one.” Emerson said barely above a whisper. He then added with a tone of exaggerated disbelief: “Are you sure John Stuart Mill said that?”
       “It may be a paraphrased version.” replied Petharic. “But forget that now, this is your chance.”

“Chance?” Emerson was suddenly overcome with a wave of suspicious paranoia. He’d never, in actuality, had to relieve himself. It was all just an attempt to get Petharic to pull over. Emerson was, in fact, working through a rather promising plan. The steam carriage (which he’d bought through a neighbourly acquaintance in New Babbage) came rigged with explosives. On the right underside of the passenger seat was a little dial which, when turned, started a clock mechanism. Exactly one minute after being activated the carriage and everyone in it would be blown to pieces. If he could turn that dial, then get far enough away from the carriage (while Petharic remained in the driver’s seat of course) his problems would be only moments away from being solved. Unfortunately this potential outcome depicts a best case scenario, not necessarily a most likely to succeed scenario. And here is the root of Emerson’s anxiety. What if Petharic has somehow figured it all out?

“We’re stopped,” Petharic squinted his eyes quizzically as he broke Emerson’s reverie. “Your chance to find relief.” he waved towards the trees along the side of the road.

This seems promising, Emerson thought, for from his vantage, it didn’t appear as though Petharic knew anything about the dial-detonator. Emerson breathed relief… just baseless paranoia. “Okay,” he said, swinging his leg over the side of the carriage all the while reaching for the dial. “I’ll be right back.” But the dial wasn’t there! In its place a hole marred the leather seat cover.

“Looking for this.” In his nongun hand Petharic held up the dial, still connected by wires to the car (and, one would assume the explosives).” He shook his head in mock sadness. “Amateur.”

Emerson lost it. He lunged at Petharic in a desperate bid to wrench that detonator switch from his grasp. He managed to get his fingers under the edges of the box casing before Petharic deflected the attack by delivering a nasty elbow blow to the ribs. He then followed this with a rather questionable kick to the kneecap. Emerson, despite the pain, was determined to hang on… and would have done so had he been stronger. Petharic inevitably managed to wrench his hand free and push Emerson to the floor of the carriage. He raised his arm and took deliberated aim. Emerson found himself staring straight down the barrel of the Colt. Somehow Emerson knew he wouldn’t be shot.

With a heart jolting suddenness, a single shot rang out, shattering what little early morning peace remained. The little lemur, having endured enough excitement ran off deep into the woods. Emerson and Petharic both jumped at the unexpected report. The round had been fired in the air by the leader of the 12 member, heavily armed cavalry now circling the two combatants and their rather remarkable steam powered carriage.

2

The Captain of the Royal Guard had heard of such fantastic machines before, but never actually seen one until now. It was spectacular. Brass and polished steel gleamed with the pride of industry in the subtropical summer sun. The two riders, while largely hidden by the sides of the carriage were no longer shouting at each other. The Captain called out a greeting followed by orders to disembark from the carriage and surrender their arms.

“There you go Mr. Petharic!” Emerson pointed up from the floor of the carriage (where he still lay sprawled). “You are going to go to jail!” He sounded almost gleeful. “I believe even in this remote island kingdom attempted murder remains an indictable offense.”

“No one is going to go to jail.” Petharic assured as he casually re-holstered his Colt. “They are just looking for a bribe. Give me your identification papers.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because I am going engage in a parley and they will want to know who they are dealing with. Satisfied? Now, give me your papers.” Emerson nodded, acknowledging the sense of Petharic’s plan.

Petheric reached down to offer him a hand up as Emerson retrieved the documents. Quite casually (during the process of helping Emerson to his feet) he accepted and pocketed the papers in an outside jacket pocket.  All the while, the Captain of the cavalry continued to call out what they assumed were surrender orders, but they couldn’t say for sure. Not only was the Captain’s dialect foreign to their ears, but neither of them had been paying attention.

“Come with me,” Petharic instructed so as only Emerson could hear. “Stop just before I reach him. And don’t say anything,” he emphasized, “let me clear this all up.”

“You don’t have enough rounds to clear this all up.”

“I believe diplomacy is still the best course of action.” He then disembarked the steam carriage closely followed by Emerson.  Together the two men advanced towards the horsemen.

As they approached, the Captain held up his hand for them to halt. “What business have you gentleman this morning that we should find you coming to blows?” The Captain’s speech rang with the rich phonetics of his native tongue. Emerson found the foreign dialect to be surprisingly cheerful.

“Please let me apologise for this most unfortunate incident.” Petharic offered.  “What began as a minor misunderstanding between fellow travellers ashamedly escalated to an unacceptable level. Rest assured it will not happen again… so long as we are on your native soil.”

Wow, thought Emerson with a genuine sense of admiration, this guy can sugar the truth into something quite palatable.

“It has happened to the best of us.” The Captain dismissed half of his guard to inspect the carriage. He then seemed to hesitate before continuing… as if pondering some sort of moral dilemma. “One might be persuaded to look the other way had a weapon not been involved.”

“Oh, I’m sure one could still be persuaded to look the other way,” said Petharic “should the flash of silver catch in one’s periphery.”

“The flash of gold is so much more blinding don’t you think?” The Captain would have continued to converse most favourably, had he not been interrupted by the approach of one of his men returning from the steam carriage. In his hands was a green leather satchel emblazoned with the monogram “EL” in orange and gold. The soldier opened the bag and held it at an angle so the captain could peer inside.

The Captain’s face fell at once to a very serious countenance. “Who’s bag is this?” He no longer sounded so cheerful.  Emerson and Petharic stood in silence. “Gentleman,” The captain was at once stern a severe, “I will not ask a third time: who owns this bag?” each word was punctuated for clarity.

“It’s his.” Emerson pointed at Petheric.

What!!” Petharic couldn’t help the outburst. The absolute audaciousness of Emerson’s claim was incredible.

“It’s true, Officer, his name is Emerson Lighthouse and he kidnapped me.”

“You are going a little off script Dr. Lighthouse.” Emerson should have taken note of the danger rising in Petharic’s voice; taken that as a cue to remain silent. Instead he turned to the Captain and said: “It is a simple matter to confirm. Check his outside jacket pocket. That is where he keeps his identification papers.”

Petharic had heard enough. He drew the Colt and in a single motion, aimed it at the middle of Emerson’s head.  For the second time that morning, Emerson found himself staring down the barrel of the Colt… only this time it stared back with a bitter determination. Who can say with any certainty if Petharic would have pulled the trigger? It was enough that the surrounding cavalry believed he would pull the trigger. Within moments the forest resounded with the echoes of gunfire. Long before the last of those echoes faded in the distance, Petharic lay dead, crumpled like a marionette suddenly bereft of strings.

Something about this doesn’t seem real, thought Emerson, as if it we are living some thought rather than some action.  But there, before him, lay Petharic. How could he deny his senses? He shook off the sense of déjà vu. This is really happening. He couldn’t imagine a more fortunate turn of events.

“Well,” began the Captain, the discomfort he felt over the severity of the response apparent in his voice, “I suppose you would be free to go then… so long as you pay the clean-up and body removal tax. What did you say your name was…?” The Captain eyed Emerson.

“Petharic… my name is Mr. Petharic.” said Emerson reaching up to shake the Captain’s hand. “And I would be most delighted to pay any fine you see fit.” Before the two men finished shaking however, the air rang out with a mighty explosion! Apparently, just over a minute ago, as a result of a combination of curiosity and human nature, one of the cavalrymen upon finding a curious dial on the floor of the steam carriage, decided to turn it - just to see what would happen. In this case curiosity killed no cats, just a couple of horses and half the Captain’s men. Emerson felt the man’s grip upon his hand tighten with vice-like intensity. This was indeed a most unwelcome turn of events.

Tuesday 20 September 2011

The Camping Incident

1

Emerson Lighthouse felt as though he was being eaten alive, a distinct possibility in this infernal kingdom, he thought as he swiped in mild annoyance at the tiny flying creatures hovering near the nape of his neck. Even though the sun was finally beginning to set, the heat of the day still held this tiny, uncharted island in an oppressive grip. As a rule, he found the tropics to be most unpleasant and longed to be back in the more temperate jungle of brick and steel. New Babbage… where it’s either too cold or too smoggy to support all these wretched bugs, he thought. But Emerson needed to focus right now; he had a job to do and there was no sense in whining about the heat without anyone around to appreciate the performance.

Ever so quietly, he crept along the upper lip of the escarpment. Below him slept the cold hearted killer who had hunted him across this island many times over. Maybe there is something to fate after-all, he mused, otherwise how ironic that my nemesis, who has hunted me without mercy now sits unaware of the fact that he is now the prey.

In front of Emerson, almost too well positioned to be believed, was a large round boulder just waiting to be nudged into skull-crushing motion. Yet as he placed his hands on the cold, hard stone a thought flickered through his mind: perhaps I should show a little compassion and take this opportunity to just sneak off quietly. But it was only a fleeting flicker that went dark almost as soon as it sparked. He leaned his shoulder to the boulder and heaved.

Unfortunately the rock was a little heavier than he anticipated and it didn’t so much as budge. Intensifying his efforts, Emerson braced his legs and with a weightlifter’s grunt heaved for all he was worth. It moved… but maybe only an inch…

The next sequence of events all happened a bit too suddenly for Emerson to process… one moment he was straining against the rock, all muscle and concentration… the next moment he was flying backwards through the air. In the dim light of the setting sun he hadn’t noticed the loop of rope that snared his leg. Nor had he noticed the line running behind him to the branches which had been forced down and held in place by a pulley mechanism weighted to the very rock he was attempting to push. From most promising ally to most unredeemable betrayer; he felt like spitting on that wretched stone every time it flew through his field of vision, on the ground, ten 10 feet below.


2

“This confounded structure is going to be the death of me!” Petharic muttered as he kicked at the confusion of canvas, mesh-netting, stakes and wooden poles. “Nothing seems to line up properly.”

“Where is an urchin when you need one, eh?” Emerson commented dryly from within the confines of his cage.

“What?” Petharic did nothing to disguise the loathing from his glare.

“An urchin would have that tent set-up in a second.” Emerson taunted.

“So, what are you trying to say?” intoned Petharic with aggressive defensive intensity.

Emerson shrugged, “I’m not saying anything…” he replied, dropping his voice for maximum passive-aggressive injury… “just that a kid could put it together, that’s all.”

Petharic stormed the cage waving the sharp end of a stake in Emerson’s face. “You talk entirely too much for someone in as much trouble as you!” Petharic regarded the stake he held in his hand as if only now seeing it for the first time. With a look of bemusement, he threw it to the ground. “Just keep the snide comments to yourself,” he pointed, “or you just might find yourself gagged.” Petharic returned to brooding over the tangle of tent parts.

Emerson hardly dared breathe for fear of giving away the fact that Petharic had left the sharpened stake, forgotten in his haste and anger, lying by the edge of the cage. Ever so quietly, he reached his arm through the space between the slats of wood… he pursed his lips in frustration as it caught about halfway up the forearm. He’d need to be about a foot and a half closer in order to retrieve that stake.

With sudden inspiration, he gripped the sides of the cage with his hands and jumped. It worked. The cage had actually inched forward. The stake was almost within reach. Two more jumps should do it.

“Did you hear something?” Petharic turned.

“What?”

“A noise, did you hear that noise?”

“No…. was there a noise?” Emerson asked shrugging his shoulders, “I didn’t hear a noise.”

Petharic regarded Emerson with narrowed eyes. “Things might go a little smoother for you Dr. Lighthouse if you would only choose the path of honesty.”

“Honesty has such grey areas along the margins.” Emerson Lighthouse willed himself to not look at that stake. “I mean… how is one to follow a path so ill-defined as that?”

Petharic regarded Emerson with the expression one might don upon detecting something unpleasant in a befouled chamber pot. “There is nothing grey about honesty. Honesty is the only true course, Dr. Lighthouse.” He spoke slowly with an almost righteous cadence. “It is not that difficult to follow the only true course.”

“Oh come on… only true course… that is such a meaningless statement. You know very well there are an infinite number of ‘only true courses’… all existing side by side, yet separate, in some sort of fractal universe. Not one of them is right, they just… are.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about and can only conclude that you are under the amaazement…” Petharic stretched that last word in order to match it with his finger-gesture quotation marks… “of your medications.” He looked as though he were about to say something more when he slapped at the side of his neck. “Damnation! These flies are maddening.” Petharic returned to the ruins of his tent, his fly-induced interjection effectively ending the conversation.

Taking advantage of Petharic’s distraction, Emerson jumped the cage an inch closer to the stake. Once again Petharic looked up having thought he heard a sound. Emerson looked back nonchalantly. With the mesh lining from the tent tucked under one arm, Petharic walked back to the cage. He stopped just in front of Emerson, bent down and picked up the stake.

“I’m impressed. Look how close you came… consider it a job pretty well done?”

Emerson’s nonchalance took a sudden turn to sullen.

As Petharic regarded the stake as he asked, “What were you planning to do with this?”

“Poke it in your eye as you slept.” Emerson said. “Is that honest enough for you?”

Petharic put the stake in his jacket pocket then threw the mesh lining from the tent over the top of the cage as if he were wrapping a present. He then staked each corner deep into the ground. “There, let’s see you move that cage now.”

Emerson chose the low road: “Please accept my congratulations on getting the tent up.” His sarcasm carried the bitter edge of mockery, “I’ll sleep well tonight all comfy under my mosquito net.”

“You know what… I should just shoot you.” Petharic said with such conviction that Emerson was foolish not to believe it immanent.

“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you. But you can’t kill me. Your primary mission is retrieval… and I have something you want.” Emerson taunted boldly, “So, you need me.”

Petharic aimed the Colt at Emerson’s leg. “I just said I should shoot you, I didn’t say anything about killing you.” Petharic pulled the trigger.

Emerson screamed. Not because he had been shot (Petharic, in fact, had missed) but because the sound of the gunfire startled him so. Emerson was about to fly into a tirade of retaliatory curses when the words caught in his throat. Before him, not more than ten feet away, Petharic began to gyrate in a grotesque choreography… arms flailing, body twisting at impossible angles... it was as if he were fighting off demonic possession. The night quite suddenly seemed to take on a sinister quality as a profound darkness fell upon them.

Horrified, yet ashamedly fascinated, Emerson watched from beneath the safety of his netting as a shadowy, undulating cloud filled the air, enveloping everything around them for hundreds of yards in all directions. It was a swarm of some form of tiny carnivorous fly… millions, perhaps billions, of them… filling the air with a high whiny buzz. Though miniscule in size, in such numbers the results were quite impressive: they left nothing but clothes, bones and hair in less than two minutes. A shiver ran down Emerson’s spine as he noticed (in what little light the coals of the fire pit were able to cast) that the cloud had taken on a most unsettling hue of pink… more pronounced directly above the remains, dissipating back to black the further out one looked. It was only a matter of moments before the cloud had departed as if being absorbed by jungle itself. In their wake, an eerie, unnatural calm settled upon the scene. Emerson, no longer in such a hurry to escape the confines of his cage settled in to await the rising sun.

My House



 The design is based on the Halifax Town Clock in Nova Scotia, built in 1803


The second structure is loosely based on The Henry House in Downtown Halifax. I lived next door to the Henry House for much of the 1990s