jamieproctor.ca

There are certain sentences in one’s life that are fraught with inevitable danger, yet are redolent with temptation nonetheless. “Come on, just one more drink.” “Oh, what’s the harm?” “Who’s going to know any differently?” “Just between you and me…” “What the hell are you looking at?”

But there is one that is held with a wariness and a fear greater than any other, and that is why when, on a crisp morning in late autumn where the few brave birds sang and the air was clear, young St Mantleroy Throebark Jr., Esq. said “I think it is time that I found myself a wife!” it was not completely unjustified for his companion, Robert Basspluck, to spit the contents of his drink across the table.

“Oh Rob, REALLY,” said St Mantleroy in fond admonishment.

“Don’t you ‘Rob’ me, Barky!” snapped Robert, swabbing furiously at his dampened shirt. “Barking mad, more you are! Come on! You’re still young! You’ve got your whole life ahead of you! Don’t throw it all away on some damned fool chase!”
“Better to gamble now when I’m still young and have some strength to my limbs and heart than to chance the field when I’m old and slow and fearful,” shot back St Mantleroy. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing dismembered and left in a ditch for the corbies,” snarled Robert. “You’ll be chewed up and spat out! You’ll be gouged and trampled! You’ll be wrecked and cast on the rocks!”
“My mind is complete, and I will not be swayed from it,” said St Mantleroy with the serene patience of the indescribably pig-headed. “I will do this thing alone if I must, and make no complaints to any other nor to myself of your bravery.”
“Oh to hell with that,” said Robert. “If you’re signing yourself up for getting murdered I’m right there alongside you, and don’t you dare argue with me!”
It is no slight to master Robert’s Basspluck’s character that he did, just a little, wish that St Mantleroy Throebark Jr., Esq., who had been his best friend since they were children in the garden arguing over the merits of slugs and spiders, had argued with him about that. Because despite that, he still didn’t take his word back.

He just really, really, really wanted to.

***

“There are many things that must be done in preparation, of course,” said St Mantleroy as he and Robert set out for town. “But there is one that is of the utmost urgency.”

“A ring, surely,” said Robert.

“Hah, yes, that too. But no – I refer to spreading the word, my good friend. It’s of no manner to a woman if I wish to marry, should she never know that fact in the first place. So we travel to where we shall make this missive known.”

“And how are you planning to do that?”
“We shall be stopping by Mr. Morgutroth’s print shop and commissioning a short-yet-informative notice for the society bulletins.”

“Stuff and nonsense. Save your money: there’s a far cheaper AND faster way to get word onto the wind for this sort of thing. Steer us by Crobbly’s tavern and give me money for a half-dozen pints.”
“Oh really, this is hardly the time-”

“Trust me, Barky.”

St Mantleroy’s hands dithered in that way that meant he wasn’t really happy about what was going on but was resigned to it, and so his carriage deposited Robert (“a little ways off, please, so they don’t know you’re here – and wait for me”) and he spent an anxious half-hour considering the precise wording of the notice he was told he should not commission. Then at once a fist banged on the carriage door.

“Job’s done,” said Robert as he hauled himself back in. “I pinched my cheeks pink, stumbled in, bought a pint, and let slip to the bartender that I’d just been out for drinks with the young Throebark squire to lend fortune to his oncoming hunt for a wife. Then I drank half my pint, spilled the other half, and bought a round for the bar. They’ll know what you’re up to from London to Rome by this evening.”
“You’re a marvel, Robert,” said St Mantleroy with tears of gratitude in his eyes. “Will you do me one more small favour and come shopping with me?”
“For the ring?”
“Not yet, not yet – I have a notion in my head of what it must be, you see, and I wish to fill it out more before I bring it into contact with reality. No, no, no. What we must do now is seek for wedding supplies.”

Robert scanned the proffered list with dismay. “Oh for god’s sake, we’ll be at this all week. Here, you take half the screed and I’ll take the other half.” And with a rip, he made it so.

“You’re a blessing in a cruel world, Rob,” said St Mantleroy. “We’ll recoup at the evening’s end.”

***

“…and of course, a well-managed goatherd will be necessary, yes sir, yes sir.”
St Mantleroy blinked rapidly in a desperate attempt to clear the fog from his mind. “Oh yes, yes. Err, of course. Yes. Why?”
The overcoated creature before him nodded amiably. It continued to nod amiably. It had done nothing less than nod amiably since they’d been introduced; St Mantleroy was beginning to wonder if it was in fact a man at all or some kind of bobbing toy bird grown large and gifted with overlarge and overworn boots. “Well, you see, cattle will do very well for day in day out, yes sir. But for a bit of sport they’re nothing akin to a goat – oh they’re canny creatures, they’ll give her much sport yes sir, yes they will, yes sir.”
“Right. Yes, of course. Well I know that. Thank you. Indeed. I shall make payment promptly. You can speak with my man at the estate, of course.”
“Oh I shall, yes sir, yes sir.”

***

“Twelve feet should suffice,” said the gardener, squinting over his pipe and squinting his most critical eye. “Wrought iron. Mmm.”
“Won’t it obstruct the view of the rose bushes?” asked St Mantleroy plaintively.

“Well, we could go down lower if you were to construct a haha on the manor side, but that would cut into the far flower beds. Nothing doing if you want to preserve the integrity of the gardens.” The words were spoken without question or fear of gainsay: the gardener had been employed first by St Mantleroy’s grandfather, and knew full well that the day the integrity of the gardens was not placed as first priority by the head of the estate would only come after he was placed in a casket.

“Right, yes. Twelve feet.”
“Wrought iron. And make sure it’s thick too.”

***

The edges of the estate resembled an anthive disturbed when St Mantleroy retired to his study with a glass of something warming: a furious rustle of viciously quick productivity. There he sighed into his second-favourite chair, only to then realize he’d chosen it because his favourite chair was already occupied.

“Robert!”
“Back so soon, Barky?” replied the man in question, much paler and more haggard than he’d been that morning. “And here I was barely on my third glass.”
“Oh, don’t play-act at it,” groaned St Mantleroy, flinging his arm across his brows. “I’ve been to half the stock-herders in town, and the ironworkers, and the masons, and I’ve had to commission an architect from London, and the chef has been notified, and by all that is holy I had no notion that getting married was to be so much WORK!”

“Cheer up, it gets worse after the wedding,” said Robert into his third glass. “Well, I made my rounds pretty solidly today. The gunsmith’s on notice – cost a pretty penny, but I wouldn’t ask for anything less than the best for you – and I’ve put a few coins in pockets with the local game wardens to ensure when the word comes it comes speedily. I’ve spoken with the apothecary and procured the necessities for the engagement; I’ve sent for a tutor to educate her – you know how tricky that can be, but my cousin knows the right sort and gave me a reference for a proper man of letters; and I’ve written excuses to all your brothers and cousins and uncles explaining why you’ll be absent for the season. Even used extra-pretty words for your cousin Sammy, since I know he’s such an absolutely temperamental little beast.”

“Rob,” declared St Mantleroy from halfway through his first glass, which deserved better, “I could almost kiss you.”
“Don’t you dare,” said Robert, fetching his fourth. “Your wife will be jealous.”

***

There was a heart-stopping moment that lasted weeks. The finger on the pulled trigger; the leap into the sea; the silence after the speech; the fork beginning to remove itself from a mouth, destined for an empty plate. A pause that went on and on and on and was never filled, not by the conclusion of the construction; not by the anxious watching of the post; not by the browsing of the very densest and eldest naturalist’s tomes in the library; not even by the careful and thorough ransacking of the cellar bottle-by-bottle under the guidance and whim of Robert Basspluck

But then came the call: an unmarried woman had been sighted just out of town, on the road to Shorewood, and there was no more time left to hesitate or prevaricate or prepare or think, but only to do.

“Here we are,” said St Mantleroy, as he hauled himself into the carriage one more time. His throat felt tight.

“Here we go,” said Robert. He was grinning. He hadn’t stopped grinning since the notice had rushed into the dining room that morning. It was stuck on his face like honey on bread. “Feeling excited?”
“Yes.”
“Feeling nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Feeling like you must have forgotten something?”
“Yes. No. Yes. No, no no no.”
“That can’t be right, there’s always something. Oh!” and Robert slapped his forehead with outsized force. “The ring! We never went shopping for a ring! Oh damn it all-!”

“Oh,” said St Mantleroy guiltily. “I err. Well. I decided I’d use my mother’s. Last week. I forgot to mention it.”
“You’re a sentimental toff, Barky,” said Robert in the most scornful voice capable of conveying his deep affection.

“Thank you,” said St Mantleroy. And the carriage stopped, and they fell silent, and grasped their tools.

***

The woman was not in sight, but there was a stillness in the snowflake-flecked air that bespoke her presence. The driver departed without a word on foot, leaving them alone with their carriage full of supplies and their heads full of hopes and fears, and they preserved that silence, working from plans and dreams formed in the timeless days that had so recently passed them by.

St Mantleroy fashioned a noose from the rope, and –using a small stone with a hole in it as a weight – threw it over a high branch that swung over the road. Then he brought out a fat and somewhat confused lamb, drizzled it with a healthy spurt of still-warm blood fresh from the kitchen, and hung the poor thing by its back legs from the noose, despite its protestations. While he did this, Robert fashioned a small blind of brambles and branches upwind across the way. They met to check the lamb (secure, and very unhappy and loud about it) and shared a quick shot each of liquid courage. And then, at last, they retired to the blind, guns in gloved hands and breaths spaced low and even.

The sky was grey. The air was chill. Scarves kept their misting mouths from giving notice of their position. Every second lasted five hundred years longer than the last, yet neither man dared make a single sound, whether to give conversation or even settle their limbs in a more comfortable position. This was not the time or place for such things. There was only room for one sound.

And then they heard it. A small crackle; an unnoticeable thing in a forest, even a quiet one such as this. But unmistakably the noise of a living thing in motion.

The woman stepped out onto the road and considered the lamb, head cocked in interest. She was a big one.

The barrel of St Mantleroy’s gun swayed slightly – aim adjusting, grip faltering, who could say?

“Almost,” said Robert in a voice so thin it was nearly bone. “Wait until she takes the ring.”

St Mantleroy was a pale man even on the sunniest of summer days, but suddenly his face turned from white to bloodless. “I forgot the ring.”
“What?” The woman stepped closer to the lamb, mouth just-slightly agape.

“It’s still in the carriage.”
“WHAT?”

Several things happened at the same moment, but for the sake of clarity they will be explained in order.

Firstly, St Mantleroy flinched, and his finger slipped. .

Secondly, the woman took one last step forwards and took the lamb into her mouth.

Thirdly, St Mantleroy’s gun went off.

Fourthly, the lamb’s bleating stopped ice-cold.

Fifthly, the woman’s head jerked up and she stared directly across the roadway and made direct eye contact with both of the men simultaneously.

She could manage that. Her eyes were large.

“It’s not on the lamb, it’s still in the carriage,” explained St Mantleroy to her, idiotically. And then she charged them.

“Run!” shouted Robert, and took his advice and St Mantleroy’s arm.

St Mantleroy did not take Robert’s advice. St Mantleroy was frozen stiff as a statue, arm rigid as marble, every muscle seized tight and twisted in place like finely-made ship’s-rigging as one-thousand-stone of woman bore down on him, maw agape, railroad-spike teeth bared and still awash with lamb’s blood.

Robert pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and at last St Mantleroy’s arm moved and he ran, ran, ran as light as a feather for the carriage, for safety, for shelter, for his life, and he was so caught up in running that it took him until nearly halfway there to realize that while St Mantleroy Throebark Jr., Esq.’s arm had indeed come with him the rest of St Mantleroy had, alas, remained behind.

“Shit!” he said with a truly ungentlemanly lack of composure, and threw the arm behind him in a manner he would surely regret for the rest of his life (however long THAT was to be). Then he was at the carriage door, fingers scrabbling so quickly he felt his nails snap, and he was inside it and slamming the door shut and breathing like a rabbit, gasp-gasp gasp-gasp, all wheeze and no air.

The woman reached the carriage, and subsequently the carriage took flight. This did not last long, although the precise time elapsed escaped the notice of Robert, as he swooned for an instant. His eyes were closed and the carriage was aloft, then they opened and it was on its side and the door was splintering inwards and his feet were above his head and his neck was very painful and his arms were caught in something.

The door caved in behind the woman’s snout, blow by blow. Her rhythm was uneven; poor St Mantleroy’s shot must have been true in spite of it all. But she would not go down without fighting, and Robert felt no more capable of combat than a mouse.

His legs wouldn’t move. His shoulders were stiff. But he could free his hands – oh, how the scales tore bloody-loose from his skin in his haste – and as he freed them he saw what they’d been caught in.

Another blow, sluggish and faltering, and the carriage door crashed inwards, splinters digging into everything. Behind it, teeth gnashed, and then they lunged. And oh, as those terrible womanly jaws descended, they met the fierce banded steel and collapsible snare of the ring of St Mantleroy’s mother, and with a quick spring-loaded SNAP they were seized shut tight.

“Got you,” mumbled Robert as she reeled back in shock. And then they both passed out.

***

A winter wedding was an auspicious event, if somewhat cramped and snowy. Everyone and anyone had come out to the old Throebark estate; even the poorer townsfolk had been given tents and hot drinks to celebrate at a polite distance from the folk of quality.

“A most successful engagement, I must say,” said old Curmulleon Throebark, nodding stiffly as he overlooked the bridal paddock. Within it, the lady in question crunched her way through her second cow of the evening, her great scaly tail slowly lashing the air with quiet pleasure.

“Tell that to St Mantleroy,” said Robert moodily, swirling his drink as if it had insulted him. “The poor bastard. One thing. Just one little thing slips his mind, and it was over for him. The poor absent-minded over-fretful bastard. Hell, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, and don’t be daft either,” said the older man sharply. “You know full well what the casualty rates are like for this kind of thing, and you still went with him and did all you could. That it wasn’t enough to save his life speaks no shame upon his character or yours, and I won’t have you besmirching either of those things on your wedding day, am I clear?”
“Sir,” managed Robert. And Curmulleon passed him a handkerchief and looked the other way for a minute for reasons wholly unrelated to their conversation, as was socially appropriate.

“She’s a grand old beauty for sure,” he remarked. “Forty-five-footer?”
“Forty-six,” said Robert eventually. “And twelve at the shoulder.”

“Gad, I’m shocked one of you made it out of there at all. Well, welcome to the family, the both of you. And cheer up: you’re only getting married, not getting murdered, no matter what the bachelors say. It’s really quite a tolerable life, especially once she learns how to talk.”

Thanks, thanks, glad to be here.  Now give me a second – there, and uh… crap.  How do these things get harder to use every year?  Where’s the power button?  Okay.  Right.  Thanks.  Good.

So, we all know why we’re here – let’s skip the preamble and the happy-to-meet-yous and get right down to business. 

First things first and the most obvious issue: we’ve got a lot of prime land down by the river crying out to be used that’s currently buried in a tangle of uselessly domesticated monoculture crops, where it isn’t slowly slithering out to sea.  We clear that off, we can start putting down succession from the pioneer species onwards – get the weedy little shits in there fast so they can start shading the soil and sinking their greedy fingers into it before it all oozes away.  That’s a good initial step, but I think we can do better: a lot of this terrain is low-lying because it’s drained marshlands.  We can set those up again once there’s enough greenery in place to prevent erosion from sweeping everything in one fell swoop; get things nice and sludgy again and turn this all into a proper filtration plant that can clean up the water for a population of millions. 

Next up, we need a proper downtown.  The good news is we have a great place for it, the bad news is we’ve currently we’ve got a pile of ugly skyscrapers covering it.  I know those things suck to clear, especially the stumps, but there’s no helping it: they’ve got to come down and it’s got to be done.  And it’s not all bad: you can sell the scrap cheap for habitat construction. 

Once we’ve chopped down the buildings and broken up the concrete, you’re looking at prime foundational land for an old growth city core.  Accelerate the succession because it can take it; really burn through those first few years of sun-tolerant ground-coverers, get through the disturbance and start laying the foundations for a place where you’ll have to crane your neck straight back if you want to glimpse the sky because it’ll be wall-to-wall ancient hardwoods.  Transit will be painless: an arboreal traveller will be able to slip straight from one side of the place to the other without ever once touching the ground, and the number of accessible branches per station will be luxurious and affordable.

Speaking of transit, I want to take a moment to address this head-on: yes, we’re incorporating carbon taxes into the basic requirements of our infrastructure.  I won’t mince words, you can’t do modern planning without it, and if you plan to attract good, sturdy woodlands to your area you’ll let them take away your carbon without complaining.  If you don’t want to have your carbon taxed why not ditch society entirely, eat your meals cooked, and go sleep in a suburban duplex like some kind of drooling hominid. 

Right.  So we’ve got our filtration sorted, we’ve got a long-term project for the downtown, and now we need to plan water access.  I’ll be blunt, right now it’s not great: we’ve got a concrete waterfront that totally obstructs commercial and private access to detritus and green algae, and a correspondingly grossly impoverished population of marine life.  We need to get in there and renew things, give them the tools and the space they need to stand on their own fins – ‘give a fish a worm for a day/give a fish access to water filled with wriggling things that fit in their mouth for the rest of their lives’, you know how it is.  So we’ll dredge the landside of the shoreline until we hit dirt and then and start infilling the channel and the harbour until they’ve got a healthy silt layer at the bottom again.  This is something that’ll take time too, but the good bit is that the better our other projects do, the faster it’ll happen: we get the filtration sorted, and no more phosphorus-driven algae blooms.  We get the downtown revitalized, more organic matter is getting dumped into the river and washed into the bay.  And once you’ve given enough to the water, it’ll start giving it back – detritus for beached carcasses; bugs for fish; land nutrient for deepwater sediment.  I cannot overstate the fundamental importance of free and fair current exchange in prosperity. 

Now, I’ve saved your biggest problem for last, but don’t think it’s unsolvable.  Yes, you’ve got a lot of untenable unproductive suburban wastes sprawling around the hinterland.  No, tearing up every single isolated family dwelling, swimming pool, driveway, and garage one-at-a-time would not be a productive use of anyone’s time. Yes, the soil is poor.  No, it won’t be a world center of productivity, look good on a brochure, or be the thing you brag about to your colleagues anytime soon. 

But you know what it can be?  Something goddamned usable, which it isn’t right now.  Plot it out as mixed-use woodland, and stay hands-light – it’ll never be the star of the show, but let the traffic take its way with it and watch what happens and I bet you’ll see potential in there you weren’t aware of.  Parks can turn into copses; lawns can become meadows.  Don’t try to measure the sow’s ear for a silk purse right away, start curing the leather and think about wallets.  Give it half a century and come back to it ready to make a new plan once the lemons have gotten lemonaded. 

So there it is.  You have hundreds of square kilometres of cement-and-rebar wilderness out there right now, yes.  But now you ALSO have the plans and the potential for hundreds of square kilometres of vitalized, energetic, world-class economically-active multi-biome civil society.  You’re welcome. 

Yes, I know this is a lot of work.  Yes, I know it’s going to take ages.  But unurban planning done properly is all about the long term, gentlecritters, and if you’re planning long term you’re either thinking big or you’re screwing up. 

‘What about the hominids?’  What about them?  Go join a preservation society if you want to, that’s not my problem.  Bleeding-heart dogs and cats always asking ‘what about the hominids, what about the hominids’ – if they’re so damned smart and adaptable they’ll tool-use themselves along just fine.  Now let me do my damned job.

Cindy watched, and Cindy waited.

Cindy was watching from the second floor of the house, out her bedroom window. Cindy was waiting for the snowball fight to start.

“You’re too little,” Rob had told her, and he hadn’t meant that.

“You’re a GIRL,” Charlie had told her, and he HAD meant that, and so had Rob.

“It’s for the best,” her father had said, without looking at her (he couldn’t look at her without not looking at the newspaper). “You could get hurt.”
“It’s alright,” her mother had told her, in that specific way that meant it wasn’t, but she understood and was sorry about it. “Snowball fights aren’t much fun anyways. Just slush in your shirt and cold down your neck.”

Cindy had already experienced slush in her shirt and cold down her neck because Rob and Charlie had thrown her in a snowbank before when she was being irritating, and she’d really liked the idea of having a chance at doing that to somebody else.

***

“It’s a very nice… something,” Cindy’s teacher told her. “But it’s not really proper for show-and-tell. It’s just a cereal box.”
“I made it better,” said Cindy. And she’d used scissors and markers and a few leftover stickers from Christmas to do it, too, turning it into a jack-o-lantern mixed with a spiderweb mixed with a snowflake, because Halloween was her favourite but it was winter now. It had taken some careful destructive thought, particularly when her mother had found her using the wrong scissors – the big, sharp kind.

“Well, that’s all well and good, and you’ve done a fine job. But maybe next time you’re making something better, try beginning with a different something.”

“Did I do it wrong?”

“No, no, you did it properly. You did a very good job with your canvas. But I bet you could do an even better job with better materials. A cereal box is just a little… mass-produced.”

***

Cindy had offered her brothers a snowball, as proof of her sincerity and drive.

“This isn’t really a snowball,” said Rob. “It’s all uneven and lumpy.”

“This is garbage,” said Charlie. “Look at how it just falls apart – did you even pack this? She didn’t even pack this. Did you just squeeze a handful of snow until it went hard?”

“You’ve got to roll them – like this, see?” said Rob, polishing the soft snow between his mittens. “Then it’s a proper snowball. Now it’ll hit what you throw it at.”
“Yeah, and it’ll stick together long enough to actually GET to it. This was garbage. Half of it’s just crust – you need to take softer stuff and pack it until it TURNS hard, look! Don’t you know anything?”

And Cindy watched, and Cindy waited.

***

“What’s ‘mass-produced’?” she asked her mother that night, as her homework was packed up.

“Oh, it means to make lots of something all at once in a factory, like I did during the war,” said her mother.

“What does it make?”
“I made bomb casings, but mass production can be anything as long as it’s being made in big batches. Like cars, or coats, or those cookies you wanted me to buy last week. As long as there’s lots of them and they’re all the same.”
“Oh. So it’s not special?”
“It’s a way of making things that are… sort of the opposite of special, yes.”

“Oh.”

***

She had gone inside and moved a chair from the dining room (quietly, because she wasn’t supposed to) and stood on it (VERY quietly, because she REALLY wasn’t supposed to) and reached up, up, up into the freezer where her numbing fingers quested and poked and prodded until they touched a slippery, plastic frame, brittle with cold and filled with cold little weights.

Then she brought them up to her bedroom.

And Cindy watched, and Cindy waited.

***

Just before bed, when her mother’s hand had just left the switch and the dark was new and fresh, she finally found the question. “Is there a way to make things that are special?”
“Of course,” she said, and Cindy’s eyes could hear her smile.

“How do I do that?”
“You already do it every day, sweet-pea. From everything around you.”

“Everything?”
“Everything.”
Cindy fell asleep fast. The thought followed her into it.

***

And Cindy watched, and Cindy waited, and Cindy AIMED, and just as Rob and Charlie finished shaking hands and turned their backs on each other to walk back to their forts she let fly and dropped a single, perfect, fresh-from-the-freezer ice cube from the cheap little plastic tray at her side directly down the back of Charlie’s neck.

Yes, thought Cindy as the slush flew – along with the odd fist and some VERY odd words – and repainted the back yard in a gorgeous, dizzying swirl of frigid meltwater and bitter acrimony. Yes, given the proper preparation and context, you can make art come from anything. Even from the mass-produced.

The ship is enormous and state of the art and unbearably inexpensive and perfect and it is sinking.

The human next to it is barely worth noticing.  He’s sinking too.  Already the rim of the ice is towering above him, his arms straining to grip its lowermost edge, frictionless and scrabbling.  He’s very good at math, his eyes have been checked many times in his life; he can measure and determine the exact velocity of his doom as it’s swallowing him. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

***

The idea was natural.  Nobody worth knowing had been there, and he was worth knowing, so he would go there.  He would go there and learn things and experience danger and come back and be a hero and a bringer of fresh new wisdom that everyone would love and could be used to remove the tawdry old musty wisdom they had lying around the place that nobody liked. 

***

Danger was a word to him back them which implied not problems, but a certain looseness of safety caused by an increase of uncertainty.  An untied shoelace was dangerous.  A dark wood was dangerous.  Forgetting to wear gloves in low temperatures was dangerous.

His current situation is not dangerous.  It’s perilous.  Peril sounds higher-pitched than danger, more alarmed, more immediate.  Piranhas in the pool with you.  A lightning storm outside your airplane.  A close-quarters gunfight.  A close-quarters gunfight in the piranha-filled pool inside your airplane in a lightning storm. 

Peril sounded very distinct back then, something that could be avoided by common sense and good preparation, both separable and distinguishable from the danger that he was to consign himself into.  Now he’s starting to think they’re just points on a gradient, and that he might have misread it.  Yes, peril is in the ice’s creak under his nails.  But it had been creaking for ages before this moment.  Maybe he should’ve listened closer.

***

The planning was beautiful.  A wonder-swirl of dreams sharpened and filed and measured and remeasured and plotted onto files and studied until the construction happened and they became real. 

Having become real, there was no way for the plans to fail.  That was how it worked.  It was simply impossible for it to be any other way. 

***

A deep, heartfelt groan that makes his hands shake and his body slide another unmeasurable too-far distance.  The ship is settling farther.  Sliding deeper.  Listening to gravity.

He really wishes it wouldn’t.  He really wishes he wasn’t.  He really hates gravity, which is something he’s never experienced before.  Feelings this strong about basic physics should belong to professors. 

***

The voyage was miraculous.  Transformational.  Imagine spinning in a little circle, eyes open, and everything you see is new – not just for you, but for anyone.  Nobody else has ever seen it, nobody else has ever known it.  Just you.  Just you. 

Oh, he couldn’t wait for it.  He loved it.  Loved how the cold crackled along the outside of the ship, how with every second more and more of the fingerprints of its makers flaked away and were left in his wake.  Cleaning it.  Making it less theirs, cutting the cords that little bit shorter, stretching the distance that little bit farther.  It was alone now out here, which meant it was also him.  He was enormous and state of the art and unbearably expensive and he wasn’t sinking. 

It wasn’t going to be like that. 

***

The ice isn’t quite as slick anymore underneath the manic grip of his fingers.  That’s because pieces of it are coming off.  The pieces he’s holding onto.  It’s rough and jagged and sharp and his own weight is cutting into his gloves.  Luckily it’s cold enough that the pain is barely there; sucked away the moment it registers in his palms. 

***

The disaster was caused by the same thing as usual: something small and unworthy of attention.  A defect in the ship, but what caused that?  What put it there?  The underpaid, overworked factory employees who sealed it?  The management that refused to pay them or give them free time?  The world that encouraged both of those things in profusion?  The history that made the world?  Small things unworthy of attention. 

Anyways, the ship hit a bump.  And the bump turned into a drag.  And the drag ended in a lurch. And the crew were in the right place at that wrong time and now look what’s happened. 

Small things unworthy of attention. 

***

Which makes it even funnier that he can’t get all of those small things out of his head right now, at this precise moment.  Even as his fingers – without apparent cause – cease functioning. 

Your brain really WILL try anything in an emergency.  He’s almost calm by now. 

And so he slides over the edge with relaxed muscles and slackened grip, into the abyss, off the icy roof of the garage through six feet of cold December air into a wet December slush heap where the plow has piled an entire street’s-worth of grey gunk into a towering monument to hubris – a Christmas tree that finally receives its topping angel.   

His ship goes after him and bounces off his head.  The plastic goes ‘donk’ when it does that.  And it goes ‘crunch’ when it lands. 

“Fuck!” he says very loudly without thinking, at precisely the moment a large, irritated human parent opens his and their front door to see what the fuss is about.

***

And so the expedition went down in infamy and disaster, a warning to all who had not participated in it – a somewhat smug little tale of good judgement’s necessity for those who’d naysaid it from the start; a prudent reminder of pitfalls to be avoided for those who’d felt a bit of wistfulness as they watched it leave safe harbour. 

The sled, alas, was cracked right down the middle.  Totally useless.