NorthWord Literary Magazine - Volume 2, Issue 5

volume 2 | issue 5 | FREE

contents

northern canada collective society for writers

2

editorial

Buffy Close

president Suzanne McGladdery

3

community report

Kiran Malik-Khan

treasurer Cathy Yard

4

all things considered

Cathy Yard

secretary Buffy Close

6

watch out

Angie Gordema

7

boogie man was not the only joke

Reinalie Jorolan

public relations director Kiran Malik-Khan

8

defining superstition

Kiran Malik-Khan

8

a seven year sentence

Dawn Booth

9

that cat and me

Kimberly Jean Fiske

10

the ghosts

Theresa Wells

12

steinhauer bridge

Dane Neufeld

cover Michele Paull

12

wishing

Elizabeth Hamlyn

design & layout Rachel White-Murray

13

and so we live

Neha Gandhi

issue editor Buffy Close

17

sunday

Troy Thomas

managing editor Jane Jacques

19

the devil rides my bus

Cathy Yard

president emiritus Jennifer Hemstock

20

marginalia: a column

Douglas Abel

22

contributors

26

and now a list poem for our favourite superstitions

Kiran Malik-Khan

Thank you to the YMCA of Wood Buffalo for the

generous donation of a room for our monthly meetings. Check NorthWord Facebook and Twitter

or e-mail NorthWordMagazine@gmail.com for meeting dates and times, and please join us!

e-mail northwordmagazine@gmail.com

This Issue: Volume 2, Number 5 Spring 2014 ISSN 1920-6313

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

editorial webster’s dictionary defines superstitions as “a belief or practice resulting from ignorance, fear of the unknown, trust in magic or chance, or a false conception of causation” or as “a notion maintained despite evidence to the contrary.”

Canadians are not generally known for their belief in magic, nor for their

ignorance. However, we maintain a great amount of trust in chance and a peculiar drive to honor old superstitions even when we know them to be based on ‘false conception’.

Whether engrained in belief or language alone, superstition is a part of our

daily lives. We unconsciously step over the cracks on the sidewalk while

knowingly crossing our fingers to ward off bad luck. While some superstitions have worn away with time, others thrive and grow, passed on through generations of rhyming and repetition.

The cover artist Michele Paull has been a resident of Fort McMurray for 5 years.

She graduated from Langara College in 1996 with a diploma in Professional

Photography. Her piece, “Do You Honor Your Reflection or the Fire Within?” is a

photograph of an authentic Fort McMurray raven, transformed into digital art.

The raven, she comments, is a “perfect northern icon” noting that the “warm and cool colors reflect the duality of our relationship with superstition” while alluding to the familiar themes of Hitchcock and Poe.

I hope that you enjoy the selections made for this issue of NorthWord. Sifting through the words to discover what superstition means to our contributors was a fascinating journey through time and tradition, a journey that I gladly share with you now.

Buffy Close |

eleventh issue editor

volume 2 | issue 5

community report

by kiran malik-khan Public Relations Director

new philanthropist, new website, and issue #10 launched

thanked Keyano College, and University Studies depart-

It took Colin Hartigan all of five minutes to sign on the

“Keyano has always been very supportive of us. We appre-

Owner is our newest philanthropist; and we thank him for

our launch event. Keyano has been a supporter of the arts

dotted line. Coldwell Banker Fort McMurray’s Broker/

his kindness. True community leaders see the importance of a thriving literary arts scene, and Colin is certainly one.

ment for the collaboration.

ciate the venue, and the technical support provided at in general as well in our community, and that’s always great,” said McGladdery.

Readings from local writers and poets, and an open microphone rounded out the activities.

Board Members Kiran Malik-Khan, Buffy Close, and

member Tara Munn were on the judges’ panel for the

Regional Municipality of Wood Buffalo’s 2014 Words in Motion poetry program. All three ladies enjoyed the

chance to select wondrous verse from local youth and

adults—all of which made it on to city buses to celebrate Thanks to Buffy Close, our Recording Secretary we have a

new website as well. It’s beautiful, and full of information about our publication. Visit: www.northwordmagazine. com, and tell us what you think.

We launched our milestone Issue #10 in collaboration

with Keyano’s annual Arts & Humanities Conference on

March 8, 2014. Buffy Close interviewed Nathan Berube, Issue #10’s guest editor.

“Nothing is all light, or all dark. That’s why I picked the theme of Chiaroscuro—which is an artistic term for light

April as National Poetry Month.

Remember to pick up a copy of our new issue. To advertise, or sponsor, please contact us via: northwordmagazine@ gmail.com. Or, message us through our social media portals listed below.

NorthWord is available free of charge at the Keyano Col-

lege Bookstore, Keyano Reception (front desk), Keyano Library, Frames and More, and the Thickwood YMCA.

Like us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/northword and

follow us on Twitter: @NorthWordYMM.

playing off dark,” explained Berube, who is a local poet.

When asked about his editing experience Berube said it was fun to see so much talent in our community, and he appreciated all the submissions.

“It was just great. I had fun, and Jane Jacques, NorthWord’s

managing editor is a great help if you are stuck on which piece to select,” he added.

Suzanne McGladdery, President, Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers that publishes NorthWord

L-R: Nathan Berube talks about the editing process with Buffy Close at Issue #10's launch event at Keyano College.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

all things considered cathy yard

Tobias knew he should be up; the sun, four inches above

didn’t leave much room for his skinny frame. He wiggled

by his calculations. The house sounds had settled back

be a good day—a safe day.

the window ledge, indicated it was after nine o’clock

to a fuzzy quietness after the morning crowd had for-

aged and left. He wasn’t particularly taken aback that no one had called up the stairs; no one had missed him

in the morning melee of eight people all going in different directions. It didn’t matter because this year he had

decided to sit out the day anyway, especially after last year’s debacle. He rubbed his right arm in memory of the

painful breakage, still able to hear the sickening crunch

followed by a pain he had never previously experienced, and never wanted to again. He wasn’t superstitious; it was just that Friday the thirteenth’s odds had never been in his favour.

No, he decided to stay in bed and review his rather extensive vintage comic book collection inherited from

his father, which, with careful planning and foresight, he had piled along the bedside edges the previous even-

ing. Along with a couple of loosely wrapped now soggy

Around noon, thoroughly engrossed in his Hulk adven-

ture his spidey sense kicked in. His foot tingled and a

tickle wandered up his back causing downy hairs to

stand. A presence was about to invade his sanctuary, and in the middle of deciding if evil or good was about

to pay a call, he looked up as Missy Midnight Mew slunk

into his room carrying something furry in her mouth, the snowy fur the colour of Jason’s pet hamster. He was undecided if good or evil had arrived.

He stared into agate eyes and frowned, “That better not be Hammy. Come here, let me see.” Whether it was his

fault or not, he would suffer Jason’s retribution if anything happened to the overfed rodent. The fact that Miss Mew wasn’t even his cat, but his mother’s, wouldn’t

matter either. It had something to do with being the second youngest in a line of six boys.

peanut butter and honey sandwiches cut in lopsided tri-

Missy glared and halted halfway between the door and

because his mother subscribed to an apple a day theory

cent tail.

angles just the way he liked them; one Ambrosia apple and even though he no longer liked apples he felt for her

sake he should at least be mindful; several long necked bottles of homemade ginger beer pilfered from the cool depths of the basement filled with effervescent bubbles waiting to be uncapped, and a mason jar half-filled with

hoarded rubbery gummy bears. The last item had been

bought months before with birthday money from Gram.

Even though Gram never specified what he was to spend

his bed, disdain signalled by the twitch of her magnifi“Here kitty, kitty,” Tobias wheedled. He watched as the cat gathered her haunches and launched towards his desk in

front of the window. She soared over his chair and landed

with a thud, scattering three of his favourite Pokémons

onto the floor. Once situated, she dropped the matted fur and growled as she batted with her paws, pouncing and releasing only to recapture as she relived the hunt.

the money on he knew she wanted him to purchase

“Aw, come on. Bring it here, that’s a good girl.” Blood

time to reconsider, their sticky mass was lodged firmly

prize before it was too late he reached under his pillow,

books, but the gummy bears shouted and before he had

in his backpack and he stood on the sidewalk blinking in

the sunlight. He hadn’t regretted his decision and it was lucky he was small for his ten years as the crowded bed

4

his toes. As long as he stayed on the bed it was going to

dotted his desk top. Desperate to distract the cat from its

fingers seeking the garlic bulb he kept to ward of the nightriders that rode his dreams after he finished the

second Twilight book, and launched the missile at the

volume 2 | issue 5

cat. Bull’s-eye. The cat leapt upwards clawing the win-

ten year-old boys—he had to know what it was. His

her yowl. His anti-lightning acorn collection bounced

ing the rails across a lonely prairie nightscape: if he had

faced Tobias, claws clicking against the wood.

or Superman’s cape or … the list proved endless. But no,

dowsill, arched back and flattened ears underlined by

across the floor. Missy turned, golden eyes slits and A timely retreat was in order and Tobias dove under his

blanket, bracing himself for the inevitable assault. He waited. Twenty-two pounds of midnight vengeance landed on the floor with a thump. He flinched, tension

stretched like Elastic Man’s extendable body, and unable

to wait a moment longer he peered out and sighed in relief as Missy’s backside slunk around the doorframe.

A quick glance revealed the scrap of fur abandoned on his desk. There was something about the stillness that

bothered him – as if life had hit a pause button and he wouldn’t be able to restart it. He estimated the distance

between the end of the bed and the desk – too far, even if he took a running jump. Besides, if he overshot he’d be

through the window without a cape. A quick survey of the room revealed nothing helpful. Slithering his upper

body off the bed he searched underneath for anything that could possibly help him reach the desk without touching the floor. Because that was the deal: if his feet didn’t touch the floor, he hadn’t truly left the bed and he

was still safe. He wasn’t sure if it was a rule or when he’d

decided this debatable point – and it didn’t matter – if he truly believed it then it became an undisputable truth.

The dusky eggplant umbrella took him by surprise.

Several weeks ago he’d told his mother he didn’t know where her umbrella had got to, and he hadn’t known

when he’d said it. It could work. He fished it out. The curved handle could possibly hook the furry thing off the

desk, but kneeling at the end of the bed he discovered it was several feet short no matter what contortions he

tried. The umbrella wouldn’t even reach the chair tucked under his desk. Disappointed he sat back.

Unsure why the lump of fur mattered now, he believed with a conviction so pure, so unadulterated by experience, with a ferocious belief only known to undersized

mind churned ideas faster than an oncoming train heat-

Spiderman’s web castings cuffs or Green Lantern’s ring

he only had himself, all sixty-five pounds of bruiseable flesh and breakable bone. He flopped on the bed and

studied the water-stains undulating from the corner of the ceiling. The squiggles looked like ripples generated from skipping stones when they hiccupped across glassy

water. Like the past summer when he had broken his personal record of seven skips. Even Jason hadn’t been able

to beat him. A vision of Renaud Lavillenie breaking the pole vault record for the first time in years flashed.

As he closed the yawning gap between the bed and the desk, for a nanosecond his weight delicately balanced

on the umbrella handle, he heard the snick followed

immediately by the whoosh of an eggplant blooming.

The opening of the umbrella, uncounted for in his cal-

culations, forced his free arm to pin wheel, allowing him to miraculously gain a foothold on the edge of the

desk. In an effort to secure his perch he gave one last

push, knocked his chair to the floor and surrendered

the umbrella to the room where it bounced, coming to rest against the bed. Not the most graceful move, but certainly victorious. Feet tucked under him, he leaned

against the window frame until his heartbeat settled and his breath evened.

Thankfully, the scrap of fur proved not to be Hammy, but a rabbit’s foot. Not soft or pretty with a gold top and

chain, or dyed green like Jeff’s at school that he coveted, but a lumpy bit of fur with blood and sinew protruding

from the upper end. Nothing that a bit of trimming and

tape couldn’t fix. He rummaged in the desk drawer for

scissors, tape and a shoelace. It was still a rabbit’s foot, and because none of his five siblings owned a pet rabbit he didn’t spend any time considering whose it might

have been. Luck was like that, it happened all around

him, good and bad. He’d learned to grab the good and duck and dodge the bad.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

With his newly acquired treasure secured around his

up again. She’d also told him if he sniffed dandelions he

back to bed, no food or drink, no afternoon spent lost in

good measure, because he’d inherited his mother’s long

neck, Tobias surveyed his room. There would be no going super-hero-dom. He was going to be grounded when

his mom discovered the phone messages from school.

He’d probably miss his favourite TV shows for the next week, and it went without saying Saturday’s visit to Dino-o-rama was off the table as well. It wouldn’t hurt

to try balance his luck quota. He whipped off his t-shirt, turned it inside out and pulled it back on. Gram had told

him it was lucky to wear your clothes inside out when

he’d asked her why her shirt seams were on the outside, even though he suspected she had just gotten mixed

watch out! angie goredema

would pee his bed. It was just old people talk. Then, for skinny feet and slender toes, ‘monkey toes’ his broth-

ers called them, he crossed his toes. Crossed his fingers, his legs and his arms in a final attempt to tilt luck in his favour, and waited out what remained of the afternoon

hunched on the desk as he thought how he would wear the rabbit’s foot causally around his neck to school the next day. How his friends would crowd around, want to touch it, want to trade him for the privilege of wearing

it for a day. All things considered, it had been a good day.

It happened for a week. I would wake up and go to bed thinking about it. I knew it. I knew it would happen. The only question was when? Everyone

seemed all right, but I could tell, sooner or later I would find out what it was.

It bothered me so much that I couldn’t play with my friends. How could I? I was so afraid. I feared the unknown because I was certain it would happen.

Then on Sunday, early in the morning my mother almost confirmed. “Your father is not feeling well, he is asking for his twin brother, I am going to get him and I will be right back.”

Consumed by fear, I went to a nearby quiet forest and sat down with my back leaning against my favorite tree. I wanted to look at the sky and clear my mind, but my eye kept bothering me. After an hour or so, I heard my friend Emma running towards me saying something and calling my name.

“Angie! Where are you? Your mom is back, she is crying uncontrollably.

Angie! Angie! Angie! Angie! ... …” I could and can still hear Emma’s voice.

As we were walking towards the house, Emma grabbed my hand and said, “You can’t do anything about it Angie, he is dead.”

Yes, he was dead, just like that.

A few days later I was told he died of liver failure.

But I knew it. My left eye warned me, it twitched for a week before my papa died.

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volume 2 | issue 5

boogie man was not the only joke reinalie jorolan

In the land of my distant childhood

Where dream catcher was kept untold And violence at home hit the roof

Like hungry bats swooning in the kloof I thought of the boogie man as a joke

Prancing about on its stinky hairy cloak All because…

In some nights,

I was chased by a pack of hybrid wolves Dressed in silky fangs and devil's robes

Their howls of horror melted a brick wall

Then stringy sharp claws punctured my soul And with no delay swallowed me whole!

In most nights,

Those sordid spirits emerged from the gory sea And stole my mommy’s hugs and heart away

Then buried them in the neighbour’s bales of hay!

So I searched and searched for what were stolen from me And prayed and prayed for sunbursts everyday Alas! One night,

I hung out with insomnia and poetry

We then came up with a bold conspiracy—

We told the world the crimes of the hybrid wolves And of those sordid spirits' conniving moves!

With sharpened metaphors and crafty words We poked and poked their meanest souls, And with no delay they ran like fools.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

defining superstition kiran malik-khan

She said—it’s when belief meets disbelief Fascinating

It’s as if she’s got a microscope to study souls Should I tell her

I’m not good at untangling things?

Cords, chains, riddles, convoluted people— What does it mean?

Should I also tell her

I don’t listen to the “in case of emergency instructions” on an airplane

lest the plane go down, and I would have to apply said instructions

That’s not superstitious at all now is it?

Yet, I stay suspended between belief and disbelief

a seven year sentence dawn booth

Shattered reflection.

A soul broken, damaged, trapped.

Seven years’ worth of revenge for a careless act.

Mastering misdirection.

Spin, spin, spin.

Breaking the series of misfortune, for a new cycle to begin.

Neutralizing the negativity, havoc, and

mayhem.

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volume 2 | issue 5

that cat and me

kimberly jean fiske

Walking, he follows; a thin, black stray down past the moment, over the morning hills,

behind a late spring sun and underneath the umbrella forest of me.

Thick, lush leftovers of living;

a foundation of rot and nutrients, damp at my feet.

Trees sweat drips of winter chill in superstitious quivers

along the feline’s spine. He is quick to hiss a catty retort.

Sap stirs a dozen rings of history alive.

Secrets whirl through the grain.

Words wrapped in the bark of youth;

ravels of letters dispatched to the tips of lanky limbs.

Roots till the tangled magic of time, pushing dirt and physics

to their unlimited potential.

A season remembering itself long tucked under a sleepy blanket of pause.

Sharp claws dig deep, with

the nervous, abstract breeze in a songbird’s mock, familiar tone.

“Why did I follow her?” I hear him think.

“Shhh,” I whisper, wishing for a pen.

We are the rot and the sap, the lush leftovers.

The underneath, the up above.

Kissed by a waking summer sun

I turn back toward the heat in the hills and climb the softening dampness;

quivers and secrets and ravels of letters at my feet.

That Cat and Me.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

the ghosts theresa wells

He curls around my legs, meowing with anticipation and desire for the can

of food in my hand. I am about to pull the lid off when she speaks, just two eyes and a forehead visible above the back of her laptop screen.

“Poor kitty,” she says, “so slow with the food. What kind of establishment is this?”

And I stand frozen in time.

“Where did you hear that?” I say. “Have I ever said that to you? Have I ever asked that establishment question?” I demand.

The eyes, sometimes brown and sometimes green, look puzzled. Concerned.

What has she said wrong, she wonders? And then she shakes her head and says, “I dunno, I just thought it. Why?” Her eyes are inquisitive now, not understanding my reaction, my face, my trembling hands.

“Your grandfather,” I say shakily. “Your grandfather. He always said that, about the cat, whenever the cat was unhappy,” and I stare at her with wonder, as her

grandfather has been dead for years, and her memories of him are faint and few.

It is one of those moments when I am filled with awe, because I have never

believed in ghosts. I have never been a spiritual person, never religious, never

thought there could be more than what was in front of my eyes and in direct

view, and yet in recent months I have seen glimpses of things I don’t understand.

Packing up my garage to move after my husband and I separated, in tears as I

sorted through the detritus of almost 30 years of a life together. I take her bicy-

cle and move it against some boxes, and my bicycle falls over on the floor in the process, lying there like a dead thing on the dusty floor. I need a break from the

sorting and the pain and so I step outside the garage. The door is in my view the entire time, and it is just me and the ghosts of my past life, or so I think.

I go back inside the garage and the bicycle that was on the floor is now

propped up against some boxes, lifted by an unseen hand. I fling myself

against the wall, convinced someone is in the garage with me as I can feel

them there, but there is no one. I am alone. And yet the bike has been picked up, just as my father picked up my bicycle when I was a child, the bicycles he always bought me as a surprise, arriving home unannounced with a new

bicycle for me even when I didn’t need a new one. The bicycles he was constantly picking up and propping against a wall when I left them lying on the lawn or the driveway or the garage floor.

The ghosts in the garage were not the ones I expected.

Unpacking in my new house, feeling uncertain and overwhelmed at a life now

suddenly my own, just her and me and the pets. I am working for hours in the 10

volume 2 | issue 5

kitchen, unpacking box after box, frantically trying to make

are here and real and in my life. And yet here they are, no

work without a break for hours, and then suddenly decide

times they are so close I can feel them. Sometimes I can

sense of my new cabinets and new home and new life. I

to go sit in the living room for a moment with a cold drink.

And then I hear it, the smashing of glass as the light fixture

denying their presence and their guiding hand. Some-

detect the scent of cedar wood shavings from his shop, and cinnamon buns from her kitchen.

directly above where I was working explodes, spraying

Perhaps they were never there before because I did not

been injured, no doubt, as I find shards of glass embedded

closed to their presence that even if they showed them-

glass all over the room. Had I been there I would have in cardboard boxes on the floor. My mother, long gone, had always loved her kitchen, loved to cook, and loved to

take care of me, keeping me from harm and from shards of glass that threatened my skin and my heart.

I have never believed in ghosts, and have resisted giving

in to the inevitable, to the acknowledgement that they

need them. Perhaps my heart and mind had been so selves I did not see them. But they are here now, in an unseen hand that picks up a fallen bicycle, a thought to

leave a room a moment before a light fixture explodes, a voice that comes from a child that carries their legacy.

They are not the ghosts I expected. They are the ghosts I have needed.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

steinhauer bridge dane neufeld

Four white tails caper across generated shadows Sharp as ice, etched onto gravel and grass, paled

In the dying strength of the highway’s moan, which Breaks on a row of trailers trickling into the woods.

The dark morning slides along the industrial curve, Opening safely against the bluffs, a cycle enclosing Our days—smoothed stones crumbled from black

Hills, washed and buried in the bones of a new age.

Flat beds rattle on their axels and skip across the

Joints; an engine brake sears the chilled air as red Lights flash and blur in frantic swirls of exhaust; Somewhere a sub throbs blindly beneath it all.

Along the banks a strange-faced fox stares vaguely Into the breeze as ravens dive beneath the bridge’s

Bulk, deep and obscure: massively stilled in the sky, Brittle white, and solid straight down to its core.

From below, the muted, distant thrum of tires hiss—

Heard like rapids through the trees—and carry off to Make us wonder if our wills, girded like steel, can

Settle the human heart to hover, where the silent River reaches through soft earth; its murky body

Eases into a final breath, held less for permanence But peace, winding its wounds toward the north:

The spruce-hedged horizon of our southern souls.

wishing

elizabeth hamlyn

12

Fingers crossed, hopeful.

She watches in calm silence Maybe this one time…

volume 2 | issue 5

and so we live neha gandhi

The young man was one of the many sons of a prominent family. He was an idealist, reader of Hemingway and Tolstoy, ardent follower of Dag Hammarskjold’s work with the UN. He thought of education as basis of one’s life

and teaching is where he gravitated. He fought his way to an assistant professorship in Sciences much to his business savvy family’s puzzlement. His name, Narayan.

She was from a small village living with a friend’s family in the big city in pursuit of a college degree in Arts. Having lost her mother at a tender age she had

found solace in books and earned the unenviable place of being the only girl

to reach matriculation in the small village school. It was a challenge, coming from a community that saw women as docile home makers. “What good

would educating a girl do? Once a girl steps out of home she never returns to it fully”, was the general consensus. Educated, young women were known to rebel at traditional domesticity. Her name was Nirja.

The two different orbits converged at a friend’s wedding and there begins the tale.

Narayan and Nirja’s few furtive meetings were chaperoned by concerned cousins for whom they became an embodiment of all things youthful— courage, defiance, passion, independence. They wanted to give up all they

had, for what they wanted to create together. A family affair was out of the equation; two people from different castes and backgrounds did not sit well

with either side. They were married by a civil court judge. Angry at their defiance, the family ‘s doors were shut—both literally and emotionally. Few

friends and secretive siblings maintained a covert and sporadic contact, avoiding the ire of the elder generation.

Initial shock at the dismissal led to an insight; free from norms and confines of family they could define their own life. Devotion to each other and the

call of mysterious future gave them a heady start. Money was not much of a worry; they had his college earnings to survive on. They rented a two room

facility to call home right in the middle of a practical, world weary farming community. Those living there were hard folks, all love spent on coaxing

grains out of the sun baked earth. There was little tolerance for sentimental acts. It was not a choice but living together each day that forced them in to

harmony with their neighbours, more so than with families that distanced themselves; so much so that even a year later the young woman’s approaching motherhood did nothing to soften their stance.

Nirja’s eldest sister, married and a mother of four children herself became the surrogate mother. She had the mother – to – be under her roof to oversee the

birth of the baby and care for few months. There was displeasure from the rest

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

of the family, especially the old father in the village but

something beyond his understanding, he was unable

and husband supporting the disowned young couple.

eager anticipation just hours ago.

there was little he could do to affect the eldest daughter

The baby’s arrival was eagerly awaited. A living proof of

“And, what do you think happened?” My aunt’s myopic

gression into the accepted societal practices, the circle of

never heard of such a baby in my life too, but you were

their love and ability to carry on in the battle. It was pro-

life offering them a chance at mending hurt and finding acceptance. The birth itself came as a terrible anticlimax

—the infant, a girl was born with two teeth. Two small, pearly incisors peeking out from the pink, lower mandible; further proof of nothing they ever did falling within acceptable, normal.

“God in heaven!! What kind of life form is this?” the midwife assisting the birth had stepped back in horror. In all

her years she’d had some hard and even gruesome expe-

riences; never this. “ I will not touch the demon; better still, I will not step in to this place again till this thing

is thrown out lest it cast its evil eye on me and destroy

me.” All mythological stories she’d ever heard seemed to come alive in this evil before her.

The news spread in the small town nursing home like

flash floods and with the same intense destruction of goodwill and reasoning. Patients, their relatives, visi-

tors, employees—all lurked around the recovering room, hoping to catch a glimpse of the abnormally healthy baby girl born with two teeth ready to devour every-

thing, starting with the mother. The young mother, Nirja oblivious to all this, unconscious with a terrible infection contracted during the birth lay at the door of death.

“What more proof do you need?” the onlookers hissed at the young Narayan. “ You must throw away this evil child, abandon her at the garbage dump for dogs to

finish before it preys further. Just a few hours to her

appearing in this world and look at the poor woman”, they referred to Nirja. The young father, with all of the

sensitivity of a twenty five year man, husband for a year, father of only few hours now, was torn apart by the con-

eyes seemed larger behind her thick glasses. “ I had my younger sister’s daughter and until she was strong enough to do so it was my duty to look after the life she

brought forth. I was too loyal to be afraid, your father

too raw in the ways of the world; I took over. I could not

have cared for you alone so your other aunt who had just given birth to a boy about fifteen months ago and

was a night’s travel away by the rickety state transport

bus, was then sent for. She was still nursing her boy.”

She urged me to understand the unsaid. “Your mother

was in and out of delirium for twenty one days. The medical facilities we had in the 60’s were more a doc-

tor’s skill than implements and drugs. Her infection and raging fever left her only after a British doctor on a mis-

sion of mercy with a local church was brought in with

his expertise. It was his last day before he headed back.

Your mother had a Christian friend,” it mattered to her to state the varied people who played their role at crucial

moments to contribute to the course of my life “whose father was the priest in the local church. He was instrumental in getting the doctor to look at your mother. She

was laid on ice as a last resort to reduce her fever. Antibi-

otics, cold compresses...all that could be done, was. Your father kept vigil each night by her side, checking her

fever, changing the compresses, caressing her hands as they lay on the white bed sheet. I walked to the hospital

at first light each morning with a metal canister carry-

ing your father’s tea. I would relieve him for a few hours’ precious sleep and shower and then he came back after

a meal to leave me free to go home and look after the six other children at home, cooking, washing, cleaning. And

of course there was you. Thank God you were healthy and slept through most of twenty four hours”

flict that raged inside him – overwhelming fear for the

She drew a deep breath, letting it all go. Little did she

born, angry at the gawkers and their hatred. Faced with

story behind my birth was being divulged to me in its

life of his bride, all tenderness and protection for his first

14

to do anything but despair over the ruins of what was

realise that she had shifted the great burden to me. The

volume 2 | issue 5

entirety for the first time. I was overwhelmed with vari-

were ascribed to his approval of my good health and

stark medical support, spartan living conditions, sheer

they had come to accept me as amazing but normal.

ous scenarios my brain conjured up of the days past. The commitment from so many relatives and people I came

to know only later in life who had persevered to see my

mum and me alive and well through those first few days.

So many men in the family who were left to deal with

their cooking and washing for weeks to have their wives, my aunts, nurture me. Tradition dictated that my every trip to India began with visiting relatives to pay my

respects, inquire about their well being and assure them of mine, allow them a glimpse of my thriving through

my husband and children. “ Not pleasure; an unpleasant task that needs to be done”, I would console myself; “ it pleases mum and dad so much”. They were a chore for me, until that moment. No more. How would I ever be able to down play my youthful arrogance and avoidance of my ‘clingy’ ‘third world thinking’ relatives?

It was divine intervention that had brought forth the

doctor at that precise moment in time to make the difference of life and death, literally, and win for the whole

team rooting for me. Slowly my mother recovered. For

the joy and color that I brought to her life she called me ‘Pinky’, a moniker that I carried through life. My parents returned home from the tender care of the family

to their own little dwellings. There was another battle that awaited them. The salt – of – the earth community

around them had no understanding or patience for a ‘quirk of nature’.

“Look at her”, the neighbourhood women would crowd and jostle each other for a glimpse of me. Sometimes

shamelessly prodding my chin downward allowing them a glimpse of my offending feature. They would

even fetch their out of town visitors to marvel at the local freak. Sari ends tucked in their mouth to stop them-

selves from hurling further insults, they would giggle and elbow each other in uncontrolled mirth.

“The British doctor was God. If it weren’t for him neither

of you would be here today,” they would quote often; as if reminder was needed. It was only after my teeth

over indulgence in milk by my village raised mother that

My mother’s fortitude and burning desire to do the best for me was still unacceptable. It was a slap in the face of their conservative attitude that wanted me to be kept hidden behind doors. I was a girl and not even

like the others, in their opinion. They jeered at my mother at seemingly wrong rearing and never passed

an opportunity at insulting her ‘educated but ignorant and unwise’ choices. She learned to isolate herself behind closed doors and short conversations. The only

time she stole out was at sunset. As the womenfolk got busy with evening meals, tending to their children and

work weary husbands, my mother would swaddle me

in a shawl against the cool winds and sit outside on the

stoop trying to blend in to the shadows. She would gaze

up to the skies finding strength in its unmoving infinity.

As I grew up and toddled out to play in the streets or later, walked to the school, her fear of the uncouth

women remained. She was forever vigilant for my

safety; it wasn’t unheard of women harming others’ children out of spite. She never forgot that she was living

amongst those whose sense of ‘right’ had been violated.

They were outraged humans focussed on punishing the

ones who caused the disquiet. I remember clearly many evenings when I would wander indoors from my play

she would stand me in the doorway holding a metal

water container in hand with a bowl of mustard on top and rotate her arm in circles around my head to ward off

the evil eye. A lamp was lit and incense burned at the

small shrine in the house to invoke her favorite deities

for my protection. Everyday bath and braiding my hair

ritual ended with her dipping a finger tip in black kohl and dotting my forehead, marring my sweet looks and ensuring security from poisonous stares.

Years passed quickly for Narayan and Nirja, in a whirl of

other—‘normal’—kids following their first. Families reconciled as the kids grew up, their first few years were now

mentioned with a detachment that comes with distance

15

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

in time and place. Pinky was now grown up and mar-

Nirja’s voice came down the line suddenly. “Pinky, how

normally her core like the molten earth under the crust

offspring and her grandchildren when she should be

ried; a family of her own. While she went about her days pulsed with incredible attachment to her birth family.

center of attention.

Narayan and Nirja were aging now. Their health and

“Mum, I am so keen to see you”, Pinky said tactfully

strength in the familiar, their sphere of activity getting

the earliest flight I can manage.”

courage to face life, ebbing. Increasingly they found smaller with each year. Nirja, bereft of mother very early

in life yearned for her adult Pinky to help her on the jour-

ney to death. Her youngest, a son, called Pinky one early morning. The distance of thousands of kilometers briefly shortened with the shared feelings.

“Mum’s health is fast worsening. You should come and

stay with her for a few months. It’s not as if you need to rush. She can go around her daily chores, can sleep

through the night; well, nearly the whole night anyway.

You can organise things there, maybe even wait for the next school holidays but look for the first chance you get . It’s been couple of years since you last visited.” He kept his voice low. Maybe mum was walking around in

the room, trying to put one unsteady foot after another; trying to walk through unending boredom and closing

walls, thought Pinky. She knew her visit would cheer her parents no end. Her mind was already working out the possibilities as she talked shop with her brother.

"Get mum on the phone. I want to reassure her. I am

making arrangements to leave at the earliest”. Her

brother was not the one to speak loosely. His voice, though even, had conveyed his urgency. Pinky’s whole life focussed in to one need—to be there for her mother.

16

are you? How are the children?” Still asking about her

avoiding any reference to her health, “I am going to book

“You will not”. her mother’s strong voice travelled down

to her. “ The kids are young still, they depend on you for their school days to go smoothly. Do not disrupt any part of their lives. Don’t you forget, your girl is grown to a stage where you had better be there for her every minute. Inattention at this time in her life will start a fire that will engulf your very being. You will come and see

me only in the holidays. Bring the children along, your

husband can fend for himself’, she ordered. A few more civilities and the call ended.

Not for Pinky though. Her immediate response was to follow up on her decision – book herself on the earliest

flight out. But she would never disrespect her mother’s

orders. The woman who had gambled on her own life to nurture her was denying Pinky the satisfaction of being able to comfort her in her last days, exhorting her

instead to care for the young girl, her grandchild. The

commitment to nurturing the young placed above self.

The dilemma between what she wanted and where her

duty lay shook Pinky to her very depth. The contradic-

tion, the distance, the helplessness: all wrung her heart out through her eyes.

volume 2 | issue 5

sunday troy thomas

It leaves the house with them after breakfast and before noon on crisp mornings that are always the first day of the week and piles into the antiquated but well-kept Wagoneer with the wood panels that are charming It carries on down the road with them;

the road that has pot holes because it is just outside of the city limits (but barely, they say)

and those boys will not do a lick more than they have to (or maybe it’s the management; there is a lot of talk)

When they get to main street it slows down with them

so they can look through the windows as they pass the bakery that has not yet opened and the hall that is always open because they have bingo there

and a farmers’ market from ten until one before everyone goes home

(Young people are frequently wed there — three couples this summer!)

In the parking lot it steps out with the family who is early

because they want seats close to Him where everyone can see;

they are still slightly ashamed because she did that before they were married (many times, everyone knows that)

even though she could vote and buy cigarettes by that time It is the crossing of the middle and index fingers

when their son steps up to the plate in the sixth inning (the coach put the Powell kid in?)

on the reddish dirt in the green diamond, late in the Spring when this sort of thing matters a great deal

17

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

the devil rides my bus cathy yard

Bag slung overhead, winter coat stowed, earbuds stuffed deep, I seek sleep. A few precious minutes, maybe forty-five

if I’m lucky, before I face today’s endless tasks: FIMs, SAPs,

RCMs, IPFs, KPAs, FLOCs and morning group hugs, followed by meetings galore. Between paper slapping, back tapping, I might even manage to fit in some work.

Two stops on, the distinctive clip – clop – of

cloven hoof against metal step. A malodorous,

a sulphurous stench rolls down the aisle, poking and prodding

nostrils flared. I know through half lowered lids who has boarded, the devil has arrived.

Two rows up and one over, a chess move in play, a voice

grumbles, ‘not today buddy, move on’, a seat is blocked by

conviction, backed with grievous righteousness disguised

as a purposely placed backpack. Eyes glitter and ear tips glow, the devil moves on.

Crinkle of chip bag – breakfast missed, rustle of gear, temperatures rise. I slam shut

my eyes, shift to the other cheek, hold fast to the pretence

that I am not here. A throat cleared, mucus clot dislodged, a rumble hidden under tires as we bump up 63, heading north – always north.

He settles in the adjacent seat.

Grinding up Super Test Hill with the glow of Fort McMortage behind us, the sniffer begins, and begins – and begins – . I think about where I have been and

how life unrolls, advancing in a measured tread up and over a horizon, the thinnest of wavering lines. Retirement plans, decisions of where and when to go, will she come too?

Mostly I ignore the now. The heat emanating from the next seat, a reminder the devil is near.

Rustle of papers, flap followed by flap and click of pen, he checks his lists not looking for who is naughty or nice, nor who can be bought

with shiny new things. He searches for those who will give into the darkness we all carry. He roots and wedges, seeking, seeking

that pre-dawn moment, when defences weaken, when we all give in, even if only a little.

The devil rides my bus.

18

volume 2 | issue 5

Along the flat and around the bend the sky hung towers of Mordor loom in a fog of

contradiction. Heat verses cold, wrong verses right – the degrees in-between. Lights unearthly glow beckons those who struggle the difference. I have tried to walk the thin line, but know I have slipped a time or two or more.

Let it all go on the ride of my life, picked up pieces, counted bruises, flung regret into the Athabasca’s flow. Yes, I have slipped

a time or two. Sweat collects, runs between shoulder blades, the devil has come to collect his IOUs.

I have also tried to do better. For doing good takes more effort

than sliding down. Stack my deeds against one another hoping

to weigh the scales in my favour: raised five kids who care, stayed married through thin times, and believe me there have been many, helped those in my path with hands extended. I present my case. And wait –

time stretches long. Maybe I could have done more, maybe I could have done better,

as the devil ponders.

Negotiations begin with a deity whose very existence I question. Acceptance of one means acceptance of the other. Two sides of a coin, two tales told,

two paths converging. Am I ready for answers to questions unasked?

I plead, only human, a speck in the world’s largeness,

such weakness I carry. Please – closing arguments evaporate in mouth.

In silence long, the devil rides my bus.

Two kliks north of the Bridge to NoWhere, heralded by

a muffled cell phone buzz, a rattlesnake hisssss ‘yesssss dear – ’ Who would have guessed

the devil has a demanding spouse whose tune he dances to.

The devil rides my bus

as he rides yours.

19

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

marginalia

The Hamlet Whodunnit?

A column by douglas abel

superstitions are irrational beliefs, not supported by hard facts or sound logic, but I believe there is something more involved than simple lack

of evidence. Most superstitions posit an unproven and unprovable sequence of cause and effect: if you do/do not do X, then Y will/will not happen. Such

unfounded beliefs are not confined to everyday life and “popular” culture.

They can be found even in the top chambers of the Ivory Tower.

The pervading superstition, unspoken but active, in the scholarly world is

that advanced education is somehow a necessary condition for intelligence and creativity. If you have gone to university, you thereby have the ability

to be intelligent and creative. If you have not gone to university, you don’t.

This unstated academic belief forms the shaky basis for one of the current “hot” scholarly controversies in English literature: the Shakespeare authorship “debate.” A small but extremely vocal group of scholars of English

literature, and their supporters from the public, insist that Shakespeare did

not have the background or education to write what Shakespeare wrote.

Therefore someone else must have done so and, for various complicated reasons, kept his identity secret and used poor Will from Stratford to take the credit. The current leading contender for Shakespeareship is Edward de

Vere, Earl of Oxford, and Oxfordians and traditionalists have been going at it with metaphorical hammer and tongs in recent years.

This tempest in a teapot—although tea hadn’t yet been brought to England in the first Elizabeth’s time—boiled over last fall when a conference on the subject was held in Toronto. Two respected universities gave some modest

financial sponsorship to the get-together. Oxfordians were delighted.

Other Canadian universities, most English departments and dozens of

scholars were publicly outraged. Many traditionalists pointedly refused to

attend the conference, leading one of the organizers to compare himself to Galileo, persecuted for his revelation of the truth. The comparison ignored the fact that having “colleagues” snub your invitation to a gabfest is not

quite the same, in kind or in degree, as being imprisoned and then threat-

ened with torture, and with death both physical (execution) and spiritual

(excommunication). But then, when the debate is in the Ivory Tower and

the subject is drama, statements do tend to get a bit . . . theatrical. It was Henry Kissinger, among others, who pointed out that academic battles are so vicious because the stakes are so small.

I must confess that I have not studied the “facts” of the authorship battle in

any detail. It simply doesn’t seem worth my time. Some of the arguments I have encountered seem rather silly and a bit mean-spirited. For example, Shakespeare was too ignorant and unlettered to be a genius, because

he spelled his name in different ways. The fact, written and observable, that almost every other Elizabethan did so, too, is ignored. We have records 20

volume 2 | issue 5

of Christopher Marlowe’s name being spelled a dozen

What I find disturbing about the Shakespeare contro-

of those aberrations were his own. But Christopher

that lie beneath the arguments of the anti-Willites.

different ways, from “Morle” to “Merlin”; at least some Marlowe was a Master of Arts from Corpus Christi College, so inconsistency is forgiven.

I am quite content to let William Shakespeare of Strat-

ford-Upon-Avon be the author of Shakespeare’s plays.

His father was a small-town glover and tradesman.

Academic darling Marlowe’s father was a cobbler, and not always a successful one. John Webster’s father was a

coach-maker. Ben Jonson’s stepfather was a bricklayer, a trade in which Jonson himself may have engaged.

Thomas Kyd, the author of The Spanish Tragedy, prob-

ably the most popular play of the Elizabethan period, started out as a scrivener—a letter-writer and docu-

versy are the intellectual snobbery and social elitism It’s the same snobbery that discourages “bright” kids

who really want to work with their hands and build things from going into “the trades.” After all, the people

who have to do those kinds of things can’t really be very intelligent. If they were, they wouldn’t be mere

tradesmen, would they? The only-half-concealed class prejudices of the Oxfordian argument might seem

somehow appropriate to a highly stratified and class-

conscious society such as Shakespeare’s, and Oxford’s.

But they certainly ring false and pretentious in our own. How would we react to the following contemporary denial of authorial possibility?

ment transcriber for others. And Sackville and Norton,

“You see, there’s this . . . woman . . . and she claims to have

blank verse, were (gasp!) lawyers. Parental or personal

ground! She grew up in a hick town in southwestern

the co-authors of Gorboduc, the first successful play in occupation is not an automatic barrier to genius.

It is true that Shakespeare did not go to university.

Neither did Jonson, Kyd, or Webster. Marlowe did, and

his plays are still revered and performed today. Francis Beaumont, John Fletcher, Philip Massinger, Robert Greene and Thomas Watson all went to university, in

some cases receiving multiple degrees. Seen any dazzling productions of The Knight of the Burning Pestle or A New Way to Pay Old Debts recently?

Shakespeare did go to school, if not to university, and

the education he would have received was fairly standardized and highly literary, with a heavy emphasis on

grammar and rhetoric. Students were taught the intricacies of argument and poetic expression, in Latin, English

and, possibly, Greek. They memorized constantly, and

written all this really good stuff. But look at her backOntario. Sure, she went to university, but she dropped

out to get married. Didn’t finish. No piece of paper.

She became just a wife and mother. What’s worse, she helped her husband run a . . . business! All right, it was

a bookstore, but she was just selling the things, she couldn’t have been writing them. There is no way that

she could have written the stuff that won her a Nobel Prize, for God’s sake! Will the real Alice Munro, with at least one degree in hand, please stand up?”

Even those of us with advanced degrees might dismiss such a response to contemporary genius as knee-jerk

ignorance. It’s unfortunate that precisely such arguments—more elegantly phrased, of course—came from academic and critical circles when Ms. Munro first began to be recognized for her amazing talent.

were encouraged to recite and perform, using suitable

Stevie Wonder put the problem of irrational prejudice

physical gestures. Hardly useless subjects for a master

Stevie Wonder didn’t go to university. I wonder who

rhetorical forms, effective vocal delivery and appropriate playwright, whether it be Master-of-Arts Marlowe, or scrivener Kyd, or Shakespeare, the glover’s son.

into dynamic musical form: “There is Superstition.” actually composed his stuff.

21

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

contributors

douglas abel is a writer, actor, director, and novice digital movie maker. He was recently “renovicted”—a wonderful Vancouver tradition—but has found a new home even closer to the beach. Take that, exploitative capitalism!

dawn booth has recently launched her own business, Media Booth - a multimedia offers service for editorial, creative writing, content branding and feature photog-

raphy. She is also the co-founder and Editor-in-Chief of snapd Wood Buffalo. With a diploma from the School

of Media Studies & Information Technology at Humber College, Booth enjoys touching into her creative side by writing poetry on a regular basis. Her poem, "Pinhole

Treasure" is currently being featured on a Wood Buffalo City Transit bus. Learn more at www.mediabooth.net & follow on Twitter @MediaBoothYMM.

kimberly jean fiske grew up a child of forest and fog, near The Bay of Fundy, in Nova Scotia. She has been

“working it out” with ink and paper from the time she could hold a pen. She credits four, very funny, twenty-

something children for keeping her on her toes and husband Sans for keeping her grounded.

When not engaged in writing, neha gandhi's love of

adventure draws her to open skies, where, winter or summer, she can be found exploring local trails. She

takes pride in her relocation from the Arabian desert's +40s to northern Alberta's -40s, and loving it.

angie goredema was a scholar at the Global Young Leaders Conference (GYLC) which took place in the United

States in 2006. She is a proud young mom of two beautiful children: Nathan & Nathalie. She currently holds a Team Lead position with HIVN Society and is a part time shopaholic who is also into scrapbooking and writing.

elizabeth hamlyn is originally from Newfoundland and moved to Fort McMurray 6 years ago. She is currently working towards her Bachelor of Education and loves writing poetry and short shories.

reinalie jorolan is an immigrant local self taught emerging artist who enjoys subjects that capture family 22

values, landscapes, women and cultural trends. Reinalie

immigrated to Canada from the Philippines in 2004. As a community member, she enjoys contributing to the

many causes in our community particularly those that advocate diversity, culture and the arts.

kiran malik-khan is the communications specialist for Keyano College. She is a freelance journalist, poet and

writer. She contributes to every print media outlet in Fort McMurray and loves telling community stories. For McMurray has been her home for 13 years now. You can follow Kiran on Twitter via @KiranMK0822.

dane neufeld writes, “I recently moved with my family from Toronto to Fort McMurray. I am completing aca-

demic studies in theology while working as a minister in the Anglican diocese of Athabasca. It is exciting to be surrounded by so much forest, and we are looking forward to exploring the region by foot, bike and canoe.”

michele paull is a Digital Artist and Photographer

located in Fort McMurray, Alberta. She combines photog-

raphy and digital techniques favouring the integration of

contrasting elements. If you would like to learn more or

to contact the artist please go to www.michelepaull.com. troy thomas is a recent graduate of the University of Toronto (majoring in English literature, double minors in political science and sociology), living and working

in Fort McMurray. Troy has been working for the Fort McMurray Public School District as an EA since moving here in October of 2013 and currently has no plans other than to patiently take things as they come.

theresa wells is a writer, blogger, and mother. She is a passionate advocate for her community and a lover of great shoes, and finds herself often writing about both in her McMurray Musings online blog.

Mostly living bush, cathy yard learned early in life to forage in the forest and can be spotted chewing

questionable leaves and bark even today. Although a

procrastinator extraordinaire, her work can be found in several literary magazines and anthologies including Canadian Stories, Island Writer, Verse and Vision, Portal, and of course, NorthWord.

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Keyano College congratulates Kiran Malik-Khan, our Communications Specialist on the publication of her thesis as a book!

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and now a list poem for our favourite superstitions kiran malik-khan

northern canada

collective society for writers statement of purpose: To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.

Stepping on cracks

call for submissions

Breaking backs

NorthWord Volume 2, Issue 6 will

Black cats crossing Salts-a-tossing And to boot A rabbit’s foot Penny pickers Lucky clovers Breaking mirrors Friday the 13th shivers Walking under a ladder Right away growing sadder Are you good?

Knock on wood Quit being malicious I’m not superstitious All of this — Just happens to be true Don’t believe me?

Just try a few!

be published in 2015. deadline October 30, 2014 theme Surprise We’re always looking for prose (2000 words or fewer, fiction or nonfiction), poetry (50 lines maximum), excerpts

from current projects, and visual art. please submit as a microsoft word or image attachment to: The Editors,

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