First posted: 30 December 1995
"'Lo?"
"Hi John, it's Steph."
"Hey there! What're ye doin' back? Thought you'd still be at Whistler's."
"Yeah, well, you know. With the ski lift collapsing and killing all those people Jay and i just didn't really feel all that comfortable on the hill. Rumours were flying about eco-terrorists being responsible and the security was giving everyone the big once over every time they wanted to use a lift or even a tow rope."
"Ahh...well, sorry that you're trip was a bust. I know how you were lookin' forwar' to it."
"Yeah, well it wasn't a total loss." Steph replies. "Jay felt guilty for me and all and has been treating me royally...hasn't even gone into the U at all."
I chuckle at that. Although, thinkin' 'bout it, Jay could have been havin' equal complaints about seein' so little o' Stephanie for the last month or so. Joys of bein' a couple wi' dual jobs in tha ninties.
"Anyway," Steph resumes, "Jay and i were wondering, since we're back in town and all, that is, if you aren't doing anything, if you'd like to join us for New Years Eve?"
Before i can reply Stephanie rushes on.
"We know you don't have any family hereabouts and actually, we don't have any family around this year either. Jay's folks are out in Toronto this year visiting Sylvia, Jay's sister. And...well, my family hasn't been real talkative to me since Jay and i moved in together. And we really didn't plan to be in town over New Years, so we don't have anything else planned."
I open my mouth to say i'd be pleased to come when Steph jumps in again with another rush of words.
"But, you know, if you've already got plans we understand and..."
"Yes!" i practically shout into th' receiver. "Yes! I'd be pleas'd ta come. I haven't much in the way o' plans meself. What time should i come by and what shall i bring?"
"Oh...ah..." Steph mumbles as she shifts mental gears. "Well, why don't you come by around eight? And you don't have to bring anything. Just yourself. Unless, of course, you're seeing someone. If you want you could bring a guest, i mean."
"Superb. Well, i canna think of anyone right off th' top o' me head that i'm seeing, so i don't expect i'll be comin' along w' a guest. But should i turn one up in the next day, i'll let ye know. It shall be a grand evening, Steph. Thank you for the invite."
Good-byes wrap up and i place the receiver back in its cradle and head for the door before another call catches me. I toss my great cloak over my arm and pick my old shiladin out of the umbrella stand by the door. A quick tap-tap on the security panel and i'm out the door and down to the garage.
***
Ye know, Johnnie, me lad, there's a lot o' things i like 'bout Vancouver. Th' traffic 'tis nae one o' them. Gods and martyrs! A bloody hour and a quarter to get 'cross town! Why, John, ole boy, did ye not set yerself up in Victoria? Silly question, and you know it...
The sky stays leaden and gray as i turn the wheel of the old Landrover sharply and pull into the Native Heritage Museum parking lot. Promises rain. Not many cars in the lot today. Hunh... I drive down as close to the main doors of the Museum as i can, find a vacant spot, and kill the engine. The museum guards eye me suspiciously as i lock the door of the Rover.
Taking my shiladin with me i head for the main doors of the museum. One of the guards holds his arm out to bar my way. The other loosens his baton in its holder. "With stick no go," he grumbles in pidgin.
"Get museum ticket so park," i reply in the same garbled English. Pidgin is...well, bastardized English. Simplified. Collapsed. Articles and pronouns re-ordered or dropped entirely. Tis a street language. A gutter dialect. Much as English was a bastard o' courtly French an' German an' Anglo a thousan' years ago. Pidgin's a street tongue. Just as English was. "You hold," i add. "Maybe you special attention give truck, a? Maybe like make worth you and you while?" I pull a couple twenties from my pocket and hand them to the guard with my shiladin.
A happy look comes to th' guard's eyes. "Huh. Finestkind watch buy."
I go through the doors of the museum an' get an admission ticket, then head back outside, reflecting that the Rover will be watch'd careful like by the guards. Takin' bribes for this sort o' thing is frown'd on by the Museum administration. Th' guards won't be wantin' an irrate "customer" complainin' to management. No they won't be wantin' that. So the Rover gets looked after and the guards pocket a bit o' post-Christmas cheer. Besides, it's early afternoon. Don't expect much trouble this time o' day here. Museum's pretty well guarded, wi' more security inside and on th' grounds. 'Course, night's another matter all together.
I show the guards my admission ticket and get my shiladin back before headin' round the side of the museum, thinkin' 'bout nightfall and the odd position of the Museum then. Tricky. The Museum's located just off UBC campus an', therefore, not under UBC security juristiction. An' Museum security won't leave the Museum buildin's themselves at night. Lost a few guards tha' way in the past, as i understand.
As i round the back o' the Museum i pause and gaze 'round me. Huh. Been awhile. Totem's loom all around me. Mythic beasts and spirits. Each havin' a soul. Each tellin' a story. Bear. Killer whale. Raven. Alway Raven. Old trickster.
Lost in thought i wander through the totems, heading roughly towards th' beach. As i clear a stand o' blasted trees the wind suddenly gusts up, bringing salt and damp to me. The grey rolling mass of white capped sea taunts me and beacons me on. Like a faithless lover. That's the sea. Takin' an' givin' in th' same breath. An' always i love her.
Fool. I pick out the overgrown path, making use of my shiladin on the rocky descent to the beach. I've had it for a goodly long while. Sturdy Irish oak walkin' stick with a gnarled lump o' bole for the handle. A solid weight. Comfortin', like. An old friend.
I finally reach the beach and start walkin' down the sandy way, leavin' me boots' prints as a testimonial. I'm headin' toward Wreak Beach. Been long time since i been there. Lot o' memories. Gods...the beach has sure gone to hell. Debris and rubble about. I understand there used to be some sort of nudist code along the beach. But that was years back. 'Fore the weather shifted and even summer days were shrouded in cloud and wet. Drifters and derilicts move in. Took it over. Druggies and dealers.
But mostly at night. By day it's just a dirty streak of sand along a mat grey stretch of ocean.
It used to be beautiful.
My great cloak swirls around me like a live thing in the wind. I clutch it to meself one handed and break it's will. Laughing at the wild thing that fights me. Tries to wrap tangle my limbs and consume me. It bends to my desires; my demands. But it keeps it's pride, it does. An' i leave it that. Co-dependents on a lonely stretch of broken beach. Where Gaia weeps tears of salt and quartz and splintered wood, shattered by the angry force of the sea.
Been a long time since i've been here. Last time i came in by boat. Landed here. Long time since. Staring out over th' ocean i remember. And think about all the yesterdays. Lulled by the gentle crashing of waves.
***
There's something behind me.
I shift me right foot behind and well across my left leg and pivot sharply, shiftin' me grip on the shiladin to a two hand staff hold. Me great cloak billows an' streams. A black smog engulfin' me. Hidin' me.
Three o' them. Toughs. But young. Always are, seems.
"Yo, mammyjammer, you gonna be giving us yer scorecard," says the one to my left, whipcord thin an' full o' bravado. They've arranged themselves triangular fashion, backin' me at the sea. "We dance your bones elsewize."
"Slow-like," grunts the large one to me right. A two metre length of heavy chain dangles in his monster fists. Bruiser, this one.
They're wearin' leathers and abused denim, oiled to be waterproofed. The right sides of their heads are shaven and tattooed. Gang colours. Don't know which one, but do recognize the pattern from the time i spend down at the inner city school i do some volunteer teachin' at.
"Sod off, ya gits," i tell them. "Got better things ta do than be bashin' you 'bout. Don' be messin' me day more than ye already hav' or Dog i'll take ya down."
The middle tough, wearin' mirror shades, glances left an' right at his partners. "Ya talk funny, grump. Guess we'll figure your port when we cut yer shingle out of your Vi's and lift your scorecard."
While he's still talkin' (good technique; distract th' prey) Whipcord, on me left, moves. Fast. He pulls a knife from his belt and lunges toward me. Bruiser, o'er on me right, starts ta bring the chain up an' 'bout, in a swirlin' pattern.
Fool.
The bully boys must not o' seen me shiladin hidden in the coils of me great cloak. With a cross step i snap left inside Whipcord's guard an' bring the knarled end of th' shiladin up an' round in a short arc. Wi' a whack it connects wi' the side o' his head, slewin' him oceanwards as he drops. Chain clanks as i cross my left leg behind me' right and pivot in place, bringin' the shiladin up and across me body, left hand high, right low, the oak staff forming a vertical shield. The chain comes swingin' toward me then, wrappin' itself 'round the shiladin, between me hands. Bruiser grins, as he sets his feet ta pull me toward him. Shades drops a length o' rusty pipe from his sleeve an' closes th' distance. I shift me hands slightly so's tha' the shiladin points slightly toward Bruiser, who's pullin' on his chain, ta yank me in. I let go with me left hand and give a jerk with me right and the shiladin comes apart, Bruiser stumblin' backwards now that there's no mass resistin' his pull. Two feet of silk edged steel sings through the air as i step toward Shades. My left arm goes up, blocking the downward blow from the pipe he's swingin'. The cloak helps cushion the blow an' no bones break. Shades screeches as the wagazashi blade concealed in the shiladin slices across his chest, cleaving muscle and bone. As he staggers back i press forwards, taking a two handed grip on th' shiladin's handle, an' bring the blade down through his neck an' shoulder.
The blade lodges in a mess o' bone an' contractin' muscles. Damn!
Rather than fight it i drop it to fall with Shades' corpse. Tearing at the great cloak's ties at my throat i hurl meself towards Bruiser. I vaguely make out the chain swinging back toward me an' throw up me right arm t' block. The chain whips around me arm an' i'm jerked forward. Not botherin' to fight it i lunge toward the tough, hurling meself against him, arms outstretched, fingers curlin' toward 'is throat. Laughin'.
We go down in the surf with me on top.
Behind the great cloak settles to the sand, a black amoeba, covering Shades' body, consuming him.
Half a dozen meters away Whipcord staggers to his hands and knees, dizzy and confused. Not known how it has gone so wrong.
Always know your prey, lads. Take th' old an' th' weak. Not him as in 'is prime. This Dog's got 'is teeth.
Bruiser gets his arms around my back and crushes me against him, pinning me left arm between us. I grunt in pain as my floating ribs are bent out of shape. If Whipcord gets it together i'm goin' ta be in a bloody mess o' trouble with me back exposed. Assumin' Bruiser don't crush me 'fore then. But me right arm's still free. I reach it up and grab his greasy hair, yanking his thick neck back, exposing his throat. His carotids pulse with teeming life. Opening me mouth and baring me teeth i drive forward, tearing through the soft skin o' his throat. Forcing me jaw shut and yankin' back with all the force i can manage, pullin' from the back and not just the neck, Bruiser's throat rips out in a crimson spray of hot brine. His limbs convulsively thrash as he tries to push me away.
Indecisive. Fickle. Like the sea. Crush me to ye, then throw me away. Nae. I think not.
I pull his head back further. Bruiser sprays me with his life. A wave, the seventh wave, i think, that one that is largest, pulses over us in foam and cold and dark. I laugh, spraying blood and water and flesh from me mouth.
Blood coats me muzzle as i leave my fickle partner to the sea. Let him take another, more jealous partner if he will. Bruiser's life drips from me goatee and mustache. It coats me chest an' arms. An' still there is Whipcord. Darlin' Whipcord. Oh, my precious. Starin' in horror, he is, at the apparation rises 'fore him. Death's own servator.
Laughing, i drag him from the water.
"No! No! Lemmee go! It was his idea! His!"
I pull Whipcord close. Nose to nose. "Quiet," say i, softly. So softly. Tis a wonder he hears 'bove the waves, th' waves tha' drown out th' final rattle of Bruiser. "Quiet and tell me what you've seen here."
"Jus...just lemme go. Promise i'll be good. Please...!"
Huh. He doesn't understand. So sad, when they fail to grasp th' obvious.
"Social evolution," i explain, patiently. Tenderly. "Survival. Those who survive are th' strong. Strong beget the strong. I am strong. Your friends, they be dead. They don't be passin' on their code. Gaia's sufferin' under the load. So she makes me an' mine. Me an' others. We be the predators. The protectors. The stewards o' hu-man-ity, neh? Do you understand, boy?"
Whipcord drools and stares wildly about.
I spin us 'round, keeping a tight grip on 'im, showin' him Shades' leg from below me great cloak and Bruiser, rockin' in th' surf.
"You an' yours, ye kill indiscriminately. You nae care. Ye give nae thought. I be the Dog: the Protector. He who walks at the right hand o' man and shelters at the hearth durin' the long night. Guardian. Watcher. I keep the herd."
"You, you ripped his throat out! You killed Jimbe! You...God..." Whipcord vomits. Puking his heart into the surf that tugs greedily at our legs. I keep his head out of the water as he drops to his knees. I won't let him drown. I'm nae cruel. Th' lion tha' pulls down the antelope ain't cruel. 'Tis just the way. An' he has ta learn. Someone has ta learn the lesson of our sufferin' planet.
"Sometimes th' herd needs cullin'," i explain. "You an' yours be loose cannon. Mavericks. Do nae get me wrong. Some o' what ye do is for th' good. Ye be the social predators like me. Fullfil a similar role. Wi'out ye and yer ilk, the herd get's weak. Complacient. Soft. That edge o' fear is a grand motivator. Those who trustin'ly walk th' dark stretches need t' be pulled down, now an' then. But, likewise, the predator can't be allowed ta go soft. Ye pegged me for an easy mark. Like th' wolf tha' tries to pull down th' young buck instead o' th' old an' weak. That wolf he no live long. Best he not mate. Least, not if he doesn't learn. If he learn from a mistake, bears the scar t' remind him on future hunts, then maybe th' ecosystem benefits."
Cradled against me, there in th' surf, Whipcord rocks himself gentle side-ta-side.
"You domed, grump. Effed out," Whipcord curses, but without any bravado.
"Shh...no, you think on what i say to ye, little predator. Ye just been scarred by that buck in its prime. Ye and yer pack didn't choose the prey well. Think on it. Consider all this an object lesson."
Gently, so gently, for Whipcord is a most prized vessel, a precious shell holding me wisdom, a single pirana who may teach his school. I stand us up an' push him off up th' beach.
"Ye get. Think on what i said to ye. " Staggering, Whipcord heads off.
I stagger meself, as the adrenalin high i've run begins to crash. Me limbs go all stiff and i limp gait it over t' Shades, ta drag the shroud off 'im. Kickin' him over i wrench the blade from his chest. It makes a sucking sound as it leaves. Hardly no blood, though. Seems it's all been sucked into the sand. Vampiric like. Life returning from whence it came.
A snap o' the wrist clears the wagazashi o' what few drops o' blood there be. I find th' rest o' the shiladin in the sand and slide th' blade home, snuggin' it tight. Huh. Good work. Did it meself, some time ago. Cut the old shiladin lengthwise wi' a fine bladed bandsaw, carved out th' space for th' blade , fixed th' blade (a mid nineteenth century piece) into th' handle, an' epoxied an' lacqured the shiladin back together. Nice bit o' protection. Usually the Irish oak itself's enough.
Suddenly i'm tired. I lick Bruiser's life from me lips an' sigh. So tired. Stabbin' me shiladin' into th' sand by me great cloak, now a contrite dark blot on th' sand satiated and quiescent, i walk out into the ocean as th' promised rain starts ta fall from the gray streaks others might call clouds, but that passes for th' near permanent sky in Vancouver.
Fat drops fall on me upturned face. Mother washin' the blood from me. I stand waist deep in th' sea. Me legs in salt water, me head an' body in fresh.
'Cept for the salt water that drizzles from me eyes, only to be swept away into th' sea.