Losing North

Losing North

Musing on Land, Tongue and Self

by Nancy Huston

The Arrogant Mosaic

Someone sent me a copy of a Toronto Star article dating from August 1998, shortly after France's triumph in the soccer World Cup. You may think, the article says overall, that France's enthusiasm for the Blues, a mixed Black-White-and Arab team, reflects a global policy of racial tolerance and generosity. Well, you've got another think coming. “Racism is very much alive and well in France, in a disgraceful departure from the ideals of the 1789 Revolution. And it will remain so until the French begin to emulate the Canadian model of true multicultural equality for all citizens.”

Exactly what “multicultural equality” might mean is not specified. The expression not being set off by quotation marks, it is apparently assumed to be common knowledge. What is set off in quotes, however, is the word “foreigners.” Included in this category, pell-mell, are French-born children of immigrants from France's former colonies in North Africa, newly arrived refugees without papers, Kanaks (from New Caledonia, who are French citizens) and Jews. “There are more than four million “foreigners” inn France,” states the author of the article – and, having conveniently tossed all of them into the same boiling cauldron, he goes on to paint a horrifying picture of their situation in France.

This country – Canada – which puts the word foreigners in quotes, happens to be a country made up almost exclusively of foreigners, a country in which the word has no discriminatory function because it designates virtually anyone and everyone. In 1789, at the time of the famous Revolution lauded by the Toronto Star, Canada was seventy-eight years short of Confederation.

Upon arriving in Canada, did we (the French, English, Irish, Swedish, German, and Armenian immigrants to Canada) ask the local population if they agreed with our “multicultural” ideals? Having appropriated their land in order that our own cultures might thrive there, isn't it a bit caddish of us to par ourselves on the back for not being racist?

Come one, come all! Whether you hark from Sir Lanka the Ukraine or Saudi Arabia – the more the merrier! Look, there's plenty of land! Millions of acres at your disposal! Settle in, make yourselves at home, you're welcome to go on speaking foreign in private, provided you learn English (or a la rigueur French) for public life...

That is the origin of the Canadian mosaic. “As paradoxical as it may seem,” my brother wrote in a recent letter, “the paternalistic, condescending multiculturalism of English Canada in the exact equivalent of Quebecois nationalism. They're simply two different ways of maintaining a good conscience while continuing to feel superior to those you perceive as aliens.”

Perhaps what I'm trying to say it this: it's easy to be “multicultural” when you don't have a culture of your own.

Okey. I said it. But having said it, I've also given myself away as an emigrant, a national apostate, a traitor to the Great North. Because, deep down, I know that this vision of Canada – my vision, the one sarcastically formulated just now – is false. That Canada is not the real Canada – rather, it is an artificial construction, shaped by public discourse for political purposes. Deep down, I know that the real Canada is a fine place to live. I know that the texture of everyday life there, as real people live it, is rich and variegated. I know that Canadians are creating world-class literature and film, theatre and dance; I know they have specifically Canadian community activities and figures of speech; I know they're profoundly attached to their neighbourhoods and gardens churches and houses, cafes and restaurants... I also know that these things add up to make a culture.

Canada 150 years. Photo by Elena.

Flawed

Flawed

By Cecelea Ahern

... The feet I see standing around us, once observers, are now in on the act. They suddenly take flight, and they are everywhere. Some are on me, trampling me, somee are doing there best to block for me, but every time I try to get up, I am swiftly brought back down to earth again. With a bang, with a knock, winded, I lie on the ground, hands covering my head, waiting for the black spots in my vision to clear. I feel hands trying to pull me up, hands trying to push me down. I can barely breathe. Then I hear the whistles. The Whistleblowers have arrived, and I see black leather boots descending on the scene. Some people run away, more people hear about what's happening and join in. I see fists flying, blood spraying. I don't even know who is on whose side anymore. At one point, when I manage to see straight, I think I see Enya Sleepwell standing at the door of the supermarket, watching. But I have been knocked on the head too many times, and I know I'm seeing things. I give up trying to fight, trying to stand, and, instead, I lie down as I feel another blow to my head as a boot steps backward, not knowing I'm there, and I feel the leather on my cheek. Then it's all a blur.

I hear noises and the I hear nothing. A buzzing in my ear seems to block out most of the sound. I'm on the ground, and then I'm floating, and I wonder if I'm dead, if this is what it's like to rise toward the light. But the light is only the strip lighting of the supermarket, and I realize I'm alive, but I'm flying. Then I feel hands around my body, large, comforting, safe. Those hands place my arms around his neck. I feel flesh. My head rests on a chest. I feel flesh on my cheek. I focus on the chest and see an F, just like mine, below the clavicle, where a T-shirt has been ripped in the fight. A Flawed man is carrying me. He smells good, of clean sweat and something else I can't place, but I feel safe. He carries me like I'm a baby, and I cling to him, turning my head to his chest, my head resting beneath his chin to block out the light that hurts my eyes. As we move, I run my fingertrip over the F on his chest, which makes us stop moving. I have never felt anybody else's scar. It feels like mine. Five of mine, but not like the final one on my spine. The one that was done without any anesthetic, which made me jump and the sear moved, smudged. I see his large Adam's apple move as he gulps at my touch. I allow my finger to rest there on his chest. Even though he's a stranger, the feel of the brand is comforting, like my own skin.

I know immediately who this is. I move my head away from his chest and look upward and see that he's looking down at me.

Flawed. Picture by Elena.

Straken

High Druid of Shannara

Straken

By Terry Brooks

The transition happened quickly. The runes began to glow more intensely, gaining strength for her touch. Grianne blinked against the sudden brightness, and the felt a kind of shifting in the space she occupied. The grayness of the Forbidding grew slowly darker, as if the storm had caught up to them and they were about be engulfed. All that took place in seconds, barely giving her time enough to register what was transpiring. She glanced over at Pen, who held on to the darkwand from the other side, his eyes closed.

But she did not close hers. She wanted to see what was going to happen to her.

Even so, she did not. The runes suddenly burst into fiery brightness, and it appeared as if the staff itself was aflame. It was all she could do to keep holding on to it, to persuade herself that the fire was an illusion. The glow grew steadily cocooning her away, shutting off her surroundings, from the world of the Jarka Ruus, from everything but the staff and herself and Pen.

Then everything was gone, and she was fighting for air as a massive fist closed about her body, crushing her squeezing the air from her lungs with relentless pressure. She fought back against it, struggling to breathe, to stay alive. Something has gone wrong, she thought in desperation. Something isn't right.

Then the light dimmed, the runes darkened, and she was standing once more in the familiar surroundings of her sleeping chamber, returned safe and whole to Paranor. She still had a death grip on the staff, but the runes had gone dark.

But the glow was not uniform. Picture by Elena.

She exhaled sharply in relief.

In the next instant, the tiagenel collapsed about her.

She know what it was immediately. She had caught a glimpse of the magic's glow in the few seconds it took for her passage out of the Forbidding to become complete, but had failed to recognize its significance until was too late. The glow disappeared as the triagenel dropped into place, becoming an invisible presence that hemmed her in on all sides, an unbreakable cage.

“Don't move, Penderrin,” she said to him.

He stood across from her, still smiling happily at having escaped the Forbidding. The smile faded slowly, and he looked around in surprise.

“We're caught in a triangenel,” she informed him. A quick sweep of her hand illuminated the strands of their prison. “I told you they would be waiting. But I didn't foresee this.”

“What is it?”

“A very powerful form of magic. It takes three magic users to create it, a combination of their skills to bring it to life.”

But the glow was not uniform, she saw. In some place it was very nearly dark. In a properly constructed triangenel, the magic should be equally distributed. “There's something wrong here,” she murmured. “See.”

She pointed at a couple of the weaker spots, at the obvious darkness, and she did so the door to the concealed passageway on the far side of the chamber swung inward and her brother's face appeared in the opening. “Grianne.”

“Bek!” she exclaimed in shock. “How in the world...?”

“Listen to me,” he interrupted, cutting her short. “I've used the wishsong to weaken several of the triangenel's strands. I think you can break free, if you try.”

The Last Kiss Goodbuy

The Last Kiss Goodbye

By Karen Robards

 She snorted, shaking her head in firm denial. Terrifying to think that having a ghost-following her made her feel more fully alive than she had in days. Even more terrifying to realize that what she really wanted to do was turn around and walk right into his arms.

Which she couldn't do, because he had no more substance than air. And which se wouldnèt do even if she could

Because she really wasn't that self-destructive. She didn't think.

Moonlight pouring through the kitchen windows – a tall, wide one that took up almost all the back wall behind the eating area, and a smaller one set into the top of the kitchen door – illuminated the white cabinets and stainless steel appliances and hardwood floor. She'd left the curtains at the front of the house closed, so no one could see in from the street. The kitchen blinds were raised all the way to the top of the windows, since there was no one living behind her to see in, and since she liked the view. As she stepped into the silvery light from the hall's darkness, Charlie realized that she could see her reflection in the big window's dark glass. Her chestnut brown hair hung in loose waves around her shoulders. Her denim blue eyes looked surprisingly sultry. It took her a second to remember that she had deliberately played them up with liner and shadow, which she almost never wore, and an extra coat or two of mascara. Her wide mouth looked full and soft, but more vulnerable than it should have, given that right after dinner she had freshly applied deep red (vampy) lipstick. The softly smudged look would be the result, she realized, of Tony subsequently kissing all her lipstick off, so her lips were now both slightly swollen and bare.

The Last Kiss Goodbuy. Picture by Elena.

The makeup plus the three-inch heels made her look, um. Sexier than usual. In honor of her date with Tony, she'd made an effort. With, yes, the thought that she might allow their relationship to progress to the next level, as in, sleep with him. Because Tony was way handsome and because she really liked him and because she badly needed a normal, uncomplicated man-woman relationship in her life.

And because she'd feared – thought – that Garland was gone for good and she was determined to eradicate any lingering memories of him. Of them.

In the end, she hadn't been able to bring herself to invite Tony in.

She'd already been sending him on his way when the blasting of her should-have-been-silent TV reached her ears and caused her heart to swell with hope and hurried things along. Sex with Tony, she had decided somewhere between dinner and her front door, was something that just wasn't going to happen. At least, not yet.

The Last Victim

The Last Victim

By Karen Robards

By nightfall, which in North Carolina in August happens right around ten p.m., Charlie was in the FBI's makeshift search headquarters, otherwise known as a Greyhound bus-sized RV parked in the driveway beside a pale pink beach house just outside of Kill Devil Hills. The RV was central command, the house provided parking for the RV and lodging for the agents – and Charlie, whose suitcase had already been carried up to the second floor. Not that she had been inside the house yet: she had been ushered straight into the RV. The feds had commandeered the property, which was next door to the murder scene, as their base of operations for the duration of the investigation. Having flown to this bustling beach town in a private plane with Bartoli and Crane, she was now surrounded by FBI agents – and cops, and sheriffs, and deputies, and constables, and practically every other law enforcement type known to man. Even as twilight had turned to full dark and tourists had left the wide white sand beach just beyond the dunes in favor of the town's restaurants and nightlife, more law enforcement types had swarmed the place to report in or exchange information or otherwise help in the investigation, until the RV was as busy as a Macy's just before Christmas. Seated at a desk in front of a computer in a tiny back bedroom that had been turned into a surprisingly efficient office, Charlie pushed the hard-copy files she had been studying aside to pore over the autopsy photos that had just popped up on her screen. Shaken loose from her safe haven at Wallens Ridge by the unnerving prospect of encountering Garland<s ghost every time she turned around for approximately the next week, she had embraced the lesser of two evils and agreed to do what Bartoli and Crane wanted.

Now she couldn't believe she had ever hesitated. Bayley Evans' desperate need had smacked her in the face the minute she'd stepped inside the RV to join the search dedicated to finding her. Any distress Charlie might be feeling – and she was definitely feeling some distress – was nothing compared to the terrible reality of the missing girl's plight.

Dr. Charlotte Stone. Photo by Elena.

She's going to die if we don't find her fast.

The knowledge sat like a rock in Charlie's stomach.

“So is anything jumping out at you?” The question came from Crane, who leaned back against the wall just a few feet away, scant minutes later. Ever since the photos had appeared on-screen he'd been watching Charlie like a dog hoping for a bone. The blinds covering the narrow window beside him were closed against the nigh, and the overhead light in the room was giving Charlie a killer headache. Or at least, something was. If not the light, the the glow of the computer screen, or possibly the fact that all she'd had since lunch (which she's lost) was two cups of coffee and a candy bar. Or maybe it was because she was forcing herself to concentrate really, really hard on the details of the pictures in front of her to keep from getting emotionally flattened by the gruesomeness of the whole.