Pontypool Changes Everything Part 15

A grandmother in Oshawa lays the last of twenty pictures, depicting her twenty-three grandchildren, on a coffee table. The twenty-first grandchild twists the woman's head backward and bites down on her forehead, blinding her with blood.

A tiny fish-hook is dropped into the lettuce at a salad bar by a madman and swallowed by a dieting accountant.

A child in Bobcageon tosses a full can of beans at a bear cub, causing it to bark out in pain. The mother bear lifts the child by her leg and breaks her head open against a tree.

A public poll is taken about the confidence people have in Emergency Task Forces; however, most of the respondents are zombies, and half of the pollsters are killed on front porches.

A rubber bullet fired at a school bus on Highway 6 bounces off an aluminum window frame back across a field through a kitchen window, hitting the Frappe b.u.t.ton on a blender. A sleeping man falls off the couch.

A woman in Mississauga stands in front of her mirror kneading her b.r.e.a.s.t.s while a man urinates loudly in the toilet beside her. He glances over, and his growing erection interrupts the stream of urine, and he sprays the roll of bathroom tissue. He leans forward to flush the toilet and surrept.i.tiously rotates the roll.

A stripper in the process of performing an illegal lap dance in a bar on Yonge Street is disoriented. She stops and puts her finger across the patron's lips and says, "I'll be right back." She wanders out among the crates and towels on the floor and stands palming the full cheeks of her b.u.t.tocks. The entire room has her attention: she fails to notice and says, "h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo?" In the corner a zombie, who has quietly murdered a dancer in the dark, hisses, "h.e.l.lo ... h.e.l.lo."

A man with a bright-grey beard and rust-brown toupee kisses his walleyed daughter. The thirty-six-year-old woman licks him once quickly under his tongue and pulls back. She brushes her bangs with a saluting hand. Her father wants to guarantee that they are not just anybody. He says to her, as they cross a busy Sat.u.r.day-afternoon intersection in Collingwood, "All I need to do is touch you with one finger and I'm electrified."

A woman in Wawa lays six chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s in a shallow pan and covers them with mushroom soup. She slides the pan onto the rack and closes the oven, preheated to 325 degrees. Two children sit on the couch in the other room. No one is happy. A man is coming down the stairs. An invisible trail of salmonella bacteria grows in strange places. On the back of a chair leg. On a fly's wing. Strong inside the anti-bacterial dishwashing fluid.

A family is cross-country skiing out on the snowfields of Caledon. They stop and look to the north. They see four people in brightly coloured parkas climbing down a cliff face. One falls and lands with a bone-breaking snap on a large boulder. The family topple off their skis in an attempt to run toward the fallen climber. By the time they are standing again, on skis directed toward the cliff, the three remaining climbers have reached the ground. They run at the skiers with wild eyes and b.l.o.o.d.y ski masks.

A gathering of farmers, a.s.sembled in protest on the lawn of Queen's Park, is blown to bits from the front steps.

A businessman at King and Yonge reaches for his pager and is fired upon. Eighteen hollow-point bullets perforate him, and he falls in pieces.

Three teenagers prying open a garage door down an alley at Landsdowne and Bloor are surprised from behind by two men with baseball bats who club them to their knees.

At the edge of Grenadier pond sixteen people lying beside fishing lines are stabbed by as many knives and rolled into the water.

A theatre in the woods, back up in the trees of High Park, is a coordinating centre for military personnel. Volunteers in T-shirts are ordered to stack weapons and then kneel beside them. They are shot in anger by officers with handguns.

In the Sky Dome three women are ambushed by gunfire from beneath a van. They topple over on feetless legs and are dragged between tires and strangled.

The entire Don Valley, deemed to be a hotbed of cannibal activity, is sprayed with a molten plastic.

The Toronto Islands, which have reported only rare cases of the disease, are carpet bombed.

In Hockley Vailey, one hundred and twenty cannibals are rounded up. Soldiers discover that if a bullet is grazed across the tops of zombie heads, they dance in seizure while squirting blood into the air. Informal contests are held to see how many zombies can be made to dance at once.

Just outside Sudbury, troops succeed in getting sixty-three zombies to die jigging. The same is attempted on the bridge over Owen Sound Harbour and it backfires. Eight soldiers are dragged to their deaths beneath the hull of the docked Chi Chi Man. Chi Chi Man. Two more soldiers are killed by friendly fire as bullets ricochet at the waterline of the ship. Two more soldiers are killed by friendly fire as bullets ricochet at the waterline of the ship.

A helicopter descending on Ceasarea by Lake Scugog encounters over a thousand zombies in a cannibal frenzy. They have discovered an enclave of healthy citizens hiding in the post office. The helicopter circles until its panicking pilot, his face streaked purple with anger, dives his aircraft into the centre of the orgy.

A lighthouse in Gravenhurst catches fire. A nurse is hiding four elderly people in its lookout. She crosses herself and makes praying hands as the smell of burning gauze stings her nose.

In Barrie a defiant population takes to the streets to embrace their cannibal brothers and sisters. An emotion-choked voice blares from a megaphone, pleading for people to return home. The snapping of compa.s.sionate necks can be heard clicking through the town and army personnel descend with guns blazing under tear-streaked faces.

A convoy of heavily laden trucks snakes along Highway 7 toward the Elora Gorge, where bodies are dumped by the thousands from a great height into blood-oily water.

A hidden coyote population joins with packs of agitated wolves to roam through ditches snapping at hands and feet.

An arsonist in Orangeville kills his family in their sleep and slicks himself down with gasoline.

A throng of looters in Scarborough greets the new day smiling and empty-handed. They are all shot through the head.

A couple who have been holed up in a cottage on Rice Lake light a fire in their front yard to attract the attention of rescuers. They are shoved backwards onto flames by the giant hands of haunted people.

In a farmhouse near Orillia a widow sneaks out at night and drags corpses through her front door. The scene is lit eerily from within by a flashlight held in its place on the table by a sugar dispenser.

A zombie in Havelock leaps onto the back of a cow and looks up laughing as a farmer drives a pitchfork into its back.

In Angus a group of men lash a suspected pedophile to a raft, then send him off down the freezing Notta-wasaga river. A helicopter is dispatched to save him. As it swings along a river in the sky, men shake their fists from below.

A schoolteacher hides his Grade Twos in a grain silo, only to become a predator himself by midnight.

Four people stand under the Dufferin Gates, remove their clothes, and pa.s.s a straight razor back and forth on unspeakable dares.

A prisoner in the Kingston penitentiary slams his back up against the bars in a s.e.xual pa.s.sion that will end in the death of the man he has loved for six years.

A garage mechanic in Sarnia is shot by a stranger as he pulls down the rattling bay door.

Three yachts set sail from Port Credit Harbour and are sunk by a coast guard vessel that has, up to this point, been firing on the seagull population. A young captain holds up his head, like a bust of Beethoven, in the pocket of air inside the ship's bow.

A four-year-old girl in Brampton runs screaming to her parents' bedroom. They sit up to greet their crying daughter with faces that are unmistakably afflicted.

The population of Norwood is zero.

Guelph, three hundred. Maybe.

St. Catharines, eight hundred.

Hamilton is particularly disastrous. Pockets of homicide flare up with crazy unpredictability, confounding a military strategy that flexes itself, finally, in an anguished genocidal nightmare.

Hamilton: population definitely zero.

The QEW QEW, stretching down around the corner of Lake Ontario to Buffalo, is host to a marathon of mad runners who are ignored by the Ontario military. They fall into a blinding wall of American weapons.

A serial killer sits in silent obedience at home in North York, surrounded by four uncommunicative guests.

By January the population of Ontario is only two-thirds of what it was, and there are no zombies left alive. By the first thaw an enormous clean-up is under way. By spring all killing has virtually stopped, except for the occasional murder committed by hunters who rush into the deep woods in the hope of bagging a real-life monster.

24.

Home If everything that ever brought a person to their knees, head bowed, hands clutching at thin air, had to be characterized somehow, several hands would shoot up immediately. Some of us are eager to tell others how this happens. You are born with what will bring you to your knees, and it patiently acquaints itself with you over long decades until, one day, with a blinding finger, it reaches up ...

No, that's not true. Not really.

Other hands go up. No one is called upon to answer. The look from the person at the front of the room, a left hand caging a left eye, communicates that it's already too late, that we are already sitting in positions strange to this endeavour. We quiet down, fold our hands in our laps, respectful. The instruction is that forgiveness should be sought in the most forgiving s.p.a.ce in the world: a little lounge music, an unregenerate appet.i.te for heroin, a peaceful hand touches the corner of a chin, and a scratching fingernail is dragged up and down a forearm. A forearm as long as a country laneway. Someone leans over a neighbour's crossed legs and says, "It's good to be here anyway." As a chosen member is carved open at the throat, hands knocking a lamp, a box of pencils, several people moan - "mmmmm" and "ahhhhh"- so we lower the lights.

Greg's Higher Power reaches out beside his bed and traps a lamp switch between his fingers. The turquoise adjustable work lamp is clamped not to a table but to a short plank of wood held in place on the floor by a brick. When he pushes the switch on the crown of the metal shade the bulb is inadvertently directed towards his face. He redirects it with a swat. He turns to face the wall and waits for Harley who is sleeping in the upper bunk, to hit the snooze b.u.t.ton. The beep persists and seems to get louder, more obnoxious. Greg's Higher Power raises a leg from the bed, pulling it through the coa.r.s.e grey blanket, which slides off, grating the smooth leg he extends into the bottom of the mattress above him.

"Yeah. Mmm-hmm. Ten minutes."

The Higher Power sits up on the mattress and leans his face into his hands, breathing deeply through his nose. He smells the dampness of the mattress on his fingers. The lamp faces out across the cellar floor. Along s.p.a.ce heater sits on three old issues of the Hamilton Spectator. Spectator. The front pages of the papers are browned by the heating element and their bottoms are cold and wet against the concrete floor. Like a closet of props the cellar is crammed with neglected junk. Two old televisions, a collection of broken hoes, a saddle, canoe paddles, a stack of rough scaffold planks, a mouldy array of old coats, a rusted-out stove, a soft, black cardboard box full of engine parts, a rack of clothes bundled under plastic and tied with binder twine, a plywood reindeer with a red bulb hanging from its nose. Under the charred pipes of a giant furnace is a bunk bed. Greg's Higher Power has lived here throughout the winter in the orange glow of the s.p.a.ce heater, waiting for his grief to settle, for Greg to be less with him, for spring to come. For summer to follow. The front pages of the papers are browned by the heating element and their bottoms are cold and wet against the concrete floor. Like a closet of props the cellar is crammed with neglected junk. Two old televisions, a collection of broken hoes, a saddle, canoe paddles, a stack of rough scaffold planks, a mouldy array of old coats, a rusted-out stove, a soft, black cardboard box full of engine parts, a rack of clothes bundled under plastic and tied with binder twine, a plywood reindeer with a red bulb hanging from its nose. Under the charred pipes of a giant furnace is a bunk bed. Greg's Higher Power has lived here throughout the winter in the orange glow of the s.p.a.ce heater, waiting for his grief to settle, for Greg to be less with him, for spring to come. For summer to follow.

He was picked up at the side of the road by a farmer named Jackson several months ago, and by the end of the trip, which took them down to Markham and back again, to a farm just outside Pontypool, the farmer had taken on his grim-looking pa.s.senger as a hand. Jackson led the lifeless man into the cellar, where his son Harley slept, and left him there to wait out the winter months in bed until the first haying in August. And now, after an interminable season spent with the conjugating clicks of a furnace and the hug-me glow of a battered s.p.a.ce heater, the Higher Power is woken by Harley's alarm on the first day of haying season.

Halfway up the stairs the Higher Power smells bacon, and by the time he opens the door, heavy with winter coats, onto a large kitchen, the mould on the back of his tongue suddenly tastes of toast, fried tomatoes and pancakes. Dolly, the farmer's wife, turns to him from an electric skillet full of bacon sitting on a dishwasher and smiles, gesturing with a greasy spatula for him to sit. The table has been extended with a mismatched leaf to accommodate a vast array of hot food. Three tall stacks of light-brown pancakes, a huge peppery bowl of steaming tomatoes, a long plate, heavy with bright-green-and-red-flecked omelettes oozing cheese. An entire corner of the table is devoted to a small city of jams and preserves. A tray of still-sizzling steaks sits between two fat gla.s.s pitchers of freshly squeezed orange juice. Jackson is seated at the head of the table, and though he's a reserved man by nature the Higher Power senses an excitement in him today. He is wearing cleaned and pressed work clothes with a bright orange cap on his head. He is staring thoughtfully at his plate, chewing, taking care, it seems to the HP HP, that his long grey sideburns, trimmed and combed, stay clear of the huge forkfuls of food he brings up between them.

Jackson acknowledges the HP HP's presence at the table by anxiously breathing once and pausing his hands over his plate. When the HP HP has settled, Jackson continues eating, hurrying now for everyone else's sake. A leader should lead, and Jackson looks up frequently through the curtains of the window above the sink, picturing himself out there already, frowning at a series of disasters that always marks the first day of haying. Dolly is watching him above her thick gla.s.ses and the has settled, Jackson continues eating, hurrying now for everyone else's sake. A leader should lead, and Jackson looks up frequently through the curtains of the window above the sink, picturing himself out there already, frowning at a series of disasters that always marks the first day of haying. Dolly is watching him above her thick gla.s.ses and the HP HP notices how striking this is, this looking, the peculiar distance in her eyes. Dolly knows Jackson will not return her gaze. A shy man, even around his own wife. Jackson looks back at his plate, frowning, breathing in anxiously again. He doesn't look at her, but he knows that she's watching him and he says, "Ah-yeh, ah-yeh." Dolly wipes her hands on her recently ironed ap.r.o.n and looks out the window to where her husband has pictured himself. She leans over the dishwasher and looks out further to the acres of cut and fallen hay. notices how striking this is, this looking, the peculiar distance in her eyes. Dolly knows Jackson will not return her gaze. A shy man, even around his own wife. Jackson looks back at his plate, frowning, breathing in anxiously again. He doesn't look at her, but he knows that she's watching him and he says, "Ah-yeh, ah-yeh." Dolly wipes her hands on her recently ironed ap.r.o.n and looks out the window to where her husband has pictured himself. She leans over the dishwasher and looks out further to the acres of cut and fallen hay.

"Hope it's dry enough, Jackson."

Jackson doesn't look up, and the scowl he makes is nearly a smile. Dolly steps over to the doorway that leads to the cellar and flicks on a light behind a hanging coat. Jackson attempts to look up after her but winces at the effort, "Ah-yeh. Ah-yeh."

Dolly looks back, smiling briefly at the HP HP.

"Harley!"

A nearly orange dog moves off the living room carpet and clicks its toes across the yellow linoleum of the kitchen. Dolly follows the dog to the end of the counter and leans ahead of it, stretching her arm to open the door in the dog's path.

Harley appears, stripped to the waist, his blond hair towelled up. While directing his appeal to Jackson, he accepts a light admonishment from his mother's eyes.

Jackson shuffles to rise, with his hands circling an empty plate, and waits for Harley to sit down. The Higher Power watches Harley's long arms reaching for syrup, b.u.t.ter, salt, pepper. The young man surrounds his plate with condiments before sliding clean fingers under the fifth pancake in the pile halfway up the table. When Jackson has left, Dolly turns to the HP HP.

"Do you need more toast?"

The HP HP pushes his chair back. Tossing a napkin from his lap, he reaches for a toothpick. He turns it in the air towards Dolly before dropping it on his tongue, rolling it into the corner of his mouth. All winter the pushes his chair back. Tossing a napkin from his lap, he reaches for a toothpick. He turns it in the air towards Dolly before dropping it on his tongue, rolling it into the corner of his mouth. All winter the HP HP has had a fantasy that come haying season he will say "Thank ya kindly, ma'am" often, and he considers this a dry run. As he leaves the table Dolly lays a hand on his back and places a large plastic jug of water in his hands. He moves his shoulder blade under her hand so that she can feel him. He nods, satisfied that one of the reasons he feels so fine this morning is the fact that he feels no compulsion to disclose his good mood to anyone in particular. But Dolly can tell that her guest is happy, that given half the chance he might just get past that terrible state he was in when he arrived those many dark months ago. has had a fantasy that come haying season he will say "Thank ya kindly, ma'am" often, and he considers this a dry run. As he leaves the table Dolly lays a hand on his back and places a large plastic jug of water in his hands. He moves his shoulder blade under her hand so that she can feel him. He nods, satisfied that one of the reasons he feels so fine this morning is the fact that he feels no compulsion to disclose his good mood to anyone in particular. But Dolly can tell that her guest is happy, that given half the chance he might just get past that terrible state he was in when he arrived those many dark months ago.

"He's comin'. Aren't ya, Harley?"

Dolly directs this comment to the HP HP, who feels a status is bestowed on him by her. The HP HP takes it as a way of positioning him in the chain of command. Not just a hand, maybe the second man. He senses that one need only be a man here; it doesn't matter that your demons once got the better of you. You're a man. And just by being here, a.s.suming a place on haying day, you are ultimately tougher than those demons. Dolly looks at her son as if he's a man too young to have demons, someone who, like Dolly, follows after those who do. The takes it as a way of positioning him in the chain of command. Not just a hand, maybe the second man. He senses that one need only be a man here; it doesn't matter that your demons once got the better of you. You're a man. And just by being here, a.s.suming a place on haying day, you are ultimately tougher than those demons. Dolly looks at her son as if he's a man too young to have demons, someone who, like Dolly, follows after those who do. The HP HP winks and clicks his tongue, thanking the little lady with a deferential nod. He steps out into the backyard, looking over the field on the first haying day. winks and clicks his tongue, thanking the little lady with a deferential nod. He steps out into the backyard, looking over the field on the first haying day.

The farm is relatively small, three twenty-five-acre fields that begin at the base of a slope off the backyard stretch out to the highway. To the south stands a large grey barn and a fenced-in field. The HP HP notices twenty odd cows gathered in a distant corner. They sit and stand in what must be an uncomfortable fit of bodies, as self-conscious as a family posing for a formal portrait. They turn their heads in unison away from the notices twenty odd cows gathered in a distant corner. They sit and stand in what must be an uncomfortable fit of bodies, as self-conscious as a family posing for a formal portrait. They turn their heads in unison away from the HP HP, in response to some invisible stimulus.

The work done on these farms is performed in the old way; unlike government-run farms, these are businesses that have hung close to ruin for generations. These farms are not about preparing animals for slaughter but about preparing families to live with what they inherit. One of the things all the farming families spread across this difficult land inherit is a deep and elaborate stock of stories about each other. Each piece of land is the public log of a private struggle, and for this reason a great deal of animosity is exchanged through the windshields of cars pa.s.sing each other on rural roads. Most of the stories begin as ammunition stored and distributed against specific hostilities between neighbours. Beneath each story is a forgotten dispute, and above them are cast the loose lines of future feuds. Any given farmer's day-to-day struggle to survive is interpreted by his neighbours as perverse. Grotesque. Unresolved. Unsuccessful. Story laden.

These stories are also the mark of membership in this community. In haying season all the farms join in a communal pool of machinery and labour. One farmer will cut several fields of hay, and another will bale them, and yet another will come along with a crew and a convoy of wide, flat trailers to haul the bales up onto conveyors that roll them offinto the black, dusty mows. This summer ritual binds the community. It is the counterpart to winter's bitter collection of tales. The deep-blue ice of dependency and imagination give way to back slaps and bright forgetting in sunshine. All is forgiven. The good families are rising above.

The HP HP can see a man sitting in a tractor that drags a thresher across Jackson's field. He has donated his labour and machinery in exchange for the use of Jackson's combine. This man lost his combine back in '67 after dishing out huge sums of money to lawyers. It seems that his son had come down with meningitis, and the man had the bright idea that he'd treat him at home with ma.s.sive injections from the same needle and medicine that he uses on newborn calves. He has kept his son at home ever since, locked in a room that has to be boarded against his freakish strength and mindless outbursts. His wife, who died in '73, was supposed to have been torn limb from limb by her son one Christmas morning. No one can completely recall this terrible secret, and when the weather's clear for a stretch in early August they slap their friend gratefully on the back as he mounts his tractor in their fields. can see a man sitting in a tractor that drags a thresher across Jackson's field. He has donated his labour and machinery in exchange for the use of Jackson's combine. This man lost his combine back in '67 after dishing out huge sums of money to lawyers. It seems that his son had come down with meningitis, and the man had the bright idea that he'd treat him at home with ma.s.sive injections from the same needle and medicine that he uses on newborn calves. He has kept his son at home ever since, locked in a room that has to be boarded against his freakish strength and mindless outbursts. His wife, who died in '73, was supposed to have been torn limb from limb by her son one Christmas morning. No one can completely recall this terrible secret, and when the weather's clear for a stretch in early August they slap their friend gratefully on the back as he mounts his tractor in their fields.

The engine clanks offand the man dismounts his tiny metal seat. In the quiet the HP HP hears another motor start up inside the barn. Jackson appears on top of a green tractor followed by the baler. They head toward a field that has already been cut. The hears another motor start up inside the barn. Jackson appears on top of a green tractor followed by the baler. They head toward a field that has already been cut. The HP HP runs toward Jackson, swinging his bottle of water and holding his cap down with his free hand. He has to sprint to catch up with the back of the baler. After two attempts he manages to clear the three heavy bars that drag on the ground. He steps onto the platform that also drags, b.u.mpily, held by chains to the baling chute. The runs toward Jackson, swinging his bottle of water and holding his cap down with his free hand. He has to sprint to catch up with the back of the baler. After two attempts he manages to clear the three heavy bars that drag on the ground. He steps onto the platform that also drags, b.u.mpily, held by chains to the baling chute. The HP HP barely has time to pull the crisp leather of his gloves over his hands before the first bale rises shaking in the chute. The barely has time to pull the crisp leather of his gloves over his hands before the first bale rises shaking in the chute. The HP HP reaches down, forcing his fingers under the twine, and tests the integrity of the bale with a sharp pull. Too sharp. The bale springs into the air. He uses this momentum to a.s.sist in tossing the surprisingly heavy bale behind him, into position between the first and second bars. He succeeds in getting the bale in place but can't recover his centre of gravity and flies headlong over the long block of hay onto the ground behind it. reaches down, forcing his fingers under the twine, and tests the integrity of the bale with a sharp pull. Too sharp. The bale springs into the air. He uses this momentum to a.s.sist in tossing the surprisingly heavy bale behind him, into position between the first and second bars. He succeeds in getting the bale in place but can't recover his centre of gravity and flies headlong over the long block of hay onto the ground behind it.

He shakes the dullness from his face and leaps to his feet. The second bale is already wagging at the sky and getting further away. It falls free of the chute and tumbles sideways. The ground grabs at it, pulling it off the platform. By the time the third bale appears the HP HP is standing behind it, reaching back again to the first twine. But this time he gives it only a respectful yank to encourage it along in the machine that, he knows now, is fully capable of doing most of the work. He slams the bale down beside the first, shifting his own position twice in order to preserve balance. He looks back at the second bale, now a hundred metres away, and knows that come the end of the day it will look lost and wasted in a field of neatly s.p.a.ced, perfectly stacked triangles. The next bale is even less of a struggle. With these three forming the foundation of the structure, the is standing behind it, reaching back again to the first twine. But this time he gives it only a respectful yank to encourage it along in the machine that, he knows now, is fully capable of doing most of the work. He slams the bale down beside the first, shifting his own position twice in order to preserve balance. He looks back at the second bale, now a hundred metres away, and knows that come the end of the day it will look lost and wasted in a field of neatly s.p.a.ced, perfectly stacked triangles. The next bale is even less of a struggle. With these three forming the foundation of the structure, the HP HP slaps his full biceps optimistically and reaches over to swing out the fourth bale and begin the critical second tier. It falls on its heavy edge in the v-shape of the bales turned toward each other beneath it. The weight of the compressed hay binds their faces, pulling them towards each other, strengthening the structure. The slaps his full biceps optimistically and reaches over to swing out the fourth bale and begin the critical second tier. It falls on its heavy edge in the v-shape of the bales turned toward each other beneath it. The weight of the compressed hay binds their faces, pulling them towards each other, strengthening the structure. The HP HP heaves the last yellow obelisk into its slot. This forms an apex from which fall, on either side, the perfect sheer walls of a triangle. The last heavy bale makes the other tiers powerful. The heaves the last yellow obelisk into its slot. This forms an apex from which fall, on either side, the perfect sheer walls of a triangle. The last heavy bale makes the other tiers powerful. The HP HP kicks a heavy drop-forged pedal at the front of the platform, dropping the bars into the ground. The three edges at the base grip the earth, floating the A-frame off into the field behind the baler. kicks a heavy drop-forged pedal at the front of the platform, dropping the bars into the ground. The three edges at the base grip the earth, floating the A-frame off into the field behind the baler.

An optical effect is emerging. An illusion, one whose fidelity grows on the HP HP, as he creates second and third arrowheads. The field begins to flow outward in waves from the suddenly motionless platform, carrying buoys on waves that roll back from the distance. A hollow sky pulls at this figure, as he leans, in his fantasy, against the bailing chute. He raises the gloved fingers of his hand and traces an imagined coastline, as far away as the white morning moon, now a perfect pressure, light against his palm. The HP HP feels that he may die for seeing the field this way, and he very nearly cries. There is consciousness breaking in the soil, other people's consciousness. A curl falling across Greg's cheek appears in a quick spindrift of dust coming off a stone in the mud. feels that he may die for seeing the field this way, and he very nearly cries. There is consciousness breaking in the soil, other people's consciousness. A curl falling across Greg's cheek appears in a quick spindrift of dust coming off a stone in the mud. As long as I can see the moment everything changes. As long as I can see the moment everything changes. As long as the As long as the HP HP can see the moment when everything changes, then everything in its vying is as good as home. And eventually, in an infinite cross-current of sadness and longing, every weak, blinking kindness is restored. And then, seconds later, lost. The can see the moment when everything changes, then everything in its vying is as good as home. And eventually, in an infinite cross-current of sadness and longing, every weak, blinking kindness is restored. And then, seconds later, lost. The HP HP feels for the first time in his short life, the millions of years it takes to produce a single, brief moment of pa.s.sion. feels for the first time in his short life, the millions of years it takes to produce a single, brief moment of pa.s.sion.

At noon the tractor drops into neutral and Jackson jumps down. He turns off the baler and the HP HP realizes that in some way he has been sustained all morning by its roar. His arms throb, and his abdomen twitches. He looks down to make sure his body isn't as huge as it feels. He feels like a perfect giant, gleaming and hard, with fingers too strong to move. Jackson stands beside the platform and removes his cap. He squats and presses a palm through the short gra.s.s. realizes that in some way he has been sustained all morning by its roar. His arms throb, and his abdomen twitches. He looks down to make sure his body isn't as huge as it feels. He feels like a perfect giant, gleaming and hard, with fingers too strong to move. Jackson stands beside the platform and removes his cap. He squats and presses a palm through the short gra.s.s.

"Ah-yeh. Don't want it wet."

The table is laid out with oversized plates and bowls steaming with multiple helpings of a variety of foods. A dozen steaks are bleeding down on each other beside a serving tray of ribs so tender that meat falls from the bones when the HP HP pulls back his chair. He fills his plate with slick, hot carrots and ice-cold beets. Harley, who has been cleaning the mow all morning, is watching television with his sister. Jackson stands, straddling the metal strip dividing the kitchen from the living room, watching the small black-and-white set. A young woman is holding a microphone under the chin of a man in a naval uniform. pulls back his chair. He fills his plate with slick, hot carrots and ice-cold beets. Harley, who has been cleaning the mow all morning, is watching television with his sister. Jackson stands, straddling the metal strip dividing the kitchen from the living room, watching the small black-and-white set. A young woman is holding a microphone under the chin of a man in a naval uniform.

"Ah-yeh. Ah-yeh. Don't want rain."

After lunch Harley helps Jackson on the baler and the HP HP is sent to the mow to wait for them to return from the field with the first load of hay. A neighbour was busy stacking bales on the truck while they ate lunch. The is sent to the mow to wait for them to return from the field with the first load of hay. A neighbour was busy stacking bales on the truck while they ate lunch. The HP HP watches Harley trailing after Jackson across the field. He feels a drain of energy caused by the task of digestion. The watches Harley trailing after Jackson across the field. He feels a drain of energy caused by the task of digestion. The HP HP walks slowly toward the barn. The younger man is picking up stones that his father kicks from the ground. He sails them through the air to bounce off an island of rocks in the middle of the field. The walks slowly toward the barn. The younger man is picking up stones that his father kicks from the ground. He sails them through the air to bounce off an island of rocks in the middle of the field. The HP HP can see Jackson's shyness even from this distance: his resignation and defiance. He's a tightly packed, complex man who frowns when people laugh and seems never to have exhaled in his life. can see Jackson's shyness even from this distance: his resignation and defiance. He's a tightly packed, complex man who frowns when people laugh and seems never to have exhaled in his life.

The barn is dark inside, with shafts of white sunlight turning orange on the floor. The HP HP climbs a ladder of planks nailed across six-by-twelve uprights. At the top he has to jump across an opening of a metre and a half onto a loft. A window at the peak of the roof opens out onto the field where Jackson and Harley are working. The black rubber of a conveyor belt obscures the view. The climbs a ladder of planks nailed across six-by-twelve uprights. At the top he has to jump across an opening of a metre and a half onto a loft. A window at the peak of the roof opens out onto the field where Jackson and Harley are working. The black rubber of a conveyor belt obscures the view. The HP HP sits on a bale of hay and waits. The mow is a trap of nearly unbreathable air, where waves of heat rise, cooking the atmosphere through stale hay into a gas that holds the oxygen near the roof in a dark poison. The sits on a bale of hay and waits. The mow is a trap of nearly unbreathable air, where waves of heat rise, cooking the atmosphere through stale hay into a gas that holds the oxygen near the roof in a dark poison. The HP HP is having difficulty breathing, and when the conveyor rattles to life it takes him three attempts before he can stand without support. He can see the first bale climbing towards him, and he lays his shaking hands on the edge of the conveyor belt, taking its vibrations up his arms. is having difficulty breathing, and when the conveyor rattles to life it takes him three attempts before he can stand without support. He can see the first bale climbing towards him, and he lays his shaking hands on the edge of the conveyor belt, taking its vibrations up his arms.

He believes that this bale will fall against him and drive him to the floor. He knows that they vary in weight, from about forty to seventy pounds, and that the range represents what is possible and what is now, in this strength-sapping fire, clearly impossible. The bale teeters at the top on a brief fulcrum and falls against the HP HP, driving him to the floor. He kicks his legs across the sliding chaff and rolls the bale, end for end, to a corner of the mow. The first tier can go like this. The second has to be lifted. So does the third. The fourth has to be heaved. The fifth has to be built by arms that push upward, straining and, hopefully, the HP HP thinks, numb. thinks, numb. At least I'm alone up here, no one can see me struggle. At least I'm alone up here, no one can see me struggle.

Within an hour he has completed the first wall. He has begun to cough the cough that he's been warned about. His lungs are skipping uncontrollably on a tripwire of chaff that is pulled taut inside them. He sputters up a gluey fluid, speckled yellow, and he wipes his burning lips in the black acid that coats his forearms. The second wall seems to go quicker and he feels a muscle in his back break free to dominate his dying arms. The new muscle is a bright and powerful sensation, equal to the ruin it compensates for, and when he straightens he feels it push against him, tripping a series of recoiling muscles, retrieving his arms to his sides and cracking his thighs.

As he steps over the foundation of his third wall the HP HP notices the light in the mow shift from orange flame to purple. The conveyor stops suddenly and squeaks backward horribly before settling. He feels the silence as he did this morning, as a barrier against sensation dropping, and gravity returns to his limbs, pulling him down towards the floor. Above his head the rattle of rain stones up off the aluminum roof. This sound, cool and falling from far away, intensifies the heat and deafness in the mow. notices the light in the mow shift from orange flame to purple. The conveyor stops suddenly and squeaks backward horribly before settling. He feels the silence as he did this morning, as a barrier against sensation dropping, and gravity returns to his limbs, pulling him down towards the floor. Above his head the rattle of rain stones up off the aluminum roof. This sound, cool and falling from far away, intensifies the heat and deafness in the mow.

From within the barn below him: "Ah-right!"

The HP HP makes the jump across to the ladder, floating almost as he climbs down. He feels the rungs in his hands as empty s.p.a.ces, their surfaces held from his palms by bruises. makes the jump across to the ladder, floating almost as he climbs down. He feels the rungs in his hands as empty s.p.a.ces, their surfaces held from his palms by bruises.

The haying isn't finished, and the rain means they won't resume for several days. A barn full of wet hay will eventually explode.

The dinner table is twice as laden and the HP HP finds himself eating smaller portions. He eats alone. Harley has showered and sped off in the car towards town to drink, and Jackson is having a beer himself, sitting in a reclining chair. His daughter is colouring in a book on the floor in front of the television. Dolly is standing by the dishwasher with a long wooden spoon in her hand. She is looking through the house. It seems to the finds himself eating smaller portions. He eats alone. Harley has showered and sped off in the car towards town to drink, and Jackson is having a beer himself, sitting in a reclining chair. His daughter is colouring in a book on the floor in front of the television. Dolly is standing by the dishwasher with a long wooden spoon in her hand. She is looking through the house. It seems to the HP HP that she's calculating. First, she looks to Jackson, then to the dog's dish, then over to a fly banging against the window screen. She taps the spoon three times quickly and jumps visibly when she notices the that she's calculating. First, she looks to Jackson, then to the dog's dish, then over to a fly banging against the window screen. She taps the spoon three times quickly and jumps visibly when she notices the HP HP looking at her. She recovers by smiling and tilts a bowl of greens toward him. looking at her. She recovers by smiling and tilts a bowl of greens toward him.

He returns the smile and says, "No, thank ya kindly, ma'am."

She continues smiling and looks to her husband, who has now fallen asleep in the reclining chair.

That night the HP HP cannot sleep. He lies on the lower bunk, staring up into the dark. There is no s.p.a.ce heater's glow and the room is only present in its strong smells. He is picturing the people he shares the house with. Quiet, strong and beautiful. Jackson's shyness and his intimate game with the sky. Harley's coltish grin and addiction to showers. And Dolly. Dolly's strange sight. She confers something with it. cannot sleep. He lies on the lower bunk, staring up into the dark. There is no s.p.a.ce heater's glow and the room is only present in its strong smells. He is picturing the people he shares the house with. Quiet, strong and beautiful. Jackson's shyness and his intimate game with the sky. Harley's coltish grin and addiction to showers. And Dolly. Dolly's strange sight. She confers something with it. She sees. What? She sees. What?

The Higher Power decides he'll get up and wander through the house a bit. Listening. He gets to the upper floor and finds himself tiptoeing down the hall.

I shouldn't be. I shouldn't.

He stands in front of the master bedroom door and listens. The toy tractor of Jackson's snore purrs. The HP HP turns and notices a soft light beneath the daughter's door. turns and notices a soft light beneath the daughter's door.

He presses his hand against it, and the door falls open.

She is sitting on the edge of the bed facing the wall. In a voice like a snapping twig she says, "Now what?"

AFTERWORD.