Vortex UoW 2006

2006 Edition

Welcome to the 2006 edition of VORTEX, the University of Winchester student creative writing magazine.

This is the second edition of the magazine since its relaunch in 2005, and it covers student work for the academic year 2005-6. The Editorial Board received a variety of submissions across the year, in dierent genres and forms, and the work included in this edition was selected on the basis of its excellence, originality, writing skill, and sheer potential. If this edition of the magazine is anything to go by, English and Creative Writing students are producing a great deal of high-quality work across the academic year.

To those whose work was not accepted for publication in VORTEX this time around, there is no need to despair. Even the greatest writers have their work rejected at one time or another, and the trick is to take the advice given to you and improve on your work for next time. All those whose work was not accepted receive detailed feedback to help them develop their writing.

This edition of the magazine includes a variety of materials, although by pure coincidence the majority of work is in the form of the short story. Now that the Single Honours Creative Writing degree is truly up-and-running, we hope to receive many more poetry, script, or non-ďŹ ctional submissions for the 2007 edition of VORTEX. The English Subject Group at the University is in a very healthy condition; with each successive year we seem to have more students on campus studying writing in its variety of forms.

VORTEX is about providing this increasing number of students with an outlet for their creative energies, and allowing them to learn about how the submission and publication process works in the world at large. Please give it your continued support.

Neil McCaw Programme Director, BA Creative Writing Chair of the Editorial Board

Contents page 03... Fiona Skinner, ‘E. L. M.’ page 07... David King, ‘Emergency Instructions’ page 10... Openings: Debbie Benson, ‘Secrets’ page 13... Sarah Lean, ‘Lip Salve’ page 18... Elaine Cansdale, ‘Autumn Wives’ page 19... Marek Miernik, ‘Minus Blindfold’ page 24... George Chilton, ‘Running Under Cows’ Editorial Board Neil McCaw (Chair) Andrew Melrose Judy Waite Amanda Boulter Joan McGavin Tom Masters (Student Rep.) Julian Stannard Mark Rutter

Fiona Skinner

‘E.L.M.’ You can see past my narratives and into the flesh of the sea. It stirs mildly as if waking from a dream, and inside it you can see me smiling up at you like the remains of a kiss. There is an obelisk, no bigger than a child which lies behind you on the cliff path.

Insignificant in its seedy whiteness, it no doubt has a presence of its own which even the sky seems to notice; it feels heavy against your back although you do not touch it. You make your pilgrimage to this place because you love the idea, and therefore you must also love me, but we are easily confused and there is a surrounding greed it would be gluttonous to claim all for yourself. Your mouth is dry from the wind and you are vaguely aware of this, and perhaps this is also part of the reason. Perhaps you lick your lips and taste me there.

As if from an alien world come red and blue dots bobbing towards you on the cliff edge where you stand. Against a backdrop of citrus sky they appear in embryo, but growing every moment larger and closer and more real. The walkers are not what you want. In their gaudy tops and caps they are intrusive; they do not share what we share; not yet. You turn away from them into the blinking sky. You do not see their walking sticks; the walking sticks are waving as they realise but you are still jumping now, travelling in slow motion towards my face, beneath which our story lies.

Reader, You Are Unprepared.

As you meet your foot for the first time you are surprised. The pose seems somehow familiar. Indignantly, as if a veil had been drawn from your secret hiding place you ask it – where is God ?

The water feels clotted as your flesh starts to melt. It cleaves between your legs and into your eyes, but there is no part of you which is not mine, and it is mere jealousy which probes,

03

and laps. You are leaking into me and around me and this is how we embrace. We are water.

My thirst is yours, and as you drink you feel the tentative pulling through of organs slipping down our throat like oysters. Memory slips away into the waves and pulsates, back and forth between us, pumping life in and away like a heart we once knew. You have always known mine...

There is a riding jacket. It is small, for doll times. You are weeping. So small, the fox’s blood is rubbed on to your cheeks and you can taste the lead and it is all salt. Our tears pleasure us. You shiver, desperately. You wait. Hunting is a taste; it is water, it fi lls you up. The sound of horse hairs popping, one by one and then expectant silence. You wonder briefly – am I deaf ? We snigger, that repetitive chant Am I Deaf Am I Deaf Am I Am I Am I which is only really words, the opening act we can’t hear and no-one listens to anyway. They are all waiting.

A brief corrosive smell and that of chalk. It is as if all your insides are chalk because they coat the cliff in glossy sachets and the cliff becomes inside you. It is a novelty we never see and do not think of; not even now.

It is all fantasy; wonderful; brutal; loving. We.

Always far away, we sit in the straw barn and feed the dogs. I offer you a heart from my hand and your eyes are laughing and the dogs eat my heart, but you fade and I am alone, with the stain on my lips. We are alone. You tingle, as we are pulled, seaweed slivers made of red and blue but mostly blue now; you are mostly blue. Do you remember any feeling that was not this and is not us? A panorama, and always far away you are asleep, and we are cats who wander about the house at night; we’d love to go, you do not want to go in the morning.

There is a place, underneath the tablecloth in the big brown room where you hide; you cannot hide from ourselves we like the scent. It is like taking one of your own into your mouth. In the hall there is the sound of voices, rich and low and the sniffing and grumbling of hounds, which mixes with the chatter and scuffing of boots and makes us want to retch. We catch a high, plumed laugh as it escapes down the front steps. It lurks around us and seems to sing in our ears: Coming! Coming!

Coming! And you don’t like it and you cry, but still you sit up and listen and wonder, as if you were watching a play like in the Major’s box in London. Plucking at a thread in the rug it all unravels.

You can see my crouching form disintegrate into coloured thread, the colours are red and blue and green which darken into one another like chocolate into milk; like flesh into water.

You are worried for your eyes. They have become pregnant lumps – they have been feasting hard all night, they want more but you say no; this lust is swollen, infected. But Reed’s face is in tableau with his knee and you are on the horse and there is the jacket so red and small and just like Daddy’s, whom you hate. And the woodland passes on either side like green smell. And it is fast and they are cruel and a giggle falls from your mouth and we catch it with our tongue. And

04

then the fox screams and we gallop hard away and a knife appears in my throat and you swallow it, hard.

Above, it is different from then, when we were alone, and they are still gazing down at the place where you disappeared. Backpacks forgotten they reach into pockets for mobile phones and one says: I’ve no reception and another says: yes, hello? Yes – Ambulance. Please... and – Rescue, while the first looks sad and an old man raises his grey eyebrows to the sky. Others trawl you with their eyes and you purr as they delve into your depths and separate the pieces. A leg? But it hurts you too much. A child enquires: When will we go, Mum? For an ice-cream? She turns away from her face, which wanders dumbly like hot vomit through your deep blue skin. The mother is wondering if that dark jutting could be a head or a rock and she can’t stop wondering and it is becoming tedious. The child dawdles, bored and hungry with legs of lead and a cabbage face. Her whim is caught by the stone. Its inconsequential form is disappointing, but the worn, scarred letters are sewn together by the child’s newly-formed eye.

Flowers are cut. They are seen, floating gently in the arms of the wind. You dance with the child in your sway and you are children both, and the flowers brush your cheeks like fresh drops of life.

Hungrily, you devour the brightest petals and she watches and as you hold one she snatches it from your grasp. Jesus said... It burns you both. Your ears are seared shut as sharp kisses fall upon you like arrows. There is the bitter taste of burning bread and it is hot. Wine is a way to obliterate this taste and you drink more and you laugh because the blessing is only words.

You Are The Resurrection Of My Life.

The child steps around the chalky obelisk. Nobody notices the look of her as she sidles, almost slyly. Her mother might wonder: is that my child? Oh yes what am I like I’m sorry my angel but desperately thinking: what has happened here My God What Has Happened Here?

The girl places her hand on the pale green tip of the stone; it feels worn and damp from the sea breeze. She leans back on it. It is heavy as if it were inside her chest. We are similar heights, she thinks: I have been here before. She thinks: it is like burning toast and loud voices and the echo of moving trees. She is becoming, becoming and you comb her hair in the afternoon and there is a portrait hanging on the wall and it looks like you both; caught in the glow from the sun it looks duller than ever. She glances out of the window and the horses are being walked around in a circle. They are calved steam trains in the winter air and when you each turn to the other to say oh, oh today, you are both sitting alone brushing your own hair. The maid knocks softly twice and you get off the stool and open the door, but you run past her and she is left making circles with her mouth.

The walkers are scattered along the cliff path. Some are sitting away from the edge while others take pictures with expressions of glorified horror. The child thinks: and there is the streak of orange and it is in my mouth and that never happened before and I liked it. But there is the stench of my stomach and I must break away. And you run, or she runs back to where Old Grey is

05

tethered, small and tired, and you are out of the clearing where the animal looked at you with its inner eyes as they smeared you with themselves.

In the fading sunshine they have wandered grimly away. There were helicopters called she did not see and new dots, of yellow, which in the blue of day would have hurt her eyes. But you were both there, we all, in the other time, although hidden beneath; a new body whispering silent cries as they declared I am afraid there is no hope, sir, and the tweeds and velvets braced against one another in the deep room, and the woman in black said we’ll have dinner as usual, Reed.

We own the dizziness of the stone mason and feel his chisel drive deep into us but from underneath, always underneath and it burns but we don’t think of any of it, apart from it isn’t true, and the deep brown that used to groan inside but which now is only a string feeling, which pulls.

You are still drinking us, all the way down and around in a garrotte of lull and loveliness.

The girl continues to read on the silent journey home, those words which she felt but did not feel.

She wonders why she cannot hear. She says: Mum, am I deaf? And her Mum stops the car and rubs her face for a moment with her palms. She looks at her child in her mirror and decides not to stop for shopping on the way home as she restarts the engine. The girl does not catch this glance. She is engrossed in the words, the smell of trees and their look as they melt past her window and into the developing gloom.

He Fleeth Also As A Shadow And Continueth Not.

It is our hymn. But it hurts.

Erected In Remembrance Of A Most Dear And Only Child Who Was Suddenly Removed Into Eternity By A Fall From The Adjacent Cliff To The Rocks Beneath, 28th November, 1895.

You are there as the sky rolls past. You are smiling with all your teeth.

Reader Prepare To Meet Thy God, For Thou Knowest Not What A Day May Bring Forth...

But chanting, she dozed, and wouldn’t hear.

In The Midst Of Life We Are In Death.

You gloat because God has murdered you and you are God.

06

Safe and warm in her own bed, the girl’s foot is trembling, poised, beneath her blanket; her smile is sweet, like newly-stripped bones.

EMERGENCY INSTRUCTIONS In the event of your poem’s sudden illness or demise, read these instructions (carefully)

1. TAKE THEM TO THE POEM HOSPITAL This is the hospital for sick poems.

They come here when they are ill conceived, deformed, abused or otherwise feeling a bit down.

A highly skilled team of poorly paid poets will hurry in to apply urgent treatment.

Here’s a case of a high lallation level of alliteration.

Nasty.

Another poem has gone all sceptic.

Some pieces require immediate surgery to remove a painful rhyme.

For example, a condition like this is nothing less than...a crime.

See what I mean?

Here’s a dedicated poetechnic Taking a ‘WHY?-ray’.

07

David King

‘Simile please!’

Sometimes a metaphor becomes invasive and infects a whole poem.

For example, one which sees bad poems as cases for medical intervention.

Sad really. Don’t laugh. It could happen to any poem.

There’s even an expensive piece of equipment to help with scanning.

Sadly, some poems must be allowed to slip away.

They glide like irridescent swans, pulsating with the nervous scales of oracular fish, who have lost their carnivorous souls, their very umbrellahood.

You can see the need.

Please give generously.

Every donation helps rid the world of unwanted beauty.

Fortunately, my own poems rarely need to visit the hospital.

Partly because they have been innoculated against making sense, and partly because most are stillborn.

2. LEAVE THEM THERE

08

Openings The beginning of a story, whether long or short, goes a long way towards the achievement of success or failure. A piece that captivates and seduces the reader at the outset can keep them onside and even manipulate their responses, because immediately they are willing participants in the unfolding drama. Whereas a narrative that begins poorly, without pace or interest, is almost certainly doomed. The following extract is from Debbie Benson’s short story ‘Secrets,’ which shares a similar overarching theme with the story that follows it, Sarah Lean’s ‘Lip Salve,’ but which confronts its subject matter in different ways. The use of language and imagery contrasts also. This extract is included in this edition of VORTEX as an interesting example of how a writer can use their opening to conjure up particular feelings and responses. In reading these pages, consider what effect the author is striving for, and the methods she uses to achieve this. The hope is that readers will be moved to want to read on, and explore the story in its entirety.

from Debbie Benson, ‘Secrets’ The face stared back at him from the dressing-table mirror. Ewan moved. The eyes moved with him. Who is this boy, he thought.

Why has he come into my room again? Ewan was only used to his mum coming in, which she did with rigid familiarity every day.

Sometimes she just came to sit – and paint her nails; other times, she came to tidy up – not that anything ever needed tidying. But Ewan understood her needs – now that he was no longer with her.

Each week, she would come in to dust, polish and hoover, leaving the room smelling fresh and clean. He remembered as a young boy, lying in his bed and inhaling that familiar, comforting smell of furniture wax mixed with fresh linen sheets. He remembered the soft, mellow light from the lamp at the top of the stairs sliding gently underneath his door, like an usherette’s torchlight pointing

10

to a seat in the cinema. Nothing had changed really, he thought, looking around the room; except of course his new visitor – the young boy – the one who was sitting at the dressing table right now.

Ewan moved back towards the window and peered out into the garden. His mother was hanging out the washing, her long hair blowing freely in the wind. She looked up; she always looked up, but didn’t see him, not today, not ever. Ewan breathed gently on the glass. Nothing.

He turned back into the room. The boy was still sitting at the dressing table, watching him. They both knew the other one could see them. Ewan stood very still.

If I smile, will the boy smile back, he thought? He let the corners of his mouth relax until a smile began to form. The boy swivelled round to face him.

‘You’re Ewan aren’t you?’ he said confidently.

Ewan was taken aback. No-one had actually talked to him directly, before. In fact, come to think of it, no one had actually seen him before.

‘I know,’ continued the boy. ‘She’s got a photo of you on her bedside table. And I’ve heard her talking to you when she comes in here. But she doesn’t know that.

She told me that this was a spare room, that it had to be left alone and kept tidy in case people come to stay,’ he paused, ‘not that we ever have any visitors.’

Ewan cocked his head to one side. We. What did he mean by we?

The door creaked and swung open. His mum walked in. By the look on her face, she obviously didn’t expect to find anyone in here.

‘Christopher,’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you doing in here? I heard you talking.

Who were you talking to?’

Ewan could see his Mum was cross, jumpy at the same time. And Christopher, well he looked like he was about to burst into tears. The young boy jumped off the stool and ran out, slamming the door behind him. Now it was just the two of them. What will she do next, he thought.

He watched his mum’s face tighten as she looked towards the door, then back at the mirror. She peered into it – the same old expression appeared, as if she was searching for something. Ewan stared into the mirror straight at her. Not even a flicker of recognition. Her eyes looked through him. She slumped forwards, deflated, and pulled out a bottle of bright red nail varnish from her pocket. Ewan sat down on the bed behind her, happy. These were the times when his mum chatted to him as if nothing had changed.

‘I’ve missed you this week darling,’ she said softly. ‘It’s the 16th on Sunday... one whole year... I can’t believe how time has flown.’

She unscrewed the top of the bottle slowly.

‘I went to our favourite place this morning. Nothing has changed. The water still runs as fast as it ever did, tumbling over the stones, gurgling its way down the hill towards the river.’

She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped it gently across her eyes. Ewan shifted his weightlessness from one leg to the other as he stood up. He moved closer to his mum, so close he could almost touch her.

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ she continued. ‘I wasn’t going to do it so soon, but now you’ve seen him, which I’m sure you have, I think you should know...’

Ewan knew she was talking about the boy. ‘It’s alright Mum,’ he wanted to say. ‘I understand.’ But his mum turned her eyes away from the mirror, moving them around the room, taking in every minute detail.

‘Someone else is coming to live here – permanently,’ she said looking down while she painted her thumbnail with shaky strokes of the brush.

‘His name is Christopher. He’s ten. I thought it was a mad idea at first, but then I realised that it wasn’t only me who had a need. I may have lost the thing most dear to me in the world when I lost you, but there are many children out there like Christopher who need a home.’ She sniffed into her hanky.

‘If only you two could meet. I am sure you would like him. He reminds me so much of you at that age...’ She paused and wiped a large tear from the corner of her eye.

‘Of course it will never be the same; I know that. But adopting Christopher has made me realise that life has to go on ...forwards.’

She finished painting her nails and turned back to the mirror, her eyes, as always, searching for a sign.

‘Oh, if only I could see you,’ she said. ‘I would give anything to know you are here.’

Ewan moved closer. He wanted to touch her hair and skin. He wanted to feel the love and life pumping through her veins. She never said his name. She never spoke about the accident to anyone. Their whole life together had become a secret, locked within her...

12

Sarah Lean

‘Lip Salve’ The first time we went to the psychoanalyst, Dad just sat there. He didn’t say anything; he was so angry. He had this way of sitting there with his anger etched into the space between his eyebrows. There were two furrows, one deeper than the other; I can’t remember which side, but when I look in the mirror, I notice I have them too and the left side is slightly deeper; but I’d have to frown really hard to get them as deep as his. And they never disappeared when he stopped frowning. The analyst would throw a question out and the furrows would sit there, unmoving.

One arm stretched across the back of the sofa, legs crossed, Dad stared into the corner of the room. Perhaps there was something far more interesting over there.

All I could see was an empty high-back chair with a small table next to it. There was a vase of dried flowers, all faded into the same beige colour. Not arranged, just abandoned in the darkest corner of the room. There was a box of tissues and a few magazines on the table, Reader’s Digest probably, the sort of magazine that you only read to take your mind off something else, like in the dentist’s waiting room. But of course they don’t take your mind off anything.

The analyst’s questions would float around the room a bit and then disappear into the darkened corner along with all the other once living things. So did you talk about how you felt ? And then So when you last spoke, what did you talk about? And So what is it that you feel right now? I admired his patience.

Dad wouldn’t even look at him – or me come to that. Occasionally he would adjust his shirt while his other hand was either tapping his mouth or pulling at his thick moustache. He would start at one end, tugging at the bristles with his thumb and first finger all the way along, as if it had crumpled the last time he had spoken and needed smoothing out. But he didn’t speak, at least not out loud.

I don’t know whether it was embarrassment or desperation but I had to speak. I had picked the only hard chair in the room and the wooden legs creaked. The tissue I had in my hand was soaked and couldn’t take much more fumbling. I just know why he’s angry with me I said. The analyst didn’t move. Dad continued to look angry. If

13

the furrows were there even when he wasn’t frowning, why did I think he was angry with me? He hadn’t actually said it.

We only went to the analyst once more after that. I took my coat off the second time thinking I would stay for the full hour. It wasn’t the analyst’s fault really but I did lose faith in him when, after a long outburst from me, I saw him stifle a yawn. Imagine that. I was to all intents naked and vulnerable, giving him myself to fix with a profound statement or revelatory question and he was bored. It stopped me in my tracks. I don’t think Dad noticed, he’d switched off ages before – still angry and silent he continued to ignore us both.

I realised that the analyst could only work with what was actually said. I decided I would lie to him. I still don’t know whether this was a pure act of perverted wilfulness or actually a profound revelation on my part. I felt at once all powerful, and completely bereft. So I lied.

The lie is irrelevant really, I just said no instead of yes. It’s funny but being brought up not to tell lies, I thought it would be difficult. It was quite easy to do, I just opened my mouth and then there was this other situation going on in the analyst’s mind that wasn’t going on in mine. I’m sure the silence in the room got bigger after I lied. Dad wouldn’t have known either way, angry as he was.

He noticed nothing, so caught up in his own non-acceptance of the situation; he didn’t move, join in, agree or deny. I was too scared to provoke him or ask him why he was so angry. I could only make up my own mind by asking myself – is he angry with me? Is this really my fault?

And suddenly I didn’t feel upset any more; I realised that all the psychoanalyst could do was watch me poking about in the accumulated garbage of my short life. But if he could see the garbage then there was no reason why I couldn’t have a good look at it myself; by myself.

I remember this American film I once saw where a barge-like boat full of refuse was floating along some wide, wide river. It went under a bridge. I hated bridges – the giddiness and the overwhelming desire to jump over the edge. I’ve felt that on a cliff top too, as if I was compelled to give in and get sucked over. When I was about eight, Dad gave us a pound note to spend on holiday. My sister had already gone into the shop at Land’s End. We were both going to buy Cornish Pixie bracelets, fifty pence each. I pulled a note from my pocket. I’d never had such a valuable piece of paper before. I was near the cliff edge and a sudden gust of wind pulled it out of my fingertips. The wind held the note just over the edge of the cliff, waving it about. And then, what seemed like ages after, the wind whipped it back and onto the grass and a woman, without even noticing, stood on it. She didn’t see me for ages, kneeling beside her, holding the edge of the pound that stuck out from under her shoe.

14

Nowadays, things are different. I took my nephew along Clifton Suspension Bridge the other day.

He’s four. We both stood in the middle, looking down. It was bitterly cold and I had pulled his

knitted hat right down, covering his eyebrows and pink ears to keep him warm.

Then we sat on a bench and I set my camera up on the wall opposite to take our picture. The sun was really bright and he screwed up his eyes. I turned to make some shade with my hand and the camera went off. He laughed. His top lip had become dark red and little slivers of white dried skin were peeling off like tiny icicles.

I had a lip-salve in my pocket. He smiled a shiny smile and gritted his teeth. I’m cold he said. Look! Look down there, can you see where the water has gone down and left all that mud. Look at those people; they’re so tiny, like little ants. He was still gritting his teeth but had stopped smiling. I’m cold he said. Okay. I unbuttoned my coat and pulled him in. How about we go back home and have some hot chocolate?

Later I cut the edges off the photograph and put the picture in a tiny silver frame.

I sent a copy to my sister.

Anyway, in the American film with the barge someone was running away and jumped off the bridge and landed on the barge on top of the huge pile of bags of rubbish. The barge didn’t land anywhere, and I never knew where the rubbish ended up, but I was fascinated by the fact that the rubbish on the barge floated along like cargo. Rubbish is fascinating, not a stinking, rotting mess, it’s even quite useful. I decided that the psychoanalyst was tired and perhaps even a little under-qualified to really go to town with my barge-load of rubbish. I had to face facts. Nobody could do this but me. Dad couldn’t do it either; he couldn’t even accept that he was dead.

After I gave up on the psychoanalyst Dad started turning up at big family events when we were all there and it was unbearable for me. I couldn’t tell anyone, they would have said that I was making it up; and I didn’t have the heart to tell Dad either – that he shouldn’t be there. He didn’t have that horrible angry face though. He flitted through the gatherings, smiling, with his arms out, almost greeting everyone, but they all turned away. Still, he looked like he was part of the crowd and was obviously enjoying himself.

The first family event he came to was at my sister’s house for my nephew’s christening.

Dad had only seen his grandson once, just after he was born. My sister and her husband held the baby’s hand round the big kitchen knife cutting the cake; everybody cheered. Dad glanced through the crowd. Just as he got to me he caught my hand, put another arm around my back and started dancing with me.

I had only ever danced with him once before. Dad had invited me and my friend from college to stay with him in Cyprus for a couple of weeks – all expenses paid.

15

She didn’t have a Dad in any real sense and we all went drinking at the hotel. She asked him to dance and they both smiled and laughed, looking over at me whilst they were spinning round.

I knew they couldn’t really be flirting even though they were acting it out, her throwing back her long wavy hair and him doing dance moves, twirling her round. Her skirt went out like an umbrella. Her beautiful feet arched in her high-heeled sandals. I ordered a club sandwich to soak up the alcohol but it was impossible to eat, stacked like a high-rise building. But it gave me something else to look at.

Dance with him, she said after the song finished.

We were like two strangers at a dance class, unavoidably paired.

At the christening he danced like he had with her. He was happy and waltzed me around my sister’s dining room, weaving in and out of the people. My skirt caught the edge of a plate of vol-au-vents and swished them onto the carpet. I was crying so much that I laughed. The music stopped and he gave me a final twirl. I picked up the prawns and the shattered pastry and thought that I really would have to tell him. But Dad had gone.

Not long after that he came to my cousin’s wedding. My sister and I were bridesmaids. It was windy outside and we stood together in our raspberry satin dresses, pinning down our skirts with our arms. Always a bridesmaid, and never the bride, my sister laughed. I had worn apricot satin at her wedding. All the fun and none of the expense, I laughed back. I know, I know. I’m sorry, I’m just joking really. She looked at my hair.

She asked the photographer to wait for a minute while she pinned up my hair that the wind had undone, holding her posy between her knees.

In the reception hall the tables were around the edge of a huge polished floor. I saw Dad coming towards me with his arms out. His hair looked a little longer than I remembered and curled over his collar. We were waltzing around the open floor like the King of Siam and Anna before I realised it was all wrong and it had to stop.

It was fruitless trying to tell him he shouldn’t be there – that he should go wherever it is that dead people are supposed to go. Whenever I mustered up courage to tell him, he just disappeared. I decided that the next time I would deal with the anger instead. He must have been angry with me for some reason otherwise when he had visited me alone or with the analyst he wouldn’t have been so stony and silent. I must have done something wrong, something to make him so mad. I would apologise; that would make him see that he could leave me, leave this world. But he never came again.

16

Elaine Cansdale

‘Autumn Wives’

18

Marek Miernik

‘Minus Blindfold’ Paper cluttered every desk in the room, avalanching off each surface into disarray. It seemed as though the building’s architects had taken this into account when planning the layout, each desk being placed far apart, leaving space for the drifts of white that sloped onto the floor. Benjamin did not wait for his eyes to adjust to the unlit room but kept on walking straight towards the far wall.

As he approached his terminal, the light bulb above him illuminated the aisle, and once he passed it faded back into blackness before the next bulb before him blinked acknowledgement, until he reached his workstation. The effect reminded Benjamin of the strobe lights that he had seen whilst he had been working for the Department of Re-Education. That was before he had been promoted to this post, to possibly the most secretive of all organizations within the party’s structure.

Benjamin walked briskly and with a confident gait, a trait that he had noticed himself acquire as he gradually became accustomed to his position. Within this office he was master of all he could see, except for the near permanent pitch black of the room. Whilst most of the staff believed that the automated lighting system was an attempt at cost-cutting within the bureaucracy, Benjamin knew better. The desks would only be lit by a single spotlight when a person occupied the chair screwed into the desk, keeping each workstation literally in the dark. Shrouded in mystery, as it were, so that no one could look over their own shoulder.

As part of the induction to his post Benjamin had learnt this, and many of the other techniques employed to keep the building’s population in a state of paranoia. Benjamin often marvelled at how effective a form of suppression this was, a cunning manner of enforcing self-censorship. Such measures were especially important within this particular office, the Department for Religious Texts.

Benjamin felt about for the seat behind his desk and then lowered himself into it, instantly becoming engulfed in the bright tungsten light. He haphazardly searched the stacks of reports on his desk scattering paper everywhere before finding what he was looking for: The daily editions. Most of today’s output would be amending Arabic and Judaic texts. Only his office ever saw, or indeed was even aware of, such writing. This was far too sensitive a branch of history to be edited by the monkeys with typewriters that dealt with, say, The Times or modern textbooks, hence Benjamin’s eventual pride at his appointment. Not just the Holy Scriptures of the main ideologies, but the

19

hundreds of thousands of works on theology, philosophy and other various forms of religious history, and Benjamin was thankful for them. His predecessors had already achieved the hardest part, the amalgamation of the Holy books of the main religions: the Bible, The Talmud, and the Qua’ran.

They formed a streamlined trilogy, ‘The HolyTrinity’ as it was known to the department. Outside the office no one knew of the existence of this book, and only Benjamin and those before him

20

had read the official version. To ensure its secrecy it was translated into Latin, a long dead and outlawed language, and stored in punch-card format within a vast computer.

Reading these reports was usually a quick scan of the pages for any texts that did not belong in the lowest two priority groupings: Judeo-Christian or Islamic. These aberrations appeared underlined: Buddhist, Gnostic, Atheist. And sure enough two of them appeared before him, ensuring that it would be a long night.

But then he saw something far from the norm. The highest priority bracket had to be verified immediately by whichever supervisor was on duty. But one of the texts in front of him, underlined, was not even in this grouping; it came from a Greek/ Latin source. It would be an even longer night.

* * * * *

Commitment to the cause was a double- edged sword, it would seem. Had Benjamin not been concentrating so diligently on his work, he may have noticed the sleek silhouette framed in the doorway for a split second. It silently weaved through the room along a route that did not trigger a single light. Benjamin was aware that at any one moment anyone could be watching him, but he did not know that at this particular moment someone was. The figure stood motionless within a breath of the unaware scribe. He could count the hairs on the back of Benjamin’s neck, could see the veins in the back of Benjamin’s hands, more importantly he could see every word that Benjamin was writing.

Benjamin’s pen danced across the page underlining, scribbling and rhythmically tapping the desk when he was in a state of deep thought. Apart from the odd cough, this was the only sound in the room. The halo of light above Benjamin’s head provided the sole recognition of human presence, and occasionally he glanced up at it for inspiration.

Benjamin was stuck. He was confused as to why this text had been referred to him. It was a simple ontological argument and should have been dealt with by someone far below him in the hierarchy.

He half suspected that this could be some form of test. It wouldn’t be beyond the party to devise some hidden exam. Or it could just be a mistake. It would be easiest for Benjamin to file it and be done with it. In theory anyway, but in practice he was stuck. The premise put forward by the text was so simply worded that it made it hard to refine even further. It tried to prove that God must

exist by arguing that because a perfect being that doesn’t exist isn’t as perfect as one that does exist, therefore God, to be perfect, must exist. It used existence as a measurement for creation, God being the first in a chain of creators, based on ‘making man in his own image.’

A part of Benjamin wanted to destroy the text outright. It was not beyond his jurisdiction, and it would make his night’s work a lot easier. But if it were a test, surely he would not pass if he failed to adapt the words into something useful. In his frustration, he threw his pen onto the desk and sat blankly for a minute staring into the words looking for some new meaning, any revelation that would enable him to get on with the other work in front of him. By the time he had spent hours on this one piece it was visibly getting to him. The latest edition of the HolyTrinity sat open before him, at the page where the relevant story of creation should have been. Instead, there was nothing.

It appeared that the party did not want God to make man in his own image and had deleted this particular passage. The holy book was of no help to Benjamin now; he must sculpt these words into an articulate argument himself.

The temptation to stamp this text ‘Unauthorized’ and process it for destruction grew with Benjamin’s frustration. He was thinking to himself: ‘You cannot prove God’s existence with just words. Where is the empirical evidence ?’ Benjamin did not want to base such a complex idea on mere abstract notions. Definitions belong only to words, and words are not powerful enough to force a being into existence.

And then it struck Benjamin like lightning.

As if the previous two hours had been a waste, a new train of thought entered his mind: if he could just adapt the language to fit the tone of the HolyTrinity, he could even submit it as a replacement passage for the missing parable. With renewed fervour he threw his old work to the floor and began afresh. He found the earliest edition of the HolyTrinity from his lower desk drawer and found that the passage was still there. Using this as a guide he stole metaphors, imagery, even whole sentences verbatim until he had finished the piece. Now, to prove that He is perfect, God made man not in his own image but as a measurement of his own brilliance, capable of appreciating perfection through language, science and mathematics.

As he double checked the final draft, each word was accompanied by a sense of satisfaction. There could be no way that this piece was not good enough for inclusion, if not in the actual book, then as an aside somewhere. Every word made perfect sense. Even if this relief was set with worry about being caught plagiarizing.

The rest of the shift passed without incident, just Benjamin earnestly writing, reading and thinking, and his silent watcher, still spying over his shoulder. Dust motes gathered and drifted in spotlighted turbulence. The cold draft from the broken central heating made Benjamin shake, but

21

in the darkness nothing flinched. When he had finished with the daily editions Benjamin still sat at his desk. His shift didn’t finish for over an hour, so he had to remain on duty till then. He leafed through the earliest HolyTrinity, almost like he was browsing a catalogue. He did enjoy reading some of the stories, especially the early story of creation. Some of these versions still existed, including the legends of Adam and Eve, but of course they were mostly restricted and obviously edited. He had always wanted to know where the Garden of Eden had been before it became the garden of Jordan. And why the forbidden fruit had been deemed too forbidden for the HolyTrinity.

All these stories constantly changed, you picked out later editions and previously deleted passages reappeared. Stories retold, revised and reinvented.

‘I guess they just tell the stories to suit the purpose of the times’ Benjamin thought. ‘Maybe once upon a time it really was necessary for Jesus to be murdered by the Romans, and then a few years later he was slaughtered by the Sanhedrin. Good thing that Jesus was capable of resurrection, or reincarnation, or whatever it was. He died in so many different ways.’ And each of these methods was stored in the desks within this room.

* * * * *

Benjamin’s hunch was correct. This text was indeed a test and Benjamin’s watcher its invigilator.

The theory of St. Anselm, as it became known, was the final exam and a screening process for recruits to this department. To pass, one must choose to delete the text forever. Deicide.

By editing this dangerous piece into the HolyTrinity, Benjamin had written his own fate. The simplicity of the test was that those who were predisposed to heretical thought were always ensnared by the logic. And those who would go on to long careers within the department destroyed the text with equal disregard for both faith and logic: only the Party mattered. The perfect scribes.

He watched Benjamin leave, leaning forward, his face briefly entering the light for a final glance at the recent adaptation, fading out with the light above Benjamin’s desk.

As he watched, he thought to himself about the nature of his work. Watching over the creation of creation. Ultimately divining whether his charges were being too creative in putting the words into The Creator’s mouth. One wrong word could change the world. He left for his office to file his debriefing without a single light guiding his way. He passed through the doorway and looked back to the inscription above the doorframe, the motto of the department: Creatura non potest creare. Only those who worked within this room could decipher its intent. The creature who has been created cannot himself create. He wondered whether upon this very room some scribe had

22

translated his own epitaph and pondered its significance to their own predicament. Probably not, he thought.

George Chilton

‘Running Under Cows’ Based on Sir Thomas More’s Utopia There were no more mileposts and he couldn’t tell how far he had come. It had been seven miles at the last outpost of civilisation, a farm with candle-lamps burning in the windows, but that had been hours ago. He clicked his tongue and pulled at the reins to slow up. Low branches hung overhead with a definite look of calamity and he couldn’t stand another bump. He stared wide-eyed as they waved at him with nefarious glee.

Night mist hugged the ground and he moved on slowly with painfully earned caution. The bare branches crept over his felt hat, dragging their malign fingers and clawing at him with the unhurried mien of the dead. The donkey broke wind in an enterprising rejoinder and he sighed, rubbing at the bruising on his left temple. At least the mood had cleared, if not the air.

The aroma of rotten leaves, rotten donkey and rotten mushroom hung like a static cloud in his nostrils and he was beginning to feel sick.

A glittering force of Utopian stars were tightly dotted above him and the moon blazed down accusingly. He stared guilty at the floor, but found some consolation in their broken light; he would at least see himself get lost.

Large ears were twitching upwards in front of him listening to the wind gust through the trees.

Eleutherios didn’t get on with donkeys, particularly when they had colds and serious gastric issues.

His teeth began to chatter; it was going to be a long hard night, and night on the island was not a place for men.

The donkey sneezed again, sending a warm spray up into his face.

‘Thanks.’ He blinked, the trees were thinning into a brief clearing and the wind was hassling him to return, cutting into his side, whipping him back. He could almost turn around, but it would be light by the time he got back and someone would see him – probably Hypocrates on his way to the chickens. Hypocrates wouldn’t be a friend, wouldn’t understand; he was too ambitious.

Hypocrates was secretly desperate to be District Controller. Managing 30 houses with 1,200 people was an enormous power. Eleutherios smiled with resignation; the man was an annual

24

representative at the Aircastle parliament and had recently been commended as a ‘stalwart protector of the community’s values’ by the Bencheaters, the elected enforcers. So, it was no use

returning – he wouldn’t stand a chance, besides, he couldn’t give up after only half a night. A wild fowl exploded out of the undergrowth in loud panic, almost as if to underline the reason for his journey.

The land wasn’t farmed here, even though some of the higher ground to the North seemed to be divided by hedges. The donkey snorted, as if to ask which way. The bridle path had divided, one uphill and one on a level, but that was narrower.

‘Onwards donkey, its downhill towards the sea,’ he clicked his heels and the donkey made for the rather more inviting upper track.

‘No! This way,’ he pulled on the reins. He could see no-one had been through in years. The grass came to a man’s shoulders and the trees were thick and un-managed. It looked like there might have been an old farm once, many years ago. It would probably form part of the reclamation area the local Bencheaters had marked out. They wanted another holding; an abandoned one would mean less work. It was likely to be used for animals; the northern part of the island was better for crops – less chalky, rich soil. Well, he wouldn’t be moving in, he smiled. The donkey blew a raspberry at him, indicating the fallen tree that blocked their passage.

‘Well, what do you propose to do about it?’ He dismounted and looked about. Bracken and grass had grown up and encroached on the path.

‘It’s a bit sticky here isn’t it?’ The donkey looked on blankly, waiting with as much resignation and impudence as he could muster. Eleutherios looked up at the stars and the wind blew some loose leaves down around his face.

‘I still haven’t named you.’ He stared back at the donkey, trying to ignore the patronising expression it was wearing, ‘Anemolius. I think Anemolius suits you.’

Anemolius sneezed, shaking his ears in disapproval.

‘I’m sorry, but that’s what it’s going to be,’ he wiped his face off on his sleeve. ‘I’m Eleutherios, pleased to....’ ‘He breathed out with effort and dug his nails into the log, ‘...meet you.’ It was beginning to move.

The bark came away unexpectedly, rotten in his hands. He would have to get his axe.

Anemolius stamped his foot impatiently and Eleutherios removed the polished blade from his saddlebag. The wind was picking up and the donkey shifted his weight.

‘Alright, alright, nearly done. I’ll cut the end off and it will roll into the bushes nicely.’

He rested his axe on the ground, ‘Look, it’s rotten, it’ll be easy.’

He managed to heave the log to the sidings and the donkey trotted forwards leaving him to follow. The branches were getting lower again, so he had to walk anyway. He stumbled his way past to the front of the donkey and took the reigns. He couldn’t afford any breaks for freedom, his own was enough.

The smell, the damp and the odd child-like satisfaction of being free to kick about in the mud made him think of his adoptive parent’s farm. He often tried to block

25

the memories, but they sat like dust, readily disturbed and thickening with time. Eleutherios will never be a carpenter, never be anything more than a chicken-boy.

He was rejected as a defective object and shipped away to the country to become a chicken keeper, ‘As they hatched they attached.’

The very first time he saw an egg crack he stood in silent awe. He gasped as the tiny beak made it into the New World – unbound and free of its cell. The feeling, though, did not prevail; an egg was, after all, just an egg – and country life was achingly slow. Eleutherios would spend his leisure time being followed by small chickens, being their ‘mother’ and stopping them from running under cows. He grew to hate their blind stupidity. ‘The donkey snorted, bringing him back to the numb reality – he could smell bonfire.

‘Shh...woah, hold there.’ He held the reigns and stopped. It could have been anything. His mind raced and hit a wall of great hulking men with dogs and barrels of illegitimacy, swords, bows, hard-worn faces tired of the years of fighting, murder... His stomach and intestines trampled over his chest, trying to escape the inevitable disembowelment. Smugglers! Perhaps, but perhaps not.

In the woods at this time of year? It was unlikely. He tried to think, but his ears seemed to be sucking in the mist around him and it was clouding his mind. Who else would have a fire? Only fools and demons would be in the winter woods. The farms would have had their own share of secret cider made by early autumn, it was only in the off-season that the foreign men did their business and brought in illegal drink. If they were smugglers perhaps they wouldn’t be dangerous – but they might bring him in, give him up for a reward instead – and he had nothing but an ageing tinderbox and an iron cloak-pin to bribe them with.

He clutched his knapsack with white knuckles and recalled the chilling childhood stories of demons and lost souls. He pictured their grotesque forms dancing round a diabolical fire, their evil emanating from... the donkey was staring at him. He shook his head, ‘Don’t be such an ass Anemolius.’ He opened the drawstring, there really was nothing of value, nothing to bribe or pay for safe passage. He pulled out an old pipe, ‘It’s not going to be enough, not for smugglers, is it?’

The donkey said nothing, but dragged his hooves over the mud, imitating the oxen he’d known on the farm. ‘You’re right, I’ll have to look. Wait here,’ he tied the reigns loosely. ‘I’ll be back, so no shouting, ok?’ He crossed himself to see what this new Jesus fellow could do for him.

There was snow on the ground from the night before, but it had hardened to a thick white frost that crusted over the leaves. His feet were numb and, though he was treading as lightly as he could, there was no avoiding the crunch of ice. He could hear the donkey close behind him, impatient to get on. The acrid smell of charred wood and burning peat was getting stronger and carried on the breeze towards him. The donkey blew another discreet raspberry and he winced, feeling very close. His eyes were used to the starlight gloaming and he peered through the trees, awkwardly stooped and bitterly aware of the pounding spirit in his chest. His widening orbits forgave the harsh iciness and sucked in the dark lines, oddly spaced and blurring with the air around them.

What he saw ahead was wondrous, perfect and just what he damn-well needed. No demons, no

26

smugglers – just a fiery vision of unparalleled beauty. If he could get to her and she didn’t hear him, he could perhaps gain her trust. It would be easier with two of them.

The donkey brayed loudly and uncompromisingly.

‘Ah.’ For someone so heavily pregnant she moved awfully fast, he thought, but not for long. ‘Wait ! Wait, I’m a friend !’

‘If you’re a friend, I’m a Bencheater!’ She was either just ahead of him or a bush was talking.

‘Oh come on, this is stupid, I’m not going to hurt you.’ He picked himself up from where he’d slipped on the iced leaves.

‘It’s not me I’m worried about,’ she panted, peering at the stranger through the leaves of the bush. Her hand found a large lump of flint. She grabbed it gladly.

‘You’re a slave?’ He’d seen a ringlet of gold through the dark leaves, uniform of the bound.

He was moving closer, her fingers tightened and she sidled backwards, aware of the baby inside kicking quite ferociously.

‘And you’re a chicken-man. Which would you prefer?’ She looked at him, covered with fluff y white chicken down and muddy from where he had fallen.

‘No more of that, The Chicken-man is dead. I’m Eleutherios, free as a... tree.’ He looked about, lost for inspiration, ‘Trees aren’t free, they’re forced to stay put, never see the world – like Utopians – they’re slaves to their own roots.’ She loosened her grip on the stone. ‘I’m Adara.’

‘Adara?’

‘I know, not exactly appropriate, but...’

‘You’re not from here are you?’

‘My father said slavery on Utopia was better than freedom in poverty.’

‘And?’ He moved closer to the fire.

‘I’m running aren’t I?’ ‘You’re not running very fast.’ He brushed himself down, suddenly aware of his dishevelled, almost criminal appearance. ‘Look, I’ve run away, you’ve run away, can’t we help each other?’ He could feel the fire warming his legs, they were beginning to thaw and the slow miles were catching up with him.

‘I’m doing fine on my own, thank-you. I don’t need a bruised mother hen to help me along.’ She tried to hear his thoughts, but had no fear left.

He was hurt, but took it as it was. She had risen. ‘But you can come and warm your ass. Go and untie him.’ He looked at her in the firelight. She was a beauty.

Her skin was darker, her voice creamier than the Utopian girls. He was right to want to see the rest of the world.

She felt a sharp pain in her abdomen and looked away so that he would not see.

He dropped his knapsack by the fire and went yawning to Anemolius. She smiled – perhaps the tree spirits were about after all.

There was very little in the sack. An old pipe, a little tobacco pouch – empty

27

of course – but there was a beautiful little pewter tinderbox. It almost looked oriental, very unutopian.

‘Meet Anemolius. He’s got a bit of a cold.’

She panicked, hiding the box under her shawl. He smiled, ‘it’s all right, you can look, it’s of no value anyway.’ She felt her face glow and crack against the cold.

‘I’m sorry, I was just curious.’ She looked deep into his eyes, ‘why is a Chicken-man running?’ She took it back out and ran her fingers over the inscription, ‘What does it say?’

Vita non est vivere sed valere vita est.

‘That’s what I say to myself every night, what I have said for the past ten years, that is why I’m in these woods now.’

‘But what does it mean ? I’m a slave girl, not part of the Intellegensia.’

‘Life is more than just being alive.’ He took it from her gently. ‘We can’t stale, we can’t all watch as the chickens hatch and not allow ourselves to hatch as well.’

‘We’re not eggs. We don’t crack.’

‘Maybe not, but I think we should be more than chickens.’

She stepped up to the donkey. ‘Anemolius is a terrible name. You should never name an animal after its afflictions. It’s cruel.’ She felt the pain again, and winced, leaning against the warm grey flanks.

‘It’s accurate, besides, I can’t get too attached. I can hardly bring him to the New World with me.

He can’t swim.’ The donkey turned and faced the darkness, a deep sadness wiping over him.

‘I wasn’t allowed attachment either,’ she turned back. ‘They were going to take my child away from me once it was born.’ She lifted the hem of her skirt, ‘I heard them – I’m its mother and I have no say. I was born in Spring, sixteen Springs ago. Old enough to mother a child.’ She cradled her womb, ‘That’s why I’m in these woods. I’m a spring baby – a daughter of the trees, their spirits watch over me.’

‘But it’s winter; only bad spirits are awake in the woods now. You’re not safe. You could die out here.’ He looked into her eyes and saw that they burned with frustration – they had seen beyond Utopia and wanted out.

‘We can make it to the harbour with Anemolius. It’s not far.’ He looked up and the donkey was staring at them in a disconcertingly intelligent way.

‘The harbour?’ Her eyes stopped smouldering and were set aflame, ‘That place! I cannot go there!’

She exploded upwards. ‘Sailors, builders, traders, all dirty – and it’s where I have just come from!

I can’t go back. I won’t.’ She looked down guiltily, ‘And besides,’ she coughed, ‘I’m hatching. My waters have just broken.’

* * * * *

It was not ideal. Adara sat above him on Anemolius, crying out at ever more frequent intervals

28

and squeezing his hand as he led them on. It was rather like the pregnant Mary he had begun to hear so much about, he thought.

‘If we take the upper track there’s a new farm being built. I saw it as I passed through this morning, had a look around.’ She paused and he looked up at her, his eyes grey, but still able to see her beauty. ‘There will be a Bencheater.’ He stopped sharply, forcing Anemolius to halt. ‘I’m sorry,’ she choked.

‘A Bencheater? Then I may as well leave my name here in the woods. I’ll be bound, like you, a slave.’

‘I’m know. It’s true, but I‘ll die out here otherwise.’ She pointed at her bulge. ‘I can’t let that happen.’ She cursed their blind stupidity; ‘we shouldn’t have run.’

‘Like running under cows,’ he said, watching her tears.

He led them up the path. It began to widen and clear. The grass had been cut back and candle-lamps were burning in the distance. She groaned lightly and they made their way back to paradise.

29

www.siferdesign.co.uk

For further information on Vortex contact: Neil McCaw Faculty of Arts University of Winchester neil.mccaw@winchester.ac.uk

Copyright Š Vortex 2006 ISSN 1749-7191

vortex 2006 Edition