Ed

Ed walked the long road west, along the track he would always come after his shift at Ruth-Anne’s convenience store, the sun almost down, the last of the day’s light filtering cherry through the trees. A car drove past, illuminated his lanky figure, beeped at him then drove on: old Mr Timber’s Dodge ute, 69 class, now vintage. Ed waved back, the dirt, squelching underneath his converse sneakers, hair flopping over his face.

To look at, it was obvious that Ed was Indian, he had all the trappings - the famous jet-black hair and tall frame, the Indian face with the hooked nose and pronounced cheek bones, like Indians of long ago, expressed in paintings and carved objects. Ed was Cherokee, and one of the last full-blooded Cherokees in the Cheyanne area, and for that, he was respected, for there was some prestige in it. Though, for all of it, he didn’t feel Indian. If anyone asked him, he felt, well, just like anyone else, and didn’t see himself as anything different or special. Rumour had it, that full-blooded Indians had special powers. For instance, as famously written, it was said that they could sense things ahead of time, events yet to come and far off into the future, visions that they themselves often didn’t fully understand, and for that reason, people were often frightened of him, others just merely mystified; still, he had learned to live with it: the often taken-aback look on people’s faces whenever he was around, the silent respect which often boarded on fear;  all of it, though, meant nothing to him, for he wasn’t really interested in other people’s respect or admiration, what he was interested in was getting the hell out of Cheyanne, and doing something with his life: writing screen-plays for Hollywood; renting an apartment in new York; washing dishes to pay rent; anything, but mostly, just get the hell out.

A wolf howled in the distance and he turned around and looked for it. Another rumour that turned out to be true: Indians had a silent connection with animals. In Ed’s case, he had actually proven it: as a child he could walk up to wild wolves and had patted their mains, full grown ones, even, and this too, was rare. The wolf howled again and he turned and saw two white eyes glowing in the night, and then, it disappeared without a trace, and he looked for it, but despite whatever so-called super-powers he had, he couldn’t see in the dark, and so kept walking.

The track opened up to a field, showing the reserve, a cluster of yellow dots, trailers on a prairie, the same ground that his people had been living on for, nigh on, a century. He sighed and walked towards it, this, the worst part of his day; the smell of microwave dinners, the sound of the television sets blaring the news, stories of events happening far away. He walked the ground, knowing every hump, every mound in the grass by heart, then, came, reluctantly to the outer rim, passed a trailer, a woman standing on the outside of it, washing mud from her crying child with a hose, looked up at him, the Indian’s dark hair falling at her side.

‘You alright, Ed?’

‘Yeah.’

He walked past others and came to his own family’s trailer, and suddenly remembered that it was high time he visited his grandfather, felt as though he needed to hear one the old stories again, and around about now. The old man had picked Ed out when he was just a toddler and taken a shining to him, which was rare because he didn’t really take a shining to anyone, still, possibly for the fact that he was his grandson; the old man’s gnarled face like old tree bark wrinkling, grey hair platted down his back, would always begin with: ‘It was said that we were once a warrior people, fiercely proud; had warred with other tribes to claim the ground. This was in the time before my Daddy’s time, long ago. Our people, our culture, built on the blood of the ancestors... It was said that the ancestors had once hunted the big plains for bison, would bring it back of a night time where the family would sit around a fire and dance, while the meat was being cooked; the men rising early to hunt the plains, the women collecting herbs to keep the families safe from diseases; all of this, before the new way, before white man’s culture came…’

And Ed would stare into his grandfather’s brown eyes, and nod at the appropriate intervals, and his Grandfather would stare into the fire. But they were only that: just stories, and no-one really cared whether or not they were true: just old pictures in books, cartoons; some even said they were lies that the old man had made up; at best, ancient relics of an ancient time that didn’t actually exist; that the old man was crazy. But Ed didn’t think he was crazy, Ed thought the stories mattered, mattered a great deal.

‘You’re special, Ed,’ he would say, sitting in his tepee, the last in any of the surrounding areas. ‘It’s you that needs to carry this stuff on: teach your own son about the old ways, tell him of the battles we once fought; how our people kept the white man at bay…’

But they hadn’t kept the white man at bay; they attended the white man’s schools, took the white man’s welfare, ate the white man’s food, watched the white man’s news; and it griped Ed, all of it, for it seemed to him that they were all viewing the world through a glass prism, a prism that, actually had nothing to do with them; and that he himself was the only one who could see through it, as though everyone else was blind and semi-catatonic.

He came to his own family’s trailer, stood and felt the old familiar rage come over him; life wasn’t meant to be this way, just how it was meant to be, he couldn’t rightly describe, but not like this…The light from the television illuminated a big man, sitting on a couch, hairy arms bulging over arm rests like meat slabs, a head like a bowling ball, raising a beer bottle to his mouth; a woman with jet black hair sitting next to him; a child, in the middle, all staring at it. He stepped inside, walked past them.

‘Dinner’s in the microwave, Hon.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’

Ed stepped through to the kitchen, turned the microwave on and waited for it to the heat the food, turned and made his way to his room; a small encasement; a single bed; clothes strewn across the floor; a tiny tv set balanced on a tiny window ledge. He sat on the bed and looked out the window, out at the range, and let his mind wander and dream, looked out at the prairie, at the moon in the sky, tried to imagine the battles that his Grandfather had boasted about, then loaded the VCR as he would do, night after night, and watched one of the old movies he had bought off Ruth-Anne’s shop years ago: a John Wayne classic that he knew by heart, and he would watch, imagining himself as one of the feathered-wearing war-chiefs, riding bare-shirted on horse-back; or better yet, that he had written and directed the thing, himself. It was almost morning by the time he finally turned it off and fell asleep and had the first, of what was to be, very strange dreams…

Ed dreamed that he was walking down the main road of Cheyanne, somewhere between the dawn and the early morning, in the pre-light before the world wakes up, wearing a three piece suit, as though he were attending some special event; and then, for no apparent reason, his feet started to lift off the ground, and he was hovering through the air, floating down the square, and then up higher, at the same height as the roof-tops of the small buildings, just floating and looking around and without any fear at all, and then cascading back to the ground as though the whole thing were completely normal, and then, in what seemed like the next second, his alarm clock went off, the old spring bell rattling its hysterical pitch and he slammed down on it and heard his mother calling from the kitchen -

‘Ed, time to get up.’ He rolled over and he knew that he’d better, he didn’t want to be late for Ruth-Anne. He hauled himself into the shower and then walked out into the kitchen, happy to eat his meal alone, all the others, gone to school or work; ate, listening in to the morning radio that was left on the table.

‘Better rug up, folks, it’s a cold one out there…Chris in the morning, here with you for the next couple of hours or so…this one goes out to all the lonely hearts out there, and don’t forget, we got the big Halloween party, coming up on Saturday, and Holling’s giving a two for one deal down at the diner for whoever’s got the best costume, so be sure to come down!’

Ed smiled as he listened to his old friend on the radio, remembered standing next to him when he had reluctantly taken the job… ‘Wait a minute, Maurice,’ Chris had said, to Maurice, the owner of the whole town, ‘I don’t know anything about radio, except from what I learned in college, which was nothing. All I did was spin some records at a couple of frat parties, you can’t drag me in on this!’ ‘Good enough, son,’ Maurice had said. ‘You’re gonna learn, son, that one thing we need around here is lifters; Sicily’s a new town, might be full of unapologetic grifters like yourself, but grifters can lift, right? Anyway, I believe in you, Chris.’ And Chris had looked back at him like they all did, with a mixture of awe and reverence, for he was, after all, Maurice Minefield, former astronaut and American hero. ‘Yes, sir,’ he had said. ‘Alright, Chris; now, you can go down and poke around already if you want, get to know the turn-tables, and whatever the hell else that you people do with this stuff. It’s got a pretty good record collection, already; but I expect you’ll be wanting to bring in some of your own stuff, anyway, you’ll figure it out, here’s the key.’ Chris had looked back at him and had seen a way to make a new start, to clean up his act, to get away from his alcoholism, and actually do something with his life apart from kooky projects… ‘Thanks, Maurice,’ he had said. ‘Fine, Chris, just don’t f**k this up, I got a lot riding on your Dj and radio expertise. Town needs a bit more your community vibe.’ ‘But I don’t have a community vibe!’ Chris had said, but Maurice had already walked off, saving him the trip.

Ed finished the cereal and washed the plate in the sink, stepped out of the trailer and slammed the little door shut, started the path, the track through the forest, and then out onto the road of the town proper where he would mostly hitch to get the whole way, dreams of film school in far away lands rattling around in his mind, the hissing of the crickets in his ears. On days like this, fresh winter days, his trusty leather jacket kept him warm, though it wouldn’t have been enough for most people, still, it wasn’t long before old Mr Timbers’ pick-up came past and stopped and he pulled on the freezing cold door handle and got inside the heated cabin.

‘Alright, Ed?’ Ed looked at the old man and nodded and then a gnarled hairy hand turned the heater up and adjusted the dials of the old radio built into the cabin, dialled into the local station.

‘…well, that’s it for me, this is Chris in the morning, signing off, and don’t forget the upcoming Halloween, people, y’all; stay safe, now…’And with that, he played an old classic, from a bygone era that nobody remembered, as was typical of his bent. Ed looked over at the old man and suddenly wondered about him. Someone told him once that the old man had a wife, many years ago, who had died tragically in a car wreck, and with it, a young son, also; that the old man had never remarried and lived in an old shack somewhere, nobody knew where, worked at the lumber mill, but did little else with his life, and looking at him, Ed could see no reason why the story itself wasn’t true. He looked over the old man as if seeing him for the first time, putting the pieces together like a jig-saw puzzle, as if trying to recognise what life had done to him; the old man’s head, a deflated potato sack; solid slabs of flesh wobbling at the sides of his face, skin like worn leather, some strength in him yet.

‘You’ve been alright, Mr Timbers?’

‘For God sake, Ed, call me Ray, how many times do I have to tell you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it, for it was rumoured that the old man had turned eighty, and Ed felt that he was too deserving of respect to be calling him by his first name, and, even, after all these years. The old man sighed and looked over at him, a grin coming over his face.

‘Well, Ed, you going to the festival this year? Rumour has it that Charlene will be there.’

Ed felt the blood rush to his face at the sound of her name, as he always would �" the latest town joke - his crush; though, truth be told, nobody really cared all that much, nobody, except for Ed himself; and the old man looked back at him, and then back at the road, the damage done, and they remained silent for the rest of the way.

By the time that they made it to the town, Ed had only ten minutes left before his shift was due to start; he opened the door of the old ute, closed it, and waved at the old man, the ute disappearing into the distance, then walked the cobble-stone road and came to the little shop that was his place of work, opened the door, the little bell tinkling, Ruth-Anne, standing at the counter.

‘Morning, Ed.’

‘Ruth-Anne.’

‘Old Ray give you a lift this morning?’

‘Yep.’

Ruth-Anne, who had a face that had once had been taught and supple, now sagged at the edges, wearing a new shade of lip-stick; Ruth-Anne, always smelling of perfume. Ed remembered that there was a story going round that old Ray and Ruth-Anne had dated once, though no-one could ever confirm it.

‘Alright, Ed, I want you to start on those boxes, we’ve got a delivery coming in around noon, I’m out to get a hair-cut, and then to check in on a friend, so the shop’s yours for the day…’ And with that, she hung up her apron and strode out of the shop, leaving him to the unknowable task. Ed turned and looked at the great pile behind him, each box full of various items: jars of pickles, loaves of bread, rolls of toilet roles, razors, deodorant...He sighed and put the apron on and started his work, started the unloading, the shelving, the packing away, until, around mid-morning the little bell tinkled and he looked up and saw Charlene walk into the shop, taking his breath away.

She wore a black coat that came down passed her knees and black jeans to match, a pair of converse sneakers just like his own and a pair of black sunglasses; Charlene, the red-blooded community worker from Strode, the nearby, more affluent town, where the so-called rich kids attended. Rumour had it that she was applying to a posh art school in New York, though, he couldn’t be sure, and he had never seen her art, and so couldn’t make out what all the fuss was about, but, what did it matter, for, here she was, and standing right in front of him!

‘Hello, Ed.’

He looked up at her, dropped the packet of flour, stooped over to pick it up, stood back up again, tried to act casual, leant on the counter.

‘Hi, uh…can I help you with anything?’

‘Yes, actually… Mrs West needs some cleaning products for her flat, and tea-bags.’

‘Tea-bags, right, I’ve got those…Now, uh, cleaning products…which ones?’

‘She needs, ajax, some chucks wipers, dishwashing liquid, that sort of thing…’

‘Right.’

Ed walked down one of the isles and picked up the items and brought them back to the counter, rang them up, tried to stay calm, practice remaining aloof, staying cool, for she was looking at him from behind the sunglasses, or seemed to be.

‘So, how much is that, Ed?’

‘Right…uh…that’ll come to sixteen dollars and eighty-five cents…’

She pulled out her wallet and slammed a twenty-dollar bill on the table and picked up the bag and strode out, pony-tail swaying backwards and forwards like a pendulum, all before he had a chance to make any of the idle chatter that he was planning, watched her slam the door, the bell dangling, then stride off. He leant on the counter and looked out the glass, marvelled at her absence, at an empty laneway, the occasional traveller, a sunny day turning overcast, the sky a grey sheen. He sighed and turned and looked back at the boxes piled up to the roof; still, the Halloween party was coming up at Holing’s, and it was a good bet she’d be there…

The bell above the door-way rang pretty consistently through-out the day, and Ed barely had time to stop, and then Ruth-Anne walked back in, told him it was time to knock off and that she would see him in the morning and so he hung up the apron and wished her well, made his way out onto the cobblestone laneway, pulled his coat close, watched the scenery. He would watch the other revellers at this time of the day, the old clock tower that had once housed lunatics, chiming five pm, groups of men and women knocked off from work, making their way to pubs in hoards, beautiful animals in great thick coats, the streets getting dark. But not for Ed, he would bide his time, his day was coming, and one day he would join them: Ed the famous film-maker. Still, right now there was other things to consider, Charlene for one; and he would be back Friday night, after his shift, wearing his best duds, and she would be here, too, and he would have enough to buy her a drink, and it was enough.

He made his way, walked the old cobblestone laneway, looked through window of the final pub on the block, waved back at the revellers: two women with perfectly straight hair, looking like living, breathing dress-maker’s mannequins, dressed up in German beer-maid’s outfits, and he marvelled at all the beauty in the world, even admired the old pub itself, the gothic architecture of the town, its heritage listing intact. He walked the highway where he would cut through the wood adjacent the compound, and here he would be, night after night, on his walk, dreaming up a different life, a life in a gigantic industrial city where he would study with the greats of his time, and in the end, direct his own feature film; but first he had to apply, send in a written application, demonstrate that he had actual talent. He walked, dreaming his dreams, the night setting in, the crickets suddenly piping up a hiss, and then he heard that same wolf’s howl, turned and saw the white eyes watching him in the dark, kept walking, and then saw a hive of fireflies encircling each other, a gathering of golden specks forming shapes in the night, and he walked right up to them and they buzzed around each other and he marvelled, for he knew just how rare an occurrence it was, and then they flew away and he watched them float off into the night looking like a golden ghost moving in the night and took it as a sign. He walked on, thinking more about his application and then came out into the clearing, the moon high in the sky, illuminating the grounds and the little encampment of trailers hugging each other, walked the ground and came to his own and stepped inside, the scene, a repeat of every other night, his parents and sister sitting on the couch watching the tv, like statues, the news, painting a dismal picture of some horror story somewhere in the world, and he wondered, as he would, whether or not, these stories that they were watching were actually true and took his dinner from the microwave, walked it to his room, plonked it down on the overflowing bench, looked through his VCR collection, and then at the film school application form that he had printed from the library, his eyes growing heavy.

Ed had another one of his dreams. In it, he woke in the night, in his room, stood and got dressed and looked around, walked out into the night, stood and looked out at the forest, the air, cool and crisp. He heard the wolf howling, an ancient calling, summoning him to some lonely ancient task that he had been deified for long ago and, in a trance, he walked towards it, the rocky ground stinging his feet and then, on intuition, he opened his arms and, as if on cue, he simply floated up and up, watching the height of the trees shift, and then, he was flying over the wood where he would walk every day; the trees, sharp brown tentacles, jutting up at him and threatening to pierce.

And then, he saw the wolf, small and white and powerful and looking up at him, and he looked back at it, and he could have sworn that some silent communication was transmitted between them, but he didn’t know what, as though he was looking at another version of himself that was trying to warn him of some impending crisis that he couldn’t see, a crisis that was coming, had been coming for some time. Something that was always meant to be and yet couldn’t be stopped, couldn’t be fought against but only endured. He looked down at the wolf, transfixed by its eyes, glowing in the night, and then, suddenly, felt his balance failing, the force holding him up, diminishing, and he was falling, harder and faster than he ever thought possible and being scratched by branches, the snapping like thousands of whips cracking, piercing his clothes and skin, until finally he landed with a thud in one of the trees, and then everything went black…

There was pain in the back of his head when he opened his eyes, looked around and got a fright. The ground was a fair distance away, high enough so that he could seriously hurt himself if he fell, and he saw with a shock that he wasn’t dreaming, that he was straddling the thick branch of a tree and the ground was some metres away. It was freezing cold, and he looked down and realised that he was actually dressed in his pyjamas, shivered and clutched the tree branch harder for fear of falling, and then, hoisted himself up on all fours, but it was no good, the ground was far too far away to jump, he would hurt himself, making a jump like that, possibly even break his leg. He looked around, but there was nothing for it, he was up a tree, and there was nothing he could do about it, except that he was looking down, at a pair of crystal blue eyes, the face of an angel. Charlene, out for a walk, dressed in jeans, hair out.

‘Ed, how’s it going?’

Ed looked at her but couldn’t speak, felt his body cramping up.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve called the authorities, there coming to get you. Ed, can you hear me?’

Ed looked hugged the tree branch tighter.

‘Ed, you just hang on, ok? Just hang in there.’

It was the most embarrassing moment of his life, and, in that moment, he truly wished that he was dead, and then, a cop car pulled up, and then another one, and there was a cop standing there with a megaphone urging him to let go and he looked down and saw that they had set up a ladder and a cop was leaning it on a branch next to him and he turned and saw that the cop was an overweight man with red hair asking him whether or not he could get on the ladder and he grabbed the cold metallic frame and started to move his body, managed to stand up and walk himself down it, collapsed onto the earth, shivering, then heard Charlene’s voice in his ear �" ‘C’mon, Ed, let’s get you home.’ He got in the cop car and she sat with him, looking at him most of the way, and he was mortified, surely, he must smell bad, and surely, he had blown it with her, for, how could she be attracted to him, looking like this!? The car was warm inside and they had given him a blanket and he hugged it to himself feeling like a sissy in front of her and slowly stopped shaking. She kept looking at him. ‘So, this is the part where you look at me and thank me for saving your life, and then you ask me out.’

‘Ask you out?’

‘Yeah, you know, like, you ask if I would like to accompany you somewhere.’

The cop car pulled up at his house and then he was getting out and walking him to the front step of the trailer home where he lived and he turned and looked at her.

‘Friday night, Holling’s?’

She looked at him and then turned and walked off and got in the cop car and then, he stood and saw his mother standing in the doorway, looking at him, and they looked back at each other, but the whole thing made no sense at all, and so he went to his room and took off his pyjamas, or what was left of them, and walked into the bathroom, turned the old buzzing light bulb on and  looked at himself in the mirror; scratches up his arms and body, some pretty deep, then realised that, by rights, he should probably be in hospital, turned the water on and it stung his abrasions, then gently padded himself dry with one of the clean towels and put his clothes on and lay down on his bed and thought about it. How in the hell did he manage to get up a tree, and, in his sleep!? And it wasn’t long before he fell back to sleep, praying not to be haunted, not to do any more flying, or whatever the hell else he apparently did in his sleep, the figure of his mother standing at the doorway, watching him like a silent pall-bearer, the afternoon light fading.

When he woke the next day, he felt weak and sore, but able to move; gingerly rolled onto the side of the bed, an Indian in full stride, stood and walked to the bathroom and undressed, and then got a fright at what he saw: angry red lines, jagging up and down his body, tattooed tree branches, dark red, the blood, dried, and hard, the cuts deep; looked as if he’d been mauled by a bear. Ed, the climber of trees in his sleep: had he actually flown through the air? Surely not. He got dressed and called Ruth-Anne, took the day off, deciding, in his mind, to make his way out to see the old man, make the crossing, ask him about sleep and dreams and, for God’s sake, flying, and being Indian, and if any of these things had anything to do with the other.  He walked out into the empty kitchen, wondering if he could even make it out there, decided to push on anyway, a winter’s day, the sky, a white expanse, ate some cereal and brushed his teeth, and started, the day ahead, for walking, stepped around the yard and all the car wrecks and took up the track, picked up a stick and whacked the grass along the side of the road, left the compound and came out to another forest, green and dank, the track, full of trees.

It was mid-afternoon by the time he came out to the outer-rim where the old man had lived all these years, came to the junk-yard, found the old man dressed in a flannelette shirt and jeans and a pair of riding boots, head inside of an old wreck.

‘Gandpa!’

The old man looked up and slammed his head and called out, looked up at the sky and fell down on the dirt, skinny legs dangling in front of him, and he went to the old man and the old man turned and looked at him but it took him a while to adjust to what he was looking at.

‘I knew you’d come, it’s been a while, boy.’

He looked at the old man’s craggy, beautiful face, that could have been a thousand years old.

‘Just let me sit for a while, Ed, gotta catch my breath.’

The old man sat, and breathed the air in, and his breath slowed down after a while and he began to calm, sat and looked out at the scene, and then back at Ed.

‘Alright, boy, help me up, we can’t stay out here forever, let’s go inside, there’s a few things I want to show you.’

Ed stood and took the old man’s hand, lifted him up and they walked the track, came to a trailer home, walked the iron steps and went inside.

‘Grandpa, you moved, what happened to the tepee?’

‘I got it out the back. One of the neighbours dumped this on me, so I use it, what’s the big deal?’

‘It’s just…well…’

‘Life is change, Ed.’

The old man stepped into a make-shift kitchen and turned an urn on, reached into a cupboard and pulled out two mugs, made two cups of instant coffee, out them down on a little table.

‘Well, go on, Ed, sit down on the couch, it’s not going to bite.’

Ed looked around at the trailer, everything a miniature of itself, the last thing that he expected - for the old man to modernise. The old man put the coffee down and sat on a wooden rocker opposite, leaned into it, held the cup on its rest. And Ed kept looking around, couldn’t get used to it, and the old man looked at him from out of the corner of a closed eye.

‘Don’t worry about it, Ed, we can build a fire tonight, if you want…God damn Indian…you’re just like me; don’t want anything to change, ever…’

He looked back at the old man.

‘That reminds me, I think you’d better stay the night, you don’t look like you’re in too good-a-shape to me…I’d better go and call your mother…’

The old man walked over to the kitchen and picked up a phone attached to the wall and dialled a number, talked to his mother for a few seconds then hung up the phone, walked back over to the chair and sat down, looking pretty tired.

‘Now, where were we, Ed? Actually, maybe I’d better get the tea.’

The old man slurped on the coffee, stood up and went to the fridge, opened up the freezer.

‘Now, what’ we got? I got some peas,’ stuck his head in the main compartment, ‘I got lamb; you like Lamb, Ed?’

‘Sure, Grandpa, I like lamb.’

‘Lamb, it is.’

The old man took the meat out of the fridge and turned the stove on, poured some oil and put the meat on the pan, waited for it to heat up, chopped vegetables and put them in a pot, the smell wafting through the trailer. Ed sipped his coffee and watched the old man, looking like an old tree drooping, skin like old bark, an older version of himself, watching the meal like he used to watch the fire, like he’d watch everything, his face gnarled and serene and unphased. The afternoon slipped away, the last of the light disintegrating and the old man turned around and turned lamps on that were strange plastic miniatures, women and gnomes, one with an American flag. The old man put the meals down on a tiny table, turned a gas heater on, closed his eyes for a moment as though in prayer, opened them again, and handed him a knife and a fork, and they started at the meat, ate in unison, and then, after a while, the old man looked at the younger man.

‘It’s been a while, Ed, you should have come sooner.’

‘I know it, Grandpa.’

‘Your Mum, she’s well? And the kids?’

‘Fine, Grandpa.’

‘And, her partner, what was his name again?’

‘Dillon, grandpa.’

‘Yes, Dillon, he’s well?’

‘Fine, Grandpa.’

‘Well, that’s good.’

The old man went back to his food, slicing it, sucking it into his mouth.

‘Did I ever tell you, Ed, that Indians, back in the old times, they used to do rituals, ceremonies, often to gain insight, talk to the ancestors, as it were? Ed sighed, had heard this story before. ‘No, Grandpa, you never told me.’

‘Well, they did. In some, it was said, special gifts were given, but these gifts were never truly understood or articulated, and were only ever known to a select few, and were often fleeting, but it was said, that in some, they could see things ahead of time, visions, in others they had the gift of healing. These ceremonies, they would often involve peyote. You’ve heard of that, Ed?’

‘I have Grandpa.’

‘Well, it was said, in the time of Peyote, when it was taken, Indians could even leave their own bodies, even travel through the air, but this was very rare, and only happened, maybe once in an Indian’s life-time, if that, you ever heard of that, Ed?’

And the old man looked at him and gave him a knowing smile, showing pink gums, teeth missing.

‘Well, now that we got that sorted out, what did you want to talk to me about?’

Ed looked at the old man, and was shocked by his directness and insight, as if he knew what he was thinking before he even said thing, and somehow, it was as if his flying derangement had never happened and wasn’t worth talking about, or at least over with. Ed choked on his food for a second and swallowed, decided to bring it up anyway.

‘I had one of those, dreams, Grandpa, a few of them, actually, except…’

The old man put his food down and looked at him, a serious look coming over his face.

‘Except?’

‘Except, in the other one that I had, it actually happened!’

‘What actually, happened, Ed?’

‘I actually flew through the air and woke up in a tree!’

The old man looked at him and then turned away, leaned back in his chair, rocked on it, as if taking in what he had just been told, took him a while to digest what he just heard.

‘Did I ever tell you, Ed, this one time, years ago, when you were just a kid, we thought we were going to lose you?’

‘No, can’t say as I remember.’

‘Well, there was this time, when you were just a baby, and your Daddy was in the world, that we would go up to the George river, and let you kids play, you never knew about that?’

‘No, can’t say as I did.’

‘Well, there was one time, you and me and your parents and a few others, we were up at the George, and just enjoying the day, being with you kids, having a picknick, and no-one had seen it, but somehow, you had managed to get the keys to the car, and were playing in it, and had managed to get the damn thing in gear, and a woman was screaming and we turned and saw that you had managed to point the car to head towards the cliff! And the damn thing was rolling! Well, your Daddy, he raced towards it and tried to stop it, and I’m telling you now, as God is my witness, that car’s steering wheel, it was in lock, and that car, it was heading for disaster...’

Ed looked at the old man, thought he saw his face change colour for a second.

‘Well, we don’t know what happened, or how it happened, but I’m telling you, that car, it just turned of its own accord and nestled itself to a stop…everyone, well, they just packed up and left after that…’

Ed looked at the old man, his eyes looking around the room as if there was something unseen that at any moment could come out and be seen.

‘So, what I’m saying, Ed, is that, what we think we know, about things, and the way the world works, might pale in comparison to what actually is, that there may be a force behind it all, a force that we don’t rightly understand.’

The old man turned and looked at him, his ancient Indian’s brown eyes, kind and smiling.

‘So, I guess, what I’m saying, Ed, is that, you’re looked after…I know that…I’ve seen it for myself.’

Ed looked at the old man’s face, fascinated by all of its lines, each of them telling a story.

‘Has this got anything to do with being Indian, Grandpa?’

The old man looked at him and his face cracked open into a smile, the gaps in his teeth showing.

‘No, Ed, it’s got nothing to do with being Indian…though being Indian is a good thing, Ed…’

Ed looked back at him, and smiled, himself, relieved for the first time in a while.

‘Don’t worry, Ed, it’s all taken care of, everything…’

And then, he stood and leaned back, stretched his back out and groaned, a tall man with a straight spine, same build as Ed’s.

‘Now, what can I get you, something sweet? I’ve got ice-cream, you know, and peaches…’

The old man bent over and picked up the empty plates, put them on the sink and served up the ice-cream and gave it to him and they sat and ate and the old man told him more stories, stories about his own child-hood and growing up Indian in the area, about the family name and what it meant, about other Indians and more about the old ways, what life was like in earlier times, until he could feel his eyes growing heavy, and then, sleep came and dreams with it. Ed, dreaming of being an Indian in earlier times, Ed riding bare-back, bare chested, Ed fighting against the white man, the white man with guns, killing his people, bullets flying everywhere, some, landing, killing his friends…

When he woke it was well into the morning, the sound of an angle grinder somewhere, rolled over and sat up, spotted a note on the table, written in ornate handwriting.

‘Ed, have gone to the shops, if I don’t see you…Love, Grandpa.’

He grabbed the note and stuffed in his pocket as a keep-sake, got dressed and bumbled out the front door, slamming it shut, his eyes stinging in the morning light, marched out of the compound and made it onto the track, remembered Ruth-Anne, and ran back to the trailer and called her.

‘Alright, Ed, don’t worry about it. See you, tomorrow.’

He took his time now, now that he didn’t have to be at work, and did what he always did, admired his surrounds, and yet listened to his heart, and started imagining, as he would, a different life, one of his own making, the day, perfect. By the time that he made it back to the compound, it was into the afternoon, and in a way, he actually wished that he had gone to work, for truth be told, he didn’t really like being around his family, was liable to be roped into some chore when he’d rather be writing screen plays or creating something, but there was his Mum, preparing the evening meal.

‘Ed, you’re back!’

‘Yeah, Mum.’

‘How’s your Grandfather?’

‘He’s good, Mum, you should go see him once in a while.’

She looked back at him, and he could see the cross look come into her eye, for the two of them �" father and daughter - had some long-standing disagreement that no-one else was privy to.

That week he went back to work, booked a doctor’s appointment. The doctor took a look at his scratches and told him he was fine, the horror of his dream receding, though still swirling around in the background like a contagion. Friday came around and he could feel his pulse racing at the end of his shift, at the thought of seeing her �" Charlene. The shift completed, he looked over at Ruth-Anne who knew, they all knew. Ruth-Anne’s smiling face. ‘You’ll be fine, Ed.’ She said, ‘Just take it easy, there’s no rush on anything, just concentrate of having a good time.’ And he thanked her, and took his pay and walked out into the afternoon air, looked around at the cobblestone laneways, the old buildings facing the square; most of it, standing, unchanged for centuries, the afternoon light illuminating the scroll work, concrete gargoyles, miniature knights and maidens standing, and he looked at them and wondered at their age, what stories they were telling, and made his way to the old pub, holding the town’s Halloween party, all his buddies there �" Chris and his girlfriend, Holling and Shelley behind the bar, the place, packed, playing one of his favourite tracks on the juke box, then saw her, Charlene, standing at the bar, hair out, in a skirt and jacket and heels, everyone with make-up and various disguises, painted skull faces, witches costumes, corsets and vinyl, and he wondered if this scene itself would be the basis of a film that he would write one day, and direct.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[JayG]

You said you wanted feedback, so…

First, while you’re obviously working hard on this, like most hopeful writers you’re suffering the misunderstanding we all leave school with. We assume that the word “writing” that’s part of the name of the profession we call, Fiction-Writing, refers to the skill we’re given in school. But it doesn’t. The techniques of the profession are very different from them.

Think of the purpose of public education. We’re given a set off general skills that most adults, and their employers, will find useful. So those endless reports and essays you were assigned gave you that proficiency. And the goal of a report? To inform, clearly and concisely. To that end, the techniques are fact-based and author-centric. The narrator explains, mostly in overview. And since the reader can neither hear the narrator’s voice nor know what emotion the author wants placed in the narrator’s performance, that narrator’s voice is, of necessity, that of a dispassionate external observer.

But is that what a fiction reader seeks? Are they looking to know what they would see were they on the scene? Do they want you to tell them that the protagonist feels fear as he readies himself to descend into that spooky basement? Or, do they want you to know what matters to the protagonist in the moment that person calls, “now?” Do they want to know there’s fear, or to have you make a shiver run down THEIR spine? And how much time did your teachers spend on how to handle that?

See the problem? Professions—and Fiction-Writing is one—are acquired IN ADDITION to our school-day skills. Fiction’s goal is to provide an emotional experience, not inform the reader. Readers want to be made to feel and to care. Fictions techniques present the story from the inside-out, in the viewpoint of the protagonist, and in real-time. The approach is emotion-based and character-centric. Nonfiction is an outside-in approach.

When you read your own work, because you already know the story: the characters, the situation, the backstory, and, your intent for the scene, it works perfectly. But to fully understand why nonfiction skills can’t work for fiction, look at a few lines from the opening as a reader, not the author.

• Ed walked the long road west, along the track he would always come after his shift at Ruth-Anne’s convenience store, the sun almost down, the last of the day’s light filtering cherry through the trees.

What’s the subject of the sentence? Ed walking? Where he walks? Where he comes from? The time of day? That there are trees?

Simple rule: A sentence has one subject. Here, you use 35 words, and many convolutions, to say, “Ed was heading home from work.” As a reader who doesn’t know where I am in time and space, who I am as a person, or what’s going on, why do I care that he works in a convenience store, doing something unknown? Answer: I don’t.

My point is that movement isn’t action. But it takes time to read about. Were this a film, would I know where he came from? No. If it mattered, you’d have started filming as he finished work and left. So why mention it here?

• A car drove past, illuminated his lanky figure, beeped at him then drove on: old Mr Timber’s Dodge ute, 69 class, now vintage.

You’re thinking cinematically, and describing what you visualize happening—acting as the camera and telling the reader what an observer would see—a report. But our medium is serial. So what a viewer would see, in parallel, and in an instant, must be described on the page, one item at a time. That takes time, so it had better matter to moving the plot, meaningfully setting the scene, or developing character. Does this? Does it matter what kind of car the man who does nothing but drive by owns? No.

The short version: All your life you’ve been choosing fiction that was written with the techniques the pros take for granted. You don’t learn them by reading, any more than you become a chef by eating. But you do expect to see the results of that professional technique—as others expect to see it in your work. And that’s the best reason I know of for acquiring the skills of the profession.

The library’s fiction-writing section is a great resource, and time spent there is time wisely invested. But better than that, here’s a link to download the best book I’ve found to date on the nuts-and-bolts issues of creating scenes that sing to the reader. Use the leftmost button to download.
https://ru.b-ok2.org/book/2640776/e749ea

As I usually suggest, for an overview of the issues you’ll find addressed in that book, you might want to dig around in the writing articles in my WordPress Blog, linked to at the bottom.

So dig in. And when you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/