One Nation’s Spirit

In the olden days, the peoples of this land lived together. There was disagreement between the leaders of the Nations. There was war between the Nations. But the Peoples of the Land lived together. Then the White Man came to their lands. This story starts not long after the White Man had arrived and settled.

***

It was barely dawn when a great commotion stirred the Nation awake. Fearful of an attack by the neighboring tribe, the Abenaki, the first awakened by the commotion sounded the alarm. Then the whole population bustled, mothers sheltering the children and their elders, young and old warriors mounting their steeds, drawing bowstrings and aiming arrows at the enemy. But there was no enemy attacking the Nation this morn.

As calm returned to the Cree Nation, the elders came out of their dwellings to meet the dawning sun and searched the horizon. Above the treeline, far to the North, beyond the Abenaki territories, plumes of black smoke rose to intercept the first rays of sunlight.

The sounds of commotion that had awakened the Nation originated there. Cries of men in pain could be heard throughout the morning, carried on the icy austral winds.

In the evening, as the Nation’s people gathered around the fire to tell tales of their ancestors’ exploits, a convoy of Abenaki warriors descended upon the Cree. It was River Fang who first noticed the colors of peace on their bare-breasted warriors. None carried any weapons.

None, except one. Moon Claw, the eldest son of the Abenaki shaman and their Nation’s most fierce warrior carried a heavy ceremonial tomahawk on his shoulder. Moon Claw rode at the head of the convoy, alongside his father, Star Owl, their bodies painted with the emblem of the Abenaki Nation.

As Moon Claw and Star Owl approached the fire, they were greeted by Stones-of-the-Waterfall, the Cree shaman, and her eldest son and leader of the Cree Nation, Treewalker.

“We come in peace,” announced Star Owl with the voice of the night.
“We welcome you, Star Owl and Moon Claw of the Abenaki. We offer the warmth of our flames and a drag of the pipe of Brotherhood,” responded Treewalker. “Please, join us.”

The four of them sat by the fire and the pipe passed to each who in turn drew in the little blue smoke that appeases the spirits. Finally, the silence around the fire was broken.

“This morning, the Huron Nation to the North was attacked,” stated Moon Claw furiously. “Our scouts crossed over the hills and report that the Nation has been ravaged and destroyed. Few survivors remain.”
“This is a terrible tragedy indeed,” conceded Stones-of-the-Waterfall.
“It gets worse,” continued Star Owl, “Our scouts also report that the Iroquois Nation to the East has disbanded and their tribesmen still flee in all directions. The Mohican Nation too has been completely eradicated.”
“Who could have done such a thing? Even the White Man could not accomplish such feats!” growled Treewalker, almost incredulous.
“Not who, young one,” sneered Star Owl, “but WHAT!”
“Do you mean…?” started Stones-of-the-Waterfall.
“Yes, if the whispers of our ancestors’ divinations are to be believed, it is the Spirit of the Forest who descends upon our lands,” completed the old Abenaki shaman with a note of despair.

Hushed murmurs rushed through the population of the Cree Nation crowded just beyond the heat of the fire. The Spirit of the Forest was walking the land!

“Treewalker, people of the Cree Nation, I have come bearing the voice of the Abenaki Nation to offer the Cree Nation an alliance so that we may stand united against the impending threat and defeat it,” announced Moon Claw of the Abenaki, loud and proud.

He sat by the fire and drew the little blue smoke, patiently awaiting the decision of the Cree Nation’s leaders.

For some time, Treewalker and Stones-of-the-Waterfall communed together, pondering the value of the offer proposed by the emissaries of the Abenaki Nation. If the Cree Nation was under threat, the alliance would markedly improve our chances of survival, pointed out Treewalker to his mother. She agreed, but pointed out to her son that the threat might not be so real to the Cree Nation: We are a people of the forest, my son, and our Nation has protected and lived in harmony with the forest on our territory. The Spirit of the Forest surely has no anger for the Cree.

Mother and son turned back to their guests and shared their decision.

“With respect to the Abenaki Nation, the Cree will not accept your offer and will not join the alliance you propose. The Cree Nation is at peace with the forest and so we do not fear from the Spirit of the Forest,” declared Treewalker. “We will not provoke the fury of the Spirit of the Forest and risk his wrath.”

Moon Claw rose to his feet briskly and spat in the Cree Nation’s fire. “COWARDS!” he roared, “I should kill you where you stand, Treewalker!” brandishing the tomahawk menacingly.

Thousands of arrows were instantly pulled back on tight bowstrings to prevent the Abenaki leader from making good on his threat, but Stones-of-the-Waterfall raised her hands in appeasement. She used the soothing voice of the songbird and whispered to the Abenaki warriors: “Keep your strength, young Abenaki. You will need it this night, I fear.”

As he walked away from the fire, the disappointment was as plain on the old Abenaki shaman’s face as the White Man stands out in the lands. The Abenaki convoy left in the night, quietly, as peacefully as they had come.

It was barely dawn of the following morning when a great commotion stirred the Cree Nation awake. Fearful of reprisals from the Abenaki Nation for having turned down their offer, the first awakened by the commotion sounded the alarm. Then the whole population bustled, mothers sheltering their children and the elders, young and old warriors mounting steeds, drawing bows and aiming their arrows towards the enemy. But there were no enemies attacking the Nation this morn.

As calm returned to the Cree Nation, the elders came out of their dwellings to meet the dawning sun and searched the horizon. Above the treeline, to the North, plumes of black smoke rose from the Abenaki territories, intercepting the first rays of sunlight.

The sounds of commotion that had awakened the Nation originated there. Cries of men in pain could be heard throughout the morning, carried on the icy austral winds.

The rest of the day, the men, women and children of the Cree Nation experienced doubt and fear. The tension surged when the Cree scouting party returned from the Abenaki lands over the hills to the North. Few had been left alive. The Nation had been ravaged and brought to the ground.

Was the Cree Nation to be next? Was the Cree Nation to share the fate of the Mohican, Iroquois, Huron and Abenaki Nations? Was the Cree Nation to end early on the next morning before the sun rose?

In the evening, as the population of the Cree Nation gathered around the fire, Treewalker felt he had to intervene to lift his people’s spirits. He stood above the fire and called for the attention of all his people.

“People of the Cree Nation, I, Treewalker, having drank the milk that fell from the bosom of wisdom, command you to shed your fear of the Spirit of the Forest. Our people have respected and honored the Animal and Plant spirits that are His Sons and Daughters, we have taken only what we have needed from the forest and we have mended it throughout the cycles according to the lore of our ancestors.”

There was enthusiastic nodding through the audience. The cloud of fear was dissipating.

“The Spirit of the Forest will recognize the Cree Nation as its benefactor and thus, the He will leave our Nation in peace.” Reassured, the people of the Cree Nation shared tales and stories before sleeping soundly.

It was barely dawn of the following morning when the Cree Nation woke to a great commotion. Fearful, the first awakened by the commotion sounded the alarm. Then the whole population bustled, mothers sheltering children and elders while young and old warriors mounted their steeds, drew bowstrings and let loose their arrows onto the enemy.

The Spirit of the Forest had descended from the hills to the North and had reached the edges of the Nation’s border. The Spirit of the Forest was laying waste to the Cree Nation with the strength of a handful of armies.

The rain of arrows bearing the colors of the Cree Nation blotted out the dawning sun for a breath. The Cree Nation was after all the most populous in the land and their warriors were legion. As the deadly wave of sharp shadow converged on the Spirit of the Forest, a whirlwind of tree leaves erupted, a flurry of blood crimsons, honey goldens, earthen browns, and sea greens that deflected the lethal assault harmlessly.

The maelstrom of leaves conjured by the Spirit of the Forest fell to the ground carrying stone, bone and wooden arrows. A thick lake of humus rapidly formed as the decomposing leaves reached the earth and drowned thousands in one terrifying parry. Panic spread rapidly among the Cree Nation. Even the most hardened and courageous warriors experienced dread beyond anything they had ever felt in their worst nightmares.

The Spirit snuffed out the fire of the Cree Nation like a man would a candle with two fingertips, and plunged the territories of the Cree in darkness. Because the Spirit of the Forest was almost immaterial, the unnatural night made him invisible. However, the Spirit’s presence could clearly be heard, flattening dwellings, wrecking canoes, and destroying the Cree people.

In His wake, cries of pain, the weeping of despair and the laments of sorrow for the ones lost drained what remained of the Cree Nation’s courage. Just as all hope was leaving, a staghorn blew a familiar note, strident and high-pitched. Not far from the South, the Algonquins had sounded the call to war. Soon, the bullhorn of the Mohawks, the moosehorn of the Montagnais, the deerhorn of the Sioux, and the buffalohorn of Apaches joined the declaration of war.

In rode what remained of the Peoples of the Land, a fraction of what was but a few cycles ago. Just a short time before, many other Nations would have come as they did for the centennial potlatch. The newcomers to the battle all carried with them the fire of their Nations and instantly, the territories of the Cree Nation brightened.

So much light from the combined fires of the Peoples of the Land forced the Spirit of the Forest into a vulnerable body of flesh and bone. As his form solidified, Treewalker stood before Him and there was a lull in the battle. The few hundred warriors that remained, barely two-dozen to each Nation, formed a circle around Treewalker and the Spirit of the Forest, their weapons at the ready to finish the battle, which had been decisive.

From all corners of the land, the Peoples of the Land had answered the call for survival and allied unwittingly against a common threat.

“Spirit of the Forest, on behalf of the remaining Peoples of the Land, you have been defeated!” Treewalker thundered and what remained of the Peoples of the Land cheered for their victory. He took a step forward and whispered to the Spirit of the Forest, “Why, O great Spirit of the Forest? Why have you attacked the Peoples of the Land?”

The Spirit’s voice still screeched and boomed like a hundred rockslides and he answered Treewalker with deep anger burning in the embers that were his eyes. “THE FOREST OF THE LAND IS DYING!”

Treewalker pressed the defeated Spirit pleadingly. “But why did you attack the Cree Nation? The Cree people have tended to your forest and the Spirits who reside there. Why then does the Cree Nation deserve this punishment?”

The Spirit’s voice hissed like a thousand underground rivers. “THE MOHICANS, THE IROQUOIS, THE ABENAKI AND ALL THE OTHER NATIONS HAVE PLEADED THE SAME NONESENSE! THE FOREST DOES NOT BELONG TO ONE NATION. ALL MY TREES SHUDDER WHEN ONE OF THEIR BRETHERN IS CUT DOWN OR BURNT TO ASHES, HOWEVER FAR APART THEY MAY STAND, IN WHICHEVER OF MAN’S NATIONS!”

On his last word, the Spirit of the Forest lunged forward, refusing to surrender. Spears, arrows, axes, tomahawks and knives pierced the Spirits mortal vessel and He fell in Treewalker’s arms, gasping His last breaths. The Spirit of the Forest looked deep into Treewalker’s eyes and blew the cries of the multitudes in despair into his ears.

Treewalker felt the quivering of every plant and tree leaf, heard the dewing tears of each blade of grass, saw the alarm shared by every bird in the sky, tasted the poison slowly killing all the fish in all the rivers, and smelled the impending doom that all animals of the land had picked up generations before. And the Spirit of the Forest dissolved into oblivion.

As the cheering resumed, the leader of the Algonquins, Geyser Heart, walked up to Treewalker and clapped him on the shoulder with a broad smile.

“My friend! Our peoples have defeated the Spirit of the Forest! We have triumphed!”

Treewalker heard Geyser Heart, but he was distracted, lured deeper into the sorrow to which the Spirit had awakened him. It was all around. The trees, the wind, the sun and the moon, all were shaken and fearful with growing worry at the loss of the Spirit of the Forest. It was so overwhelming that Treewalker did not think to tend to his wounds.

Geyser Heart saw the expression on young Treewalker’s face and called a shaman to heal him. The shaman who came was Opal-of-Salt of the Montagnais Nation and as she tended to Treewalker’s health, he asked for the fate of Stones-of-the-Waterfall.

Stones-of-the-Waterfall, mother to Treewalker mother and shaman to the Cree Nation had perished in the battle, admitted Opal-of-the-Salt.

“We may have lost much, brave Treewalker-of-the-Spirit,” Geyser Heart said solemnly, anointing the Cree Nation leader’s new name, “but we have many spoils to share from this legendary battle. The tales they will tell when we are the ancestors will guarantee us privilege and worship in this life and beyond! Well done, my young friend.”

Treewalker tried to control the sadness and anger welling up inside him. They fought bravely, suffering losses beyond the physical pain of the blows and death, beyond the spiritual torture of being assailed by this otherworldly terror. Those who eventually survived the battle had lost the memories.

“Geyser Heart, the Peoples of the Land are but a handful now and we have lost our families, our heritage, our culture.”

“Yes,” replied Geyser Heart, “and that void we should fill with the bounties that come with victory to assuage our peoples’ pain! The land is ripe and the forests now belong to the Peoples of the Land, truly!” His eyes scanned the horizon, contemplating the prize the Peoples of the Land had won with the blood of their own this morning.

“Do you not realize, Geyser Heart, that the Spirit of the Forest attacked us because we had been hurting the forest with axes of steel, embers of fire, and the White Man’s foul air? Do you not feel the tug of the void of the Ender of Worlds left gaping, drawing us and all in? And now you propose to take advantage of His absence to defile the Spirit of the Forest’s Creation further?” Treewalker was shocked and his face flushed with rage.

“Exactly!” cried Geyser Heart with a smirk, “We will cut the forest and sell it to the White Man, we will clear our land for their fields of grain and we will take all his riches and become a united and powerful Nation!”

“You fool!” Treewalker exploded, “The bounty from this battle will be a curse upon the Peoples of the Land! Without the Spirit of the Forest to protect the land, you condemn us all!”

“Ungrateful, disrespectful bastards!” Geyser Heart growled as he silently drew his knife and stabbed Treewalker in the back. The other Peoples of the Land reserved the same fate for their brothers of the Cree Nation that remained standing. Only a lucky few managed to escape into the wilds.

Many cycles later, the representatives of the Peoples of the Land’s alliance that had brought down the Spirit of the Forest went to the White Man’s house. The house was made entirely of logs and seemed sturdy and impervious to the elements. It sat atop a barren hillock where only short grasses grew in small patches. Three goats were tied on a short rope near the tiny green islands.

The White Man rose from his chair on his porch and locked the barrel of his musket on the emissaries of the Peoples of the Land. The White Man did not recognize the colors of peace they were wearing on their chests, and he was quickly on the defensive.

“Hold up there, fellas!” the White Man yelled threateningly.
“We come in peace!” cautioned Geyser Heart.
“Alright then,” accepted the White Man as he lowered his weapon, “What do you fellas want, then?”
“We have cut down all the trees from our lands and we have prepared all the lands to be sowed with grain. We would like to trade with the White Man, our wood and our lands, in exchange for your most precious and valuable riches.” The gleam of greed spread like an infection in Geyser Heart’s mind while the White Man looked up and down the representatives, inspected the timber and visited the barren lands, ready to be seeded.

When they returned to the White Man’s log house atop the hillock, he welcomed the Peoples of the Lands’ dignitaries inside his home and offered them hospitality. “I must go a short while to collect our most treasured and precious valuables to repay you for your wood and your lands. Please, make yourselves comfortable. Have a drink of firewater!”

And the White Man promptly left and the emissaries of the Peoples of the Land laughed with glee and congratulated themselves and each other. They would be bringing back riches and power beyond anything imaginable by the ancestors of the old Nations. The Peoples of the Land would become Masters of the Land!

It was Bear Claw, the son of Moon Claw of the old Abenaki Nation, who noticed the smell.

“Something is burning!” he yelped.

The White Man’s log house was on fire. Quickly, the emissaries rushed the door of the cabin but it had been blocked from the outside and they could not get out. The fire raged quickly reducing the house and its contents to ashes.

The White Man led a savage campaign, hunting down the rest of the Peoples of the Land in just a few short cycles. The blood of the Peoples of the Land returned to the land. The White Man carried on the cleansing that the Peoples of the Land had started with the murder of the Spirit of the Forest.

The White Man had never had to fear the Spirit of the Forest because the Nations’ peoples had fought Him and triumphed. And from that point forward, the White Man had never had to cut down the wood to build his houses and the White Man had never had to clear the land before sowing his fields.

The White Man had become the Master of the Land.

And the forest agonized.

PT 22/12/2009

Photo: Sagah Nah: La Confrerie des Tueurs de Monstres, Tome 2, Francois Lapierre, Editions Soleil, 2004.

All Shapes and Sizes

“Bob, do you want my pillow?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I don’t really need mine…”

“No, thanks, I said I’m good.”

“Ok, well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

“I will.”

A pause.

“Bob, I know that this thing you have now is bothering you but we’ll get through this.”

“I know.”

“I mean it Bob! I’m here for you and whatever you need, you just let me know.”

“I will.”

“Even my pillow!”

“Thanks.”

“So how did it go with the doctor today?”

“Ok.”

“Just Ok?”

“Yes, just Ok.”

“Well what did the doctor say?”

“The doctor said I am fine and will continue to be fine for a long, long time.”

“But what about the pain in your leg?”

“Well they’re investigating but they say its not life threatening.”

“But you’re in pain Bob…”

“Yeah,” shrugging.

“So what are they doing about that?”

“What they can, I guess.”

“Can’t they get drugs for you?”

Bob’s brow furrows slightly, his eyes narrow ever-so-slightly.

“You know the answer to that.”

“Well, I’m concerned, I’m scared, and I don’t like it.”

“I’m the one in pain, remember?”

“I know! That’s what’s crazy! I’m scared shitless and you don’t give a fuck, Bob!”

Bob turns over slightly.

“Hey! Be quiet! It’s late!”

“Oh is that it, Bob? Changing the subject again?”

Bob returns to his original position and leans a few degrees closer to face the wall.

“Look, can we just go to sleep and talk about this tomorrow?”

“No, I wanna talk about this now, damn it!”

“I said, quiet down!” a low thundering grumble threatening lightning.

“Ok, I’ll quiet down, but you tell me why you don’t seem to care about this? Why you don’t tell me what the doctor says?”

“Ok, fine. Urgh! I hate this, damn it! Errr…Ok…” mumbled, the frown a mental trench now.

A pause…

“Bob…”

Bob slowly sits up in bed.

“Yeah, look, this ain’t easy, I’m not built like you, I just can’t up and share what I’m ‘feeling’,” spitting the last word out of his mouth in haste, like a dirty, uncomfortable mouthpiece.

“It's ok, Bob, you can tell me. You know you can tell me anything.”

“Well, no, not really, I can’t,” blurted in exasperation.

“What?”

“Well, I can’t really tell you ‘anything’ because you overreact all the time!”

“No, I don’t!”

“Of course you don’t.”

Eyes rolling to the ceiling, but really desiring of heaven, wishing blue skies.

“Remember this afternoon when Matt and Carlos were here and they touched your stuff and you went ballistic!”

“They know they shouldn’t touch my stuff!”

“That’s not the point. The point is that you always overreact,” the trench turning in a canyon.

“No I don’t! And this is all beside the point! You’re supposed to tell me about the doctor, damn it!”

“Yeah, now’s who’s avoiding sensitive ‘issues’,” that same unsavory finale.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Bob!”

“Ok, ok, I’ll tell you about the doctor… So, he tells me that they’ve ran this test and that and they can’t find shit to explain why my leg hurts like a bitch all the time.”

“Yeah, you sort of alluded to that. What are the doctors here doing about it?”

“How the fuck should I know” throwing his arms up in pursuit of the runaway eyes – “I’m not the fucking doctor!”

“But you should know – it’s about your health first of all and second, you should ask questions!”

“Oh, I should ask questions now!” Oh, the sarcasm.

“Yes, obviously!”

“Right, so maybe next time I go to the clinic you can prepare a set of questions for me to ask the doc!”

Bob’s scores! Direct hit! A proud smirk worth more than what he stole crackles along his lips.

“That way you’ll get what you want!”

“What I want is for you to ask questions when you meet the doctor!”

“Sure babe, ask questions, noted,” deferentially. “Can we go to sleep now?”

Bob lies down and fluffs his pillow.

“No, I’m not finished with you Bob!”

Bob sighs, burrows his head in the pillow. He’s considering changing his mind and asking for the extra pillow offered earlier now.

“What is it now?”

“Well, whenever we have issues, you just shut down and stop talking and I have to pull your teeth out for you to talk to me.”

A muffled “So?” from the pillow swallowing Bob’s head.

“’So’? ‘So’? You think this is funny Bob?”

The ostrich lifts its head.

“Am I laughing?” more than half whispered but still very audible.

“Look, we’re not getting any younger. We live in this shit of a place and –“

“You call this living!?”

“Oh will you shut up! Stop being a freakin’ smart ass all the time! And we have little to show for it. I want to talk to you about our future.”

“Well considering our predicament…”

Bob rolls, faces the ceiling.

“After all this! Are you still going to be with me when we leave this place? Are you going to find someone better than me? More pretty?”

“Oh God! This again! I told you we’re together and that’s it. Stop fuckin’ worrying about it all the fuckin’ time! Seriously, this is getting on my fuckin’ nerves!”

“Answer me!”

“I’ve answered before but for the fuckin’ record, I’m with you, I’ll stay with you, and I’ll likely die with you too!”

Bob is sitting again.

“Oh now you have to get morbid on us! Why can’t you just say that you love me? Maybe get married?”

“Get fuckin’ real! Are you living in Disneyland or what?”

The canyon spreads across Bob’s entire face, a rugged terrain of disbelief and annoyance.

“What? You can’t say it?”

Bob inhales briskly. “Of course I can! I love you! THERE! But this marriage shite…! And I’ll tell you I love you when it feels right. It’s not something you can ‘command’ me to say when you need to hear it! Geez!”

Eye roll, eye roll!

“Right, never about me, always about you! And keep your voice down!”

“Oh, I give you what you want and you’re still bitching?

Bob splashes backward on the mattress.

“I’m going to sleep. Goodnight”

“I said I’m not finished with you Robert Powell!”

“And I said ‘goodnight!’” the smirk is back.

“Oh big macho man, strong silent type, I’m just going to keep nagging and nagging until you acknowledge me Bob!”

“Good night!”

Bob rolls over, fully faces the wall, and pulls the pillow over his ears.

“Maybe I’ll call your mom tomorrow to let her know what a brute she raised.”

The pillow emits a close approximation of “Good night!”

“Oh, better yet, I’ll call your son…”

The pillow is flying away, maybe looking for the eyes…

“DON’T YOU FUCKIN’ DARE!”

“Ah, sensitive spot! And keep your voice down!”

Bob leans over the side of his bed, looks down, canyons of annoyance running with bloodthirsty perspiration.

“My son has nothing to do with this. You leave him out of this or I’ll teach you!” says Bob’s wagging hand and pointy finger.

“Ok, I’ll leave him out of it but you have to stick with it!”

“What the fuck do you think I’m doing here? Sunbathing? Playing tennis?”

Bob grinds his teeth, wants to say more, a lot more…

“There we go with the smart ass comments again! I know you’re here, at least your body is, but I have trouble reaching your mind, your heart, your soul.”

“Oh will you cut the bullshit! I’m here and that’s good enough. This is what you’re going to get. If you want more, maybe we’re not meant to be together!”

Bob lays back down so that his puffing lungs can work more efficiently to support his frustration.

“I think we are meant to be together Bob but being together is more than sharing the same space, it means sharing thoughts and feelings!”

“Right, right, darling. You sound like a damn shrink!”

“Well these guys know what they are talking about… usually…”

“Obviously you don’t!” And Bob scores again!

“Why do you have to be so mean with me, Bob? I’m just trying to fix things…”

“Things don’t need fixing. I don’t need fixing.”

“Really? Are you happy Bob? Huh? Are you?”

“Well, yeah, I guess.” Bob silently giggles. “Why is that relevant?”

“Well, if you’re not happy it’s a clear sign that there are things to be fixed!”

“Where did you gobble this shit from? The counselor?” the giggle is now audible and persistent.

“Yes. So?”

“Oh come on, don’t go believing what these guys tell you.” An abrupt snort ends the giggles. “They’re paid to spew this bullshit on people and help you feel more guilty!” Lungs functioning at normal capacity and rhythm.

“It would be hard for me to feel more guilty… and what he said made sense. I’m not that naïve you know!”

“You just keep telling yourself that! Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What matters is – and this is what you said – US.”

Bob’s facing the wall again.

“We matter, not them, not what the doctors think, not what the counselor thinks, not what the priest or the Church think, not what my mother thinks, not what the rest of the idiots out there think. Just you and me Baby. Just you and me.”

“I like that Bob. But you’ve got to be open with me. Trust me. I’m there for you, you know…”

“Yeah, I know, thanks Babe and I’ll try to be better at this feelings stuff but you’ve got to be patient with me.”

“I will. I just get so frustrated from time to time but it usually passes quickly.”

“I know, I know.”

“I love you Bob!”

“I –“

The PA flares:

“Inmates 699073 and 783323, Robert Powell and Oscar Falthorne, be quiet. LIGHTS OUT! Keep talking and you’re both going to spend the rest of the week in solitary confinement!”

PT4/4/09

Prison Break

“Yo, yo, Mickey, what’s up my man?”

“Don’t you ‘yo yo’ me, motherfucker!”

“Yo chill dawg! What crawled up your skirt, huh?”

“What took you so long man, you’re like fifteen minutes late!”

“Ah man, you know, these surprise inspections and all. Don’t know what’s up with the warden these days but I hear there’s been a lot of those in other cell blocks as well…”

“Yeah, well, don’t make no mind to me. Just make sure you get here on time. I got other people to see, man!”

“I’m here now, man! Wanna do business or yap your mouth all day like my old lady?”

“Did anyone see you coming out here? Anyone follow you?”

“Naw, dawg, it’s cool, it’s cool!”

“No, it’s not cool, dipshit! If anyone catches us here we’re both way screwed!”

“I told you dawg, it’s cool! No one saw me or followed me! Sheesh!”

“Are you sure?”

“Fuck ya, I’m sure, man! Damn! Give it a rest man, or I take my goods somewhere else!”

“Oh yeah, like you could move stuff in here! You can’t do shit without me signing off on it, junior, and don’t you forget that!”

“Ya whatever, man”

“So do you have the materials?”

“Ya man, right here, two ounces of grade A Columbian powder ready for distribution! But…”

“But, what the fuck?”

“Well … see bro, the price has gone up.”

“What the fuck does that mean, the price went up? We had an agreement!”

“Ya, we had an agreement, man. But see these guys, they just won’t do it without an extra eight hundred.”

“Why the fuck would I pay more? This is ridiculous! I never should’ve brought you into this!”

“Yo chill man, it’s the way of the world, you know!”

“Yeah, the way of the world, like Dog eat Dawg?!”

“Look, this global economic recession is affecting everyone.”

“Why should I give a fuck about the globe! Just sell me my stuff, damn it!”

“Tell you what, should give a fuck about the globe because this stuff is affected by fluctuations in oil prices, which impact my guys’ transport costs, increased security measures because of the war on terror which require more payoffs, while products to refine the stuff is more controlled and policed so we have to hire internet wizards to order this without drawing attention. High overheads, man! Not to mention that inflation and unemployment are way up this year and our dollar is crashing in the currency market! All this makes this bag worth eight hundred more than what we discussed.”

A contemplative pause to let all those long words sink in and dissolve like Alcaseltzer in water.

“So, you still interested?”

“You little lying shit! This ain’t about recesses, inflammation and curries! This is about you!”

“Say what? You got your head so far –“

“I see your game now shit-for-brains! You want a bigger cut! That’s it, isn’t it?”

“You been dipping in your own stuff again, man? That’s just –“

“Oh yeah! You’re telling yourself that you’re not being given a fair slice of the pie. Yeah, yeah, you sit there thinking, ‘I’m the one taking the risk of moving the stuff and arranging for it to come in to this fine establishment. My services are worth more than the fifteen percent I was promised because I’m a greedy bastard.’ Getting warm?”

“Shee-it, if this wasn’t about business, it would be really funny, man…”

“You wanna hear funny, little man? Let me tell you funny. This guy walks in to a bar. He’s really broke and really thirsty. Very irritable. So he walks up to the bartender and pulls out a sawed-off twelve gauge shotgun. ‘Give me the money and that bottle of scotch,’ says the guy, pointing with the weapon. The bartender is startled and hesitates after raising his hands like the coward he is. The guy with the gun is really irritated now and still thirsty, so he pulls the trigger taking off the head of one of the patrons sitting at the bar. The bartender –“

“Where the fuck is this going man? You got people to see, remember!”

“I’m just getting to the good part. The bartender is now whimpering like a schoolgirl. The guy with the gun asks again, politely, ‘Give me the money and that bottle of scotch.’ The bartender hesitates again and another patron’s head explodes like an overripe tomato being microwaved at high. Then –“

“Ha, ha. What’s the fuckin’ punchline?”

“Ok shitbag, the punchline is that I’ve been here way longer than you, you fuckin’ muppet. You’re barely twelve in Dawg years and your face is still patchy with peach fuzz. You don’t get to tell me what to do! Ever!”

“Fine, I’ll just take my business somewhere else. But I’m guessing I won’t be doin’ that because you know what? You know you can’t get that shit from anyone else but me. So just bend over and take the deal, man!”

“I’ll take your stuff. I’ll pay you but only half a grand extra, nothin’ more. If this is how you do business, you can bet your black bootie that I’ll look for another partner. And trust me, when that day comes …-”

“Sure, you do that, gramps. In the meantime, that’ll be the new going price.”

“Wipe that smirk off your sorry excuse for a face! And I’ll be sure to let all my boys know that you’re responsible for taking their dough. But you, pull this shit on me again, you’ll –“

“Don’t you fucking threaten me, motherfucker! I still get you the best deal in this yard you can ever hope to get you little white hands on!”

“You just keep telling yourself that, 2Pac! But if you ever change prices after we got ourselves a gentlemen’s agreement, you could find yourself in a very – how shall I say? – delicate? Situation… Plenty can go wrong inside these walls!”

“Yo dawg, don’t go getting your white chicken feathers all ruffled up! It’s just business. And you should remember two things, you hillbilly F U C KKK. One, you ain’t no goddamned gentleman! And two, I’ve got insurance on the outside. Anything happens to me, man…”

“Christ, you’re walking the line, diaperboy! I own this place! This is my prison!”

“You may be the old dog in this place, yo, but when we get out, me and my homies, we own the streets. You feel me, biatch?”

“Oh I feel you, you little punk! I’ve come across your kind before. As a matter of fact, many in this place. But as your supervisor, I expected more from a fellow guard than to rob his colleagues. Now give me this shit, break finishes in ten minutes and I gotta be in Cell Block C when my shift starts.”

PT6/6/09

The Heart Thief

He’s been standing there, combating the winter cold chewing on his bones like a starved dog. He’s been staring at that door for the past quarter of an hour, building up the courage to go through it. He’s not really inconspicuous or particularly subtle but since he’s not from around here, he doesn’t care much. When he loses sensation in his fingertips, he knows he should go inside. The brass knob on the door is like a searing icicle in his hand. A set of three small silver bells tied on the same string chime as the oaken panel pushes them further inside. There’s a little pile of snow that’s already starting to melt around his feet on a small welcome mat. With the door closed, his body rapidly goes into defrost mode.

The air inside the room is warm, damp, heavily laden with spices, incense and musk, and reminds him of the smell of the tropical rainforests he visited years ago. Although he’s been told this is a clinic, what he sees tells him he might not be at the right place. But the fifteen minutes spent outside freezing his butt off staring at the address is plenty confirmation. The place looks more like a dingy pawnshop for the bizarre and grotesque. Against the back wall, a row of shelves resting on cement blocks is holding at least two dozen glass jars with organs floating in an amber solution. Poster-sized sketches of dissected hearts, surrounded by a halo of arcane symbols adorn every wall. Haphazard piles of medical bric-a-brac are strewn behind the two armchairs, silently suffering the last stages of leprosy. There’s a dusty cardboard stand in the corner on which a pyramid of Agripure canned Brazilian heart-of-palm is stacked. There are no windows and the diffuse light is barely sufficient to make out the features of the old lady behind the long counter. She’s talking to a customer who is apparently taking notes, back turned to him. He can hear what the old lady is saying just fine.

“Then you carefully mince the chicken hearts, either with a grinder or with a sharp knife. Separately mince the onion, olives and radish. Once that’s done, prepare a bowl with two teaspoons of lime juice, a dash of olive oil and a pinch of mint bitters. This will be the bowl you’ll mix everything in so it has to be large enough. Drop the meat and veggies in the bowl and gently stir the minced veggies into the meat adding two spoonfuls of capers. When the juice has been sucked up, you should chill it for a while, at least an hour before serving. When you take it out again, I strongly recommend adding some chili.”

As he’s moving across the room towards the armchair that’s most likely not to buckle under his weight, the old lady nods at him, acknowledging his presence. From the sitting area, facing the entrance, he can see a wooden board, golden letters carved out of its flesh, sitting above the doorsill. “When all the desires that surge in the heart are renounced, the mortal becomes immortal.” The throbbing under his fingernails prevents him from thinking about what that even means.

“I also suggest you sauté a handful of sliced garlic cloves in a generous amount of olive oil until toasted. For serving, just sprinkle the fried garlic over the tartar and you’re there! Same as my mama used to make it!”

“From the bottom of my heart, thanks! I really appreciate this! You don’t know how difficult it is these days to find recipes for this kind of dish!”

“Don’t mention it! Just remember that it’s critical to keep the heart oxygenated while cutting it out otherwise it won’t be as good. Just make sure you cut off the aorta last! Ok?”

“Will do! Thanks again!”

The bells chime again and he’s alone with the old lady. She’s still behind the counter and she’s staring at him as he slowly walks up to her. He notices next to the cash register a plate full of coins. Up close, he recognizes he made a mistake. The coins are actually old pacemakers, about fifty of them.

“What can I do for you, young man?”

“Uh, I, uh…”

This old lady must be at least two hundred years old, he silently thinks to himself. Her back is hunched, awkwardly angled by the hump between her shoulder blades, pushing her neck down. She’s literally shriveled like his testies must have been just before coming in from the cold. Her slanted almond-shaped eyes indicate that she’s descended from Oriental bloodlines.

“Yes?” He glimpses a tooth or two as she speaks, blackened from chewing tobacco and betel nuts, drinking black tea, and the absence of a dentist – or dentologist – in her life.

“Look, I don’t really know what I’m doing here.” Further down the counter, beyond the guestbook, there’s a collection of greeting cards bearing red hearts, cupids and outlandish price tags.

“That’s all right. I’m Nee. What’s your name?”

“Pleased to meet you, Nee. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather not give you my name.”

“Whatever works for you, sweetheart. But just so we’re clear, I’m the local cardionomist.”

“Yeah, I sort of gathered that but I’m not really sure what that means. You’re some kind of heart doctor, right?”

“Doctor is not really the right word. I’m a heart specialist and that includes the medical aspects of the heart. But I’ve dedicated my career not to one organ but to the concept, the idea of the heart under all its forms and guises. There used to be these medical heart specialists called cardiologists but like their colleagues studying science, they were adept at cutting their objects out of the context in which it operated and treating it in a vacuum.”

“Huh? Science?”

“Oh, never mind, that was a long time ago!”

“So does your work include romance?”

“But of course it does, sonny! The heart is a complicated engine and pumps blood like gasoline, mixed in with emotions of all sorts, like octane. So how can I help you?”

“Well, see, a friend of mine recommended I come to see you.”

“That’s good!”

“See, I’ve never done this before…”

“Given the fact that you’re here, you might as well tell me what’s weighing on your heart. Just take it slow.”

“Well, it’s like this. A friend in my town told me about you and what you did for him and his wife. You helped them, you know, romantically. So I’d be interested in hearing about your services in that department.”

“Sure, sonny, but it doesn’t work quite like that. You realize this is a very sensitive department and I can only help you if I get to the heart of the matter. You’ll have to explain by and large what’s going on between you and your partner in order for me to help out. We can sit on the sofa there to be more comfortable while you tell me your story.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’d prefer to stand.”

“Ok, sure.”

“Ok, so this is the thing. I’ve been seeing this girl and I really like her and I’m pretty sure she really likes me too but there’s something that’s preventing her from committing to our relationship. I’ve tried to be patient, to dig and ask questions to find out but it’s all been pointless. My friend told me that you had ‘prescribed’ something for his wife and that their relationship improved afterwards.”

“Hmmm, I see, I see. Can you tell me about your sex life?”

“Oh the sex is absolutely fantastic and she says the same!”

“That’s good. And are you living together?”

“Yes, we moved in together about six months ago and we’ve been seeing each other for about eighteen months now.”

“Yes, yes. And, how do you think she’d describe the relationship you share?”

“I dunno. That’s hard. I guess she’d describe something along the lines of having fun, you know, riding the wave and seeing where it crashes.”

“Where the wave crashes? Is that what she would say or is that what you’ve got on your mind?”

“Well, I guess that’s me. If we ride the wave, it has to crash at some point. And that’s what worries me.”

“So you want me to help you out with the crashing of your wave, is that correct?”

“I guess that about just sums it up, yes!”

“Ok, I might be able to help you. But before anything more, I need to have a look at your heart.”

“At my heart?”

“It’s nothing invasive. I just need to run a few tests to make sure your heart is healthy. In my profession we like to get to the heart of things, so to speak. Follow me, please.”

A dry cackle escapes from Nee as she practically rolls out of her armchair like a marble tumbling down a cliff. She’s walking off behind the counter again, under the stairs, through the staff door and into the back room, her new client in tow. The back is even more of the same with a kitschy twist that he just can’t put his finger on. It might be the plaster statue of the Virgin Mother wrapped in a garland of Christmas lights, the heart-shaped blood-red coffee table between the two canary yellow vinyl loveseats or the numerous nudes – both male and female – covering every square inch of the walls. He barely registers the actual organic, beating replica on the sill of the sole window, like a plant posted to keep an eye on the sun.

They are in a little white cubicle that smells of sterilizing acids and baby powder. Actually, the room is quite big but it’s filled to the brink with various gizmos and unidentifiable objects. He is silently indicated to sit on a wooden bench that must be close to her age.

“Now I’m going to listen to your heart first. Then, I’m going to measure its strength and capacity. I’m also going to measure its output in terms of EM waves and biochemical content. That last part might pinch a bit, but there’s no way around it, I’m afraid. Now take off your shirt, please.”

“Er, what do you need all that for? My friend told me you had concocted a potion that his wife drank and they were on their way to a life of rosy and pink happiness! Why do you need to know about my heart?” He’s taken off his shirt by the time his weak protest is registered.

“I need to gauge the strength of the potion based on what you want. You’re my client, right? I’m here to give you what you want, right? Your heart’s emissions interact with your partner’s, whether you’re sitting next to one another or half a world away. Once that connection is there, it’s just a matter of tuning the strings to get the right notes. We’re going to listen to your heart now.”

She pulls out a white rubbery suction cup attached to a couple of leads and gently squeezes the device just above his heart on his bare chest. Meanwhile, he’s looking down at all this with paralyzing amazement and fear. She flicks on a switch on the big white board dotted with multi-colored lights and he starts. The room fills with an ominous regular triple-thumping, and he’s guessing he’s hearing his heart in surround.

“Clam down, dearie. You’re obviously a bit stressed but there’s nothing to fear here. See there’s a fine organic membrane in the tube just where the suction cup meets, just like an eardrum. This is what your heart sounds like, and despite you being nervous, you’ve got a strong healthy heartbeat. That’s good. You exercise regularly? Smoke?”

“Er, yes, no. I do exercise and I don’t smoke.”

She flicks the switch off, reaches for a panel floating a few feet off the ground at the end of a mechanical arm and pulls the thing behind him. The panel is a bit taller than he is and he swivels nervously on the stool to see what she’s planning.

“Great! Now this’ll do and one more procedure to go after this one. This is a bio-scanner. It’ll tell us the size, weight, composition, input and output of your heart. Just hold perfectly still, this’ll just take a minute, honey.”

She’s back at the illuminated panel and flicks on various switches for a few seconds and flicks them off. The whole process takes, as she said, less than a minute. She then pulls open a small drawer that’s filled with padded foam and a glass and silver device that looks way too much like a handgun for his comfort. He starts to sweat as she’s pulling it out and turning to him.

“I’m going to place this on your chest now and when I press this button, it’ll pull subcutaneous tissue into this tube. This is the one test that’ll tell me if I can help with your little domestic problem. I have to warn you, this’ll pinch a bit but tough guy like you won’t mind, now will you? Alrighty then!”

As she applies the device to his chest, he turns away. This he does not need to see. There’s a loud whoosh, a sharp pain – definitely not a pinch! – and she retracts the weapon.

“Ok, we’re all done here. I’m going to look at your results here and I’ll come back and find you when I know what to do with you. You just be a good lad and wait in the salon there. Won’t be but a few heartbeats!”

Before pulling on his shirt, he notices that’s there’s no sign of the procedure on his chest, not a scratch, no discoloration. She’s still cackling to herself when she closes the door behind him. It takes a while but she eventually comes out of the cubicle. She comes and sits across from him in the other yellow loveseat. She’s smiling.

“From your results, it seems that there is something I can do to help you. I can make a potion that will provide some reinforcement for what you want. However, there are a few things you have to know before you commit to this.”

“Sure. I’m listening.”

“Although it is possible for me to prepare this potion, you have to know a few things. First of all, like any medication, these potions I prepare don’t work one hundred percent every time. There are thousands of variables that come into play in a situation like yours. Although I’ll be careful to adjust the potion as best as I can, it’ll still be a gamble. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I get it. I’m ready to gamble.”

“At the risk of repeating myself, I have to make sure you really get this into your head: sometimes, you can’t just force the heart. If your partner really doesn’t want to commit, he or she’ll be able to fight off the effects of the potion. This is just a kind of support I’m providing that can strengthen your connection with your partner. If the connection’s not there or too badly damaged, then the potion’s effects will be negligible.”

“I get it. Really I do.”

“And even if the potion does work, it might not work for ever. It might just wear off some day and you’ll be back where you started –“

“In a heartbeat, I know. Look, I swear, ma’am, you’ve made yourself clear.”

“Don’t swear to it just yet, sweetheart! First you have to know the potential side-effects.”

“Side-effects?”

“Oh yes. You know, some people react differently to different combinations of ingredients. They used to call that allergies. There is a risk that the person taking this potion – in this case your partner – will have an adverse reaction.”

“What kind of adverse reactions are we talking about here? Heartburn?”

“That could be it. Or your partner could have a heart attack and die.”

“Whoa! How often do clients report any side effects?”

“Well, it’s hard to tell, but I can tell you I’ve only heard of one of my clients to whom this happened.”

Not a bad track record for so many years of practice, he thinks.

“But a bit more than half do report some kind of physiological changes.”

“Right, well, I guess it’s worth the risk!”

“Ok. Now you’ll have to think about how you’re going to administer the potion to your partner. Two things. First, you’re partner can’t ever know about the potion, about me, my shop, and my intervention here. If your partner finds out, it’ll undo the effects of the potion. It has to be subtle. Second, you need to think how your partner will ingest the potion. It’ll be a pretty strong drink so you’ll have to mix it in with something. Don’t forget, be subtle! Some of my clients have reported waiting until after their partners had brushed their teeth and mixed it in their favorite drink. Seems to be a good way to mask the bitter taste of the potion.”

“Subtle delivery, ok. After brushing teeth. Got it.”

“Right, we’re almost there. Now this is the most important part.”

She pulls herself forward on the loveseat, and shadows descend on the loose flaps of skin on her face as the lines on her face deepen. She’s looking deadly serious and her next words are spoken with the final authority of Death.

“This is an ethical issue that you really have to be ready for. You know, this is a kind of deception, you would be effectively stealing your partner’s heart, manipulating it without the consent of the heart’s host.”

“Any risks there?”

“Not to your partner, no but to you… If you decide to proceed, this is something you’ll have to live with for the rest of your life. If you don’t manage that well, it’ll turn into guilt and eat at you and you’ll suffer for what you’ve done. In my ancestors’ language, the word for ‘heart’ can be found in so many words. Words like kindness, generosity, impatience, mean-spiritedness, serenity, love and hate, are all aspects of the heart. And so is guilt. I’m glad you came to me but I want you to be prepared and understand what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Yeah, I can manage my guilt quite well, thanks.”

“Hey, don’t be like that dear, I’m just looking out for your best interests.”

“Thanks. Anything else?”

“One more thing. Payment.”

“Yes, sure. How much?”

“I don’t want anything now. But if the potion works, I’ll come and see you at some point to collect. You understand that, love brings prosperity and it would be unfair to me to demand payment before measuring how much you’ve benefited from my services. If, on the other hand, the potion doesn’t work, I’ll leave you be and you’ll never hear from me again. Do we have a deal?”

“Well, I dunno. It sounds like I’m carrying all the risk.”

“Not at all, you’ve nothing to lose. Your friend accepted these same terms. They all do.”

“Ok… I guess…”

“Lovely. It’ll take me a week to prepare the potion. You go on home and come back when it’s ready and you’ll start living your new life by the end of the month!”

“Great, thanks Nee! Much appreciated!”

“Just remember, sweetie. The heart is a fragile organ. Sure it’s a pump that collects de-oxygenated blood from the body via the superior and inferior vena cavae and sends it into the lungs so that carbon dioxide can be dropped off and oxygen picked up through the passive process of diffusion, and back to heart and through the aorta where it goes on to feed arteries, veins and capillaries throughout the human body. But it’s also a lot more than that. It’s the engine of the soul and you’ll be tampering with its fuel lines while it’s in high gear… I can give you some octane but expect that this can have explosive consequences…”

Making sense of the medical mumbo-jumbo is just as difficult as relating all this to engineering metaphors for him. It’s time to get the hell out of there.

“I’ll take that into consideration. Thanks for the advice! I’ll see you in a week!”

And he’s off, back into the biting cold while the old witch secretly hopes the young’n will have a change of heart before the week’s out so as to avoid the bloody mess he’s getting himself into…

***

Sure enough, a week goes by and the clinic’s door opens, on the clock, and he’s back. He didn’t hesitate this time. Despite being a pleasant sunny day out, he didn’t wait outside. He’s got that resolve in his eye. He’s here to pick up his order. She nods in his direction and lifts a finger to indicate that she’ll be there in a heartbeat. She’s dealing with what appears to be a Latino farmer. He can tell by the boots caked with an icy mix of mud and feed.

“As you know, timing of heart-of-palm harvesting is a critical issue in the business since it’ll affect your yields, the quality of your produce and your costs. Since harvesting will depend on the quality of your soil, what I suggest is that you setup a few cordoned areas on your plot and measure the differences over the next two years by varying fertilizers and bio-stimulants, pest-control agents, and so on. If you track it right, you’ll know just what inputs you’ll need to put in over your land to maximize your yields and quality while minimizing your costs.”

“Wow, thanks! This is exactly what I needed! This is great advice!”

“Just you remember, dear, when you do proceed with your harvest, make sure you standardize the procedures and tools to keep your results comparable. You want to keep as much of the low fiber-meat at the core!”

“Of course! Again, thanks! This is really helpful, Nee! I’m really glad that I came to see you for this advice! I’ll start off as soon as I’m back home!”

“Good! Well you have a safe trip back to the heartland, sonny! Give my best to your wife, eh Fernando!”

“Will do, Nee! Thanks! You’ve a heart of gold!”

She’s got this smile on her face and she seems pretty damn proud of herself he reflects as Fern walks out the door. Another satisfied customer, I guess. Encouraging.

“Sir?”

“Hello, Nee!”

“I see you are punctual. Please come to the salon where we can talk.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem. But given the personal nature of your order, I would prefer to give you the final instructions in a more discreet setting. Please…”

As motioned like a puppet on strings by the wave of her bony brittle arm, he moves behind the counter and into the salon and finds his place on the loveseat, the old Nee across from him. There’s a package wrapped in an anonymous brown paper bag on the heart-shaped table.

“Is this it?”

“Yes. But before you proceed to claim your order, I must give you one final set of instructions.”

“Go on.”

“You must time the delivery of the potion to your partner well. Your partner must ingest the full contents of the phial within the next two weeks, else the elixir will go bad. It will be best consumed in the evening, and preferably when the moon will be closest to its apex. That’s in six days.”

“Evening. In six days. Noted.”

“Again, allow me to warn you. The heart is just like any other muscle and will rapidly atrophy if it does not get TLC and wholesome exercise. The potion is only an aid and won’t replace that exercise that’s kept your heart healthy.”

“Again, noted.”

“Lastly, it will break my heart if you don’t abide by our convent when the time comes for me to collect on your debt.”

“As you said, Nee. If the potion is effective, I will do as we agreed.”

“Very well then. Do you have any questions before we conclude our affairs today?”

“Actually, I’ve been wondering. Could you tell me what the potion is made of? What are the ingredients?”

It looks to him like the old hag is convulsing from a very painful orgasm. But she’s actually laughing her heart out.

“Dear boy, why would I share a secret recipe that my ancestors have entrusted me to keep close to my heart at all costs when you won’t even tell me your name?”

“Oh, I didn’t know… I thought that since you were giving recipes to your other customers, I could know what I’m buying from you is made from… that’s all. I meant no disrespect. By the way, the name’s Charles. Charles Skavineick.” I’ve noted all my contact details and home address on this here chip. It’ll update automatically if anything changes and you should always be able to reach me with that.”

“Nice to meet you finally Charles Skavineick, dear boy. Just be careful what you ask for…”

“Ok well, thanks Nee. I guess I hope I’ll be seeing you…”

Another satisfied customer, she thinks as he’s leaving the clinic.

“Be seein’ ya, dear!” Her heart goes out to him…

***

Six years go by. Six fine years, by his own account of things. Productive too. Charles and Laura Skavineick are parents to two little healthy offspring, a boy and a girl, and have shared much happiness and many good times together. However, of late, it feels like it’s all unraveling at the seams and beyond.

For the past six months, Charles and Laura have engaged in aggressive, sometimes even violent verbal bouts. He knows the kids could hear every word and he’s not too happy about how things are turning out.

She says he takes too many trips out of town and when he’s here, it’s like he’s living in a bubble and doesn’t hear or see what’s happening in the household. She says that he’s been spending too much time in the refrigerated room in the basement, cut off from the rest of the family. She says that he’s not contributing sufficiently to the family team spirit and he’s not fulfilling his fatherly obligations… She nags and nags and nags until he can’t take it no more and he explodes.

He’s been thinking more and more often about the potion lady, that cardionomist down over the next town, and what she had said.

Did she find out about the potion?

Has the magic worn off?

Did it ever work?

It must have worked and I’ll be seeing her soon to pay off the debt… So he tells himself as he rides the taxi back home after his latest business trip.

So what?

Was the connection never there between Laura and I?

Too damaged to repair for a perfect union?

The taxi pulls up at the curb and he jumps out, eager to see her despite their recent difficulties. After all, he loves her more than anything, until he reaches the front door. It’s locked. Which is strange. Laura should be home with the kids. He rings the doorbell to the house while he balances his suitcase against the rising wind and digs into his pocket for his set of keys. Before plunging the key in the hole, he rings the bell again. The bolt snaps back and he pushes the door inside, he and the suitcase right behind.

“Hello! Laura, kids, I’m home!”

After a few seconds of attentive listening, he detects nothing but the howl of the wind from the kitchen.

“Hello! Laura! Where are you?”

The kitchen window is wide open and the wind is blowing in. There’s a note written in black ink on the table, weighted down by a set of keys. He picks up the note, closes the window. It’s addressed to him and signed by his wife but the note is too difficult to read from where he’s standing. He knows what it says, anyway. Time’s run out on Charlie. He’s stupefied, dumbstruck. He runs upstairs and confirms that his wife and the kids are gone by the emptiness filling the bedroom closets. He moans and hurts more than anything right now.

“No, no, no! This can’t be happening!”

He trips on his suitcase that he left at the foot of the stairs and lands face first on the hall’s hardwood floor with a tearful thud. And he lies there, trying to make sense of his pain. But he stops sobbing and wondering when he sees her feet, but a few feet away. He turns his head, looks up slowly.

“Why, Nee? Why did this happen?”

“I warned you, sweetheart. Now it’s time to pay your debt.”

That’s when he notices the gleam of the scalpel in her hand.

“But before I collect, I’ll give you the answer to that question you asked me on the day you picked up your order. The potion’s main ingredient is tissue from a healthy human heart. But not just any heart, oh no!. It has to be a freshly broken heart! With yours, I should have enough for a dozen more potions.”

And, as she’s collecting the debt, the last thing he hears is her whispering voice:

“When all the desires that surge in the heart are renounced, the mortal becomes immortal.”

***