jamieproctor.ca

Ding.

Janice knew that doorbell better than the voice of her own mother.  It was bright and loud and cheery and a pleasure to hear – as if what it signified wasn’t a pleasure enough in and of itself. 

A new guest!  A new visitor seeking shelter from the storm of the world under the generous boughs of wow that metaphor had gotten away from her but yes, a guest!  A guest!  A guest!

“Welcome!” she said happily as the guest hurried in out of the rain.  “How can we assi-”

“Room for the night, door with a good lock, don’t ask questions,” said the guest, hurriedly brushing unmentionable fluids off her trenchcoat with one hand and clamping the other over an oozing tear in her left arm. 

“Certainly, ma’am!  Is that a gun in your pocket?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”
Janice’s eyes popped wide in shock.  “Of course not, ma’am!  I wouldn’t dream of forcing your privacy!  But we do have rooms with gun safes.”
“I need it on my person at all times.”
“Of course, of course, of course.  You’re in 48a, on the third floor.”  Janice smacked the bell and Toby came around the corner, eventually.  “Toby!  Please take this fine woman’s belongings upstairs for her.”
“I don’t have luggage.”
“Toby!  Please take this fine woman to her room.”
“I can find my own way.”
Janice put on her most concerned expression.  “Ma’am, the Highview Hotel & Hospitality is among the oldest buildings in the city, and its architecture can be a little…esoteri- oh she’s gone already.  Toby!  Go back to whatever it is you were doing.”
Toby saluted and lurched back to her corner.  Janice watched her go with suspicion: yes, she was a hard worker and never complained, but there was something ambiguously sarcastic about that.  A proper employee should feel some minor level of detectable hatred towards their boss; anything less was worrying. 

Ding.  Ding.  Ding ding ding ding ding. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Janice, spinning in place.  “Welcome!”
“About time,” said the guest.  “This place used to have some class.  When I was young your grandmother would have NEVER let a customer get as far as the first bell, let alone the second!  Sloppy.  Sloppy sloppy sloppy.  I knew you’d turn out this way, Janice Grace Fletcher, and I knew your mother would turn out that way too.  Idle!  Idle and superficial and unappreciative!  Oh your grandmother did her best, but you can’t teach those that won’t listen, let me tell you what, and your mother never listened to anyone but herself, and you – well, that’s the one thing you ever learned from anyone!  Ungrateful.  Ungrateful whelps squandering the hard work of your betters, the lot of you.  I’ve half a mind to never come here again but I owe it to your grandmother’s memory, my best friend, god rest her soul, never complained a day in her life even though a lesser woman would’ve stabbed you all to death in your sleep and called it justice.  She could’ve done it, too; she was a dab hand with a cleaver.  Lord that woman was the finest butcher in town, and did it while running a hotel full-time and raising the worst and most troublesome daughter ever created – at least, until YOU came along.”
“Will you be taking your usual room then, Ms. Hatskill?” asked Janice cheerfully. 
“Mrs.  My husband is dead but I’m not forgetting him, you insinuating, scheming little bitch.  The insolence, the sheer gall, the unmitigated bitchery of you.  Why I should claw your face off with hot pokers and call it mercy, the barbs and the taunts and the nastiness you give to me for nothing, you cold-hearted, vicious sack of pond scum in a dress.”
“And will you be having room service tomorrow morning?”
“Stop making fun of me!  I won’t have it.  I’ve done nothing to deserve this sort of treatment.  The eggs should be over easy.  I hate it when they aren’t.”
“Wonderful.  Toby!  Take Ms. Hatskill’s luggage upstairs.”
“I don’t trust that big lug with my belongings.”
Toby picked up Ms. Hatskill’s suitcase in one hand and Ms. Hatskill in the other and went upstairs, shuffling three steps at a time.  The staircase was creaking more than usual; Janice knew she’d have to look into that.  It would be expensive, but the last thing they needed was another Crash Tuesday.  Word of things like that tended to travel unpleasantly far and fast. 

Ding!

“Welcome!” she said.  What a woolgathering day it was.  “How can we assist you?”
“Room,” said what she was sure must be the guest because bears couldn’t talk. 

If they did, though, they’d probably sound like this.  Goodness, the poor thing was almost half as big as Toby. 

“Certainly!  For one night, or-”

“Number.”  One paw held up a blurred photo of a woman in a trenchcoat. 

“Oh!  You’re staying with her, then?  She didn’t mention a friend.”
“Not friends.”
“Oh my.  Well, lips are sealed!  We are very discreet in these matters, don’t fret.  Here’s a key, and have fun!”
“Yes.  Yes.  Fun.”

Ding!

Oh there’d been another guest somewhere behind the last.  A lineup!  An actual, honest to goodness lineup, here at the Highview Hotel & Hospitality!  It had been years since she’d seen the like, when that comic convention had come to town.  “Welcome!”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to hit the bell,” said the man, who would’ve probably been invisible behind even an average guest.  His extraordinarily bald head gleamed at chest height.  “Reflex.  I travel a lot.”
“Oh that’s perfectly fine, don’t fret.  It’s like an old friend to me.  Now, what will you be needing?”
“Room for the night, please.  A suite, if one’s available.”

“Of course, of course, of course.”  Janice fished the key out of the drawer and flipped it into his hand with one motion.  “Toby!”

Toby took the last flight of stairs at a lunge, and the floor boomed.  “Please take this fine gentleman to 50a.”

Toby didn’t say a lot, but her eyebrows rose.   Still, she plucked the guest like an apple and was on her way before he could so much as ask questions. 

Well.  Well well well.  To think she’d have Milo York, famed hotel reviewer, under her roof!  No doubt trying to review incognito, clever thing.  But Janice had a good eye for receding hairlines, and there was no disguising that dome, no matter the tricks. 

Ding!

“Welcome!” she said, and she meant it even more than usual.  What a busy evening this was. 

“Hello,” said the police officer.  “Ma’am, we have some questions for you.  Do you recognize either of these women?”
Janice peered closely at the photos.  “Why, they’re in 48a!  Don’t tell me you’re staying there too?  It’s only got one bed.  Well, not that there’s anything wrong with that sort of-”

“Ma’am it’s a matter of life and death.  Give me the keys.”

“Oh!  Oh my.  Here you go.”
The officer nodded and hurried up the stairs.  Maybe they should get an elevator at last, budget permitting.  Life and death!  How exciting.

Ding!

“Welcome!”  Oh, it was a couple.  How cute.  They were holding each other’s hands and everything oh goodness. 

“Overnight, please,” they said as one. 

“Certainly!  Here’s 47c.  It’s a suite, and if you need room service, don’t hesitate to leave word.”

“We are joyous,” they intoned.  “Praise be matter.  Praise be flesh.”
“Indeed, thank you,” said Janice.  Religious types.  Well, it took all kinds.  “If you’ll wait a moment, Toby can take your luggage.”
“We travel unburdened of all inorganic material,” they told her.  “Our weight is in our minds, ponderous and immortal, our minds are in our bodies, renewed and everconsuming.  We go now.”
They went then. 

Hmm.  Toby wasn’t getting much of a workout tonight.  Janice hoped she wouldn’t grow fat and lazy.  Who would put the guests in their rooms?  Who would bring room service?  Who would pick up suitcases?  Who would shovel?  Her hands were too soft and small for such brute work. 

Bong.  Bong.  Bong.

Oh dear.

The front desk phone was NOT the desk bell.  It was solemn and deep and foreboding and it usually meant someone was unhappy.  Unhappy enough to do something about it, no less, which was a real problem.  In Janice’s experience, most unhappiness was happy enough to make you sit and sulk. 

“Front desk speaking, how may we assist you?’

“My breakfast is late.”
“It’s 7:30 PM, Ms. Hatskill.”
“Who do you think you are, to dictate to me when I can and can’t take breakfast, you insolent little guttersnipe?”
“Well, normally you prefer it at 8:03 PM sharp.”
“Oh, so now I’m bound by tradition?  I’m rigid and unimaginative?  I’m predictable and boring?  Is there no end to your rudeness?  Get me the usual and make it happen in six minutes or I’m phoning all my friends to tell them EXACTLY what kind of granddaughter poor Eugenia ended up with.”
“Understood perfectly, Ms. Hatskill,” said Janice, and she hung up. 

Well now.  That could make things more difficult. 

Bong.  Bong.  Bong. 

Oh dear. 

“Front desk speaking, how may we assist you?’

“We are troubled.” 

Janice took a deep breath and ignored the trembles in her hand.  “We’re very sorry to hear that.  What seems to be the problem?”
“There are loud noises from the room next door.”
Oh.  Oh MY. 

“Oh dear.  I’m sorry to hear that.  We’ll send Toby up to ask them to keep it down.  There’s a time and a place for fun, but it shouldn’t come at the expense of consideration for others.”

“There is great violence.”
“It’s not my place to judge, sorry,” said Janice.  “We’ll get right on that.  Goodbye.”
She hung up and felt her worry curdling into annoyance.  The nerve of some people.  Yes, there was such a thing as being too noisy, but it was none of their business what others did in the bedroom beyond its volume.  Honestly. 

“Toby!” she called. 

There was a thump, and thud, and a crash, and Toby emerged through the nearest wall. 

“Oh not AGAIN.  Stop doing that!”
Toby regarded her with bland and totally false obedience. 

“Oh, fine.  Could you please stop by 48a and politely ask them to be a little quieter?  Be apologetic about it; it’s not really their fault that they’re next door to a couple of prudish preachers.  If they complain again we’ll just move the whiners.”

Toby indicated her understanding and backed through the wall.  Sometimes Janice wasn’t quite sure how she managed to get around the building without using the staircases, but it certainly was faster, so she tried not to pry. 

Bong. 

Bong. 

Bong.

Janice breathed.  It took some remembering, but she got there.  By the skin of her teeth. 

“Front desk speaking, how may we assist you?’

“There’s… noises.  Coming from the closet.”
Janice prided herself on her professionalism.  She prided herself on her tight control of her temper.  But she’d had to deal with Ms. Hatskill and three separate instances of the front desk phone that night, and she had real, human limits. 

And besides, it wasn’t as if exceeding them produced real problems.  She just got a little short, that was all. 

“It’s fine,” she said.  “Nothing major.  Don’t make sudden movements or feed it.  Goodnight, Mr. York.”
“What?  But-”

Janice hung up.  She was in no mood to tolerate Milo York’s feeble attempts at pretending he was someone else. 

Bong bong bong “oh FUCK OFF.”
“Language!  Your grandmother never swore a day in her life, not even the day her heartless bloodless whore of a daughter told her she’d taken up with a lout of a tramp and had already gotten pregnant out of wedlock, god rest her vile devil-spawned soul.  I should expect such things from you, coming from sin as you did, but there’s no forgiveness for not at least trying to rise above your filthy origins, and I don’t deserve to hear such horrible things.”

“How can we help you,” said Janice. 

“My breakfast is late.”
“It’s been three minutes.”
“What has service come to if it’s not early.  The early bird gets the worm, we all know that, but do they ever tell the children these days what happens to the late bird?  It starves.  It starves and it deserves it, for its sloth, for its indolence, for its ingratitude for the joy of hard, harsh work scraping its soul clean of vile laziness and mortal frailty.  Labour is the wire brush of eternity, I tell you what, and I’ll tell you again and again until it finally sticks, even if your mother never ever listened to me a day in her life.  Nobody’s beyond reach, you know, not even-”

“Fuck off,” said Janice.  “Fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck offfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff” and she hung up and felt very happy again for the first time since she’d heard the front desk phone ring. 

Toby wasn’t back yet.  She hoped the guests were being tractable; Toby could be quite diplomatic when she had to be, but she was in no mood for more difficulties. 

An unearthly screech came from the stairs, followed immediately by the two guests from 47c, grown vast and wormlike, undulating bonelessly from step to step and singing through their six mouths and watching with their twelve eyes and taking great steaming breathes through their single cavernous nostril that seemed to swallow light and choke the air to death with every inhalation. 

“Hello!” said Janice.  “What seems to be the problem?”
THE SOUNDS THE SOUNDS THE SOUNDS THE SOUNDS THE SOUNDS THE SOUNDS

IN

THE

SOUNDS SOUNDS SOUNDS SOUNDS SOUNDS SOUNDS SOUNDS SOUNDS SOUNDS

WALLS

“I’ve sent Toby upstairs to ask them to keep it down, so if you could please calm yourself, I promise it will all be fine again shortly.  We apologize for the inconvenience.”
The guests slid over to the front desk, flowed themselves into a pillar of molten flesh that stretched up to the ceiling, and gaped wide their primary jaws before Toby fell through the ceiling covered in burning oil and landed directly on top of them. 

“Thank you, Toby,” said Janice.  “Oh dear.  Those ladies are playing rough, eh?”
Toby nodded as she carefully extinguished each fire with her palm, one after another, making little hamburger hissing noises. 

“Well, I think we don’t have to worry about warning them off again, now that this is sorted.  Be a dear and dig a new plot out back, will you?”  She tilted her head a little and listened through the gap in the ceiling.  “Or maybe two.  Just in case.  My word that is a LOT of gunfire.”

Bong.  Bong.  Bong. 

“One moment.  Front desk speaking, how may we assist you?”

“The door won’t open.”
Janice sighed.  “Mr. York, the key turns counter-clockwise until it clicks.  It’s a very loud click, you’ll know it when you-”

“It’s gone.  The door is gone.  The door is gone and the floor’s going next.  It’s just..nothing.  There’s nothing there.  Where the hell have you put me?  What is this?”

“Mr. York… did you feed it?”
“What?”
“The voice from the closet.”
“It said if I didn’t it would come out!”
“Well, it was lying to you, Mr. York.  I warned you.  Goodbye.”
“Wai-”

Janice hung up and sighed, bone-deep, soul-hard.  “Make that three plots, Toby.”
Bong.  Bong.  Bong.

“Front d-”

“Still no breakfast, no matter how nicely I ask, no matter how-”

“Four plots, Toby,” said Janice. 

Toby raised all of her eyebrows. 

“Yes, I know I’ve been optimistic about this before,” said Janice.  She reached into the door next to the room keys and felt around for a handle, notched and battle-worn.  “But eighth time’s the charm, right?”

Toby raised all of her other eyebrows. 

“Try, try again?”
Toby’s eyebrows did a complicated little dance. 

“Oh, come off it.  Go dig some graves and wish me luck.  Fuck, I hate the busy season.”

“Like taking candy from a baby,” Maurice said with satisfaction, as the ranger’s jeep slid around a corner and out of sight. 

“What?” I asked.  “He pulled us over, checked our day passes, and waved us on.  We didn’t exactly have to lie here.”
“He asked if we were here for business or pleasure and we told him it was a vacation,” said Maurice, his beard bristling smugly. 

“Oh whatever,” I said.  There was no arguing with him when he was like this.  Determined to be happy about something. 

***

The site had been well-chosen: tucked around three quiet bends and at the farthest end of a no-canoeing lake.  No traffic.  No witnesses.

Thank god there were no witnesses.

“Do you HAVE to wear that thing?”

Maurice swept a hand over his… garment.  “I’m the host!  The narrator!  People expect a certain level of personality.”
“That’s not a personality, that’s the visual equivalent of a psychotic break from reality.  My god, my eyes hurt even when I’m not looking at it.”

“What’s wrong with it?”
“Even the BUTTONS clash, that’s what’s wrong with it.”  Puce and peppermint swirl should not mix. 

“Oh, fie.  Now are you ready?”
“Fine.”
“Steady?”

“Sure.”
“And… go!”
I flipped the switch on the camera and Maurice’s smile got even wider.  It almost made it out of his beard. 

“Welcome to the private lives of North American lake monsters.  Today we’ll be taking a look at that most reclusive of species: Dermapteracetacea ogopogo – or, as it’s more commonly known, the ‘pogo.  Originally and famously known from Okanagan Lake, the ‘pogos are the largest living animals known to live in the continent.  Assuming, of course, that you can find them.  Today, we’re here at Lake – edit in this thing’s name in post – to do just that.  Cut.”
I turned off the camera.  “Really?  Already making work for me?”
“Oh it’ll be fine, we can run that last line over panning footage of the lake.  Now let’s get the canoe cracking.”

“We’re going canoeing on a backwoods lake you don’t even know the name of?”
“It’s safe, it’s safe, it’s safe.  They wouldn’t let people go back here if it wasn’t safe.”

“We’re trying to get footage of a lake monster.”
“And that’s perfectly safe so long as you don’t agitate it!  Very peaceable creatures, ‘pogos.  We’re far too small and bony to be in their prey range.  Now, if we were mooses, that’d be another story.”

“Moose,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“The plural of moose is moose.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, who’s the documentary host here you or me?  Now put these oars away and help me get this stupid canoe off the car.”
“Paddles.”
“Whatever.”

“This,” I said, “is exactly why we stopped dating.”

***

It was a nice lake, I had to admit.  Still, deep, heavily-wooded.  You could almost hear the air breathe it was so quiet. 

“Lake – fix it in post – is typical of ‘pogo habitat: deep, stagnant waters.  The lack of oxygen at the bottom, which would choke any organism with gills, is of no account to the air-breathing ‘pogo, providing it with a quiet, empty place to spend its days in serene solitude.  When it isn’t eating, it’s dreaming.  Cut.  Tom, you’re not aiming the camera at my face properly.”

“I’m paddling,” I said.

“Can’t you do that one-handed?”
“No.”
“Just let us drift then.  Come on.  Time is money.”
“We’ve never sold a single copy of this stuff.”
“And the public thanks us for providing them with quality scientific information free of charge!  Now pick up that camera and get a nice long panning shot of Lake whatsitsname.”

I sighed, but I also did what I was told.  Character flaw.

“In modern times, lakes like these have acquired another valuable trait for ‘pogos: they are obscure, and as such protect them from illicit hands.  The organs of a ‘pogo are worth very nearly their weight in gold, which, considering the animal’s size, is quite something.  A single successful hunt can let a poacher team retire for life.  Here, in the backwaters of national parks, under legal protection and the blanket of obscurity, are one of the last refuges of these gentle giants.  Cut, let’s break out the hydrosonic thingy.”

The hydrosonic thingy was broken out.  It looked like a headset wrapped in six layers of waterproof plastic and it was exactly that.  Maurice tossed it overboard with a merry splosh. 

“How deep do we place it?” I asked. 

“Until you hit bottom, then a little back.”
“Right.  How deep is this lake?”
“How should I know?”
“Did you plan ANYTHING about this trip?  Jesus, are there even any lake monsters here?”

Maurice looked affronted.  “Certainly!  Probably.  It’s worth a shot.  Have a listen on the hydrosonic thingy.”

I switched it on.  Nothing but the low slow gurgle of water. 

“It could be dreaming,” said Maurice.  “They’re quiet when they dream.”
“Maurice,” I said, conveying as much hatred and menace as I could manage in that name, “this was my first weekend off in four months.”

“Yes, and-”

“And you said you’d planned everything.”
“From a certain-”

“And that it wouldn’t be like last time.”
“Well –”

“And that we’d be getting paid.”

“Public recognition and exposure are-”

“I quit,” I said. 

“I – you what?”

“I quit.  I quit, I quit.  I quit.  I quit.  I quit quit quit quit.”  I picked up the paddles and began to heave back to shore.  “I’m getting out and I’m putting this away and I’m driving back home and if you want to come that’s fine but if you’d rather stay here I’m not stopping you.  We’re six last straws deep and that’s more than enough for any human being to bear.”
“Wait-”

“Nope.  Not waiting.”
“Liste-”

“Not listening.  Not being reasonable, not going to sit and listen to you go on and on and ON god this is EXACTLY why we broke up, you never ever do anything but talk!  How’s it feel, huh?  How’s it feel to be talked over?”
“Look-”

“Not getting a word in edgewise?  Not getting a say in what’s said?  Oh, no wonder you wanted to be the narrator, it’s a chance to be the only voice making any noise!  Just talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk!”

The canoe touched land, and as I turned to face it the soft, buttery-shiny metal of a gun’s barrel gently kissed my nose. 

“Hey,” said the poacher, ten thousand miles away at the other end of the weapon.  “Please step out of the canoe, okay?  But maybe put your hands on your head first.”  Somewhere behind him four other men were heaving a heavy outboard off a trailer attached to an SUV, a nice homey vehicle that should’ve held a soccer mom and dad and two point five suburban spawn. 
“Alright,” I said.  Behind me, Maurice made an insufferably put-upon sigh.  “Are you going to shoot my friend?”
“Not if you shut up and do what you’re told.”

“No, I mean, please.  Please do that.”
“Excuse me?” asked Maurice.  “Nobody’s shooting anybody.  Or anything, for that matter.  Why do you think you can get away with this?  You can’t possibly smuggle a carcass that big past the rangers.”

“Well,” said the park ranger, stepping out of the SUV, “it all depends who’s asking.”

***

“You won’t get away with this,” said Maurice. 

The park ranger raised his eyebrows.  They’d given us the courtesy of not tying our hands, but that was a level of politeness you could afford when two separate guns were pointed at us from several large, plaid-clad men.  “You keep saying that.”
“It’s still true.”
“Haven’t explained how.”
“Well… you won’t get away with this.”
The park ranger sighed and looked at me.  “He always like this?”
“Yes.”

“Well, at least you won’t have to deal with it much longer,” he said, cheerily.  “Pat, kill the engine, we’re here.”
Middle of the lake.  Which, I realized, was pretty much where me and Maurice had been. 

“So there IS a ‘pogo here?” asked Maurice. 

“Yep,” said the ranger. 

“Well, that’s a surprise.  We couldn’t find anything.”
I blinked. 

“What?” asked the largest poacher, who was apparently Pat, from his position at the engine. 

“Not a single sound.  It was a promising site, but no dice.”
“There’s one here,” said the ranger. 

“Nope.  Not a sliver of a trace.”
“You’re full of shit,” said the ranger. 

“He’d better be,” said Pat.  “You said this was a confirmed sighting.”
“It is!”
“It is,” agreed Maurice.  “Sure thing for nothing.”
“Shut up.”
“Yeah, shut up,” said Pat.  “You have no idea how much money this kind of firepower costs. We’re not gonna be wasting our time here on anything less than a sure thing.”

“The hydrosonic thingy didn’t pick up so much as a sneeze,” said Maurice.  “If there was a ‘pogo here, it’s long gone.  That’s the trouble with relying on eyewitness accounts: they’re overeager.  Some folks’ll call any old log a lake monster sighting.”
“Shut up,” said Pat.  But there was doubt in it now. 
“They’re full of shit,” said the ranger. 

“Shut up,” repeated Pat.  “And you throw their hydrosonic thingy overboard.  Let’s make sure before we drop the depth charges.  I ain’t spending six grand of explosives on dead lakebottom.”

The ranger opened his mouth, saw something he didn’t like in Pat’s eyes, and did as he was told.  For the second time that day I watched the little plastic-wrapped, lead-weighted bundle sink with a splish. 

“I’m not hearing anything,” said one of the other poachers, fiddling with our receiver.  “Just gurgles.”

“You’ve got it set on broadcast, not receive,” said Maurice helpfully. 

“Shut up,” said the poacher.  But he flipped the lever anyways. 

Dead silence filled the air in a progressively ugly way. 

“So,” said Pat in the very casual way of someone so angry their teeth were eating each other.  “Sure thing, wasn’t it?”
The ranger’s hand twitched towards his belt.  The gun there looked a lot smaller than Pat’s rifle, although that could’ve been because the long gun was in the poacher’s hands already.  Amazing how much bigger weapons get when they’re aimed at you.  “It was,” he said.  “It is!”
“I’m not hearing anything.”
“Of course you’re not hearing anything!  They’re quiet!”
“Uh-huh.  This a sting?”
“No!  I’m in it as much as you are!

“For a promotion, more like.”
“I’m not!”
“Prove it.”
“I’ll shove them overboard myself,” said the ranger.  “We need the bait anyways.”
“Excuse me?” asked Maurice. 

“Shut up.  And that’s proving nothing if there’s nothing there to eat them.  Nah, you want to prove you’re in?”  Shoot ‘em first.”
“Excuse me?” asked Maurice. 

“Shut up!” shouted the ranger.  “Where the hell do you get off, listening to a couple of idiots over me!  I’ve put my goddamned career on the line for you morons, I planned this, and-”

“Excuse me,” said Maurice to me, “but please be very quiet.”

“Shut up!” yelled Pat.

“Shut up!” shouted the ranger.

“What?” I asked.

Then something the size of a freight train hit the boat and everything was very complicated for a while. 

***

It was easy to be quiet.  Everyone else was making so much noise for a while that all I had to do was tread water until the lake was smooth and placid again.  That, and try not to scream. 

“I thought,” I managed to get out as I pulled a lifejacket off what had once been a torso, “that you said they were peaceable creatures?”
“Oh they are,” said Maurice in all earnestness.  He’d already taken his own lifejacket off the ranger.  “Very harmless, wouldn’t hurt a fly.  Unless it woke them up, of course, which isn’t surprising when it got an earful of all that name-calling getting put on broadcast.  Quite ill-tempered when their dreams get interrupted, let me tell you.  Why do you think we used a canoe instead of something with a motor?”
“I thought you were just being cheap.”
“Well, it would also save on funeral costs, so in a manner of speaking, you were correct.  That outboard was my big hint that we were dealing with some profoundly ignorant characters – quite shameful in a park employee, too.  That’s the trouble with hunting prey that lets you retire after one harvest: nobody successful stays in the business long enough to teach the up-and-comers anything useful.  I certainly think they’ve learned their lesson.”

“Not going to do them much good like this,” I said.  More pieces were starting to bob their way to the surface. 

“Educational moments: created by the individual, enjoyed by the masses.  That’s exactly what a documentary is all about, Tom.  Do you think you could get some footage of this?”
“I dropped the camera.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” said Maurice. 

And there was another argument after that, but it was all in good spirits no matter how hot the language got.  It was amazing how determined to be happy a little sudden death could make you. 

Once upon a time there were three brothers: eldest, middle, and youngest.  Eldest was the best and youngest was the worst and middle was in-between.

“Eldest brother, can you go out and milk the cows for us?” their mother would ask him.  And he would do so immediately and did a good job, even if it cramped his hands and hunched his back. 

“Middle brother, can you go out and chop wood for us?” their father would ask him.  And he would say yes, and maybe he wouldn’t remember, but then his father would cough twice and say something about a dying fire and middle brother would rush out to the woodshed in such a hurry he’d forget his jacket before cutting enough firewood to set the house ablaze.

“Youngest brother, can you weed the crops?” their mother would ask him.  And he would say yes, but then never do it. 

One day, their parents called them all together to announce something very important.  “We are very, very old and will soon die,” they said to them.  “When we do, it’s of crucial importance that you follow these instructions exactly: go to our graves, thank your grandmothers and grandfathers, thank their grandmothers and grandfathers, and then promise to be good children.  Can you do that for us?”
Of course all three brothers vowed that they would do this.  And so their father and their mother both passed away peacefully. 

On that day eldest brother was the first to arrive at the tombstone, and he stood there and remembered their words.  “I thank my grandmothers and my grandfathers.  I thank their grandmothers and their grandfathers.  I promise to be a good child.”

Then he went home and slept peacefully.

Middle brother arrived a little late and out of breath from running – he’d nearly forgotten.  He almost fell over on his parents’ grave as he wheezed and gasped, but eventually he stood back upright, finished panting, and spoke. 

“I thank my grandmothers and my grandfathers.  I thank their grandmothers and their grandfathers.  I promise to be a good child.”

Then he went home, and it took him some time to drift off, but in the end he slept until past dawn. 

Youngest brother didn’t go at all because he had lied to his parents.  He stayed at home and ate a big supper and drank fine wine and toasted himself over and over and made no promises to anyone but himself and all of those promises were “I’ll have another glass, thank you!”

But as youngest brother drank long into the night his eyes hung heavy.  And try as he might, he couldn’t resist the pull of one more bite, one more sip, one more brag.  By the time he realized what was happening it was far too late: the night would never end.  Youngest brother was held fast in the iron hands of his own guilt, turning every second to a thousand hours, and he would never break free. His own oldest brothers found him the next morning, stone dead, and his body was that of a man twice the age of either of their parents. 

***

“Now,” asked the storyteller, “what have you children learned?”
“Mmmmm,” muttered the first child.  “Errr.  Uhm.  Lying is bad?”
“Close!  Anyone else?”
“Always keep your promises, especially to your family,” said the second child, sitting bolt upright and clear-eyed. 

“Well done!”
“I don’t think youngest brother deserved that,” said the third child.  “What kind of parent asks their children to make a promise that will kill them if they mess it up?”
“It’s a metaphor, third child,” said the storyteller.  “You can learn about those when you’re older.  Now, all three of you, this is your turn: try and make your own stories.  You’ve heard hundreds of mine, all teaching you very important things, and it’s time you showed what you learned!  Come back to this spot tomorrow with a story of your very own, and you can be storytellers too someday.”
“Do we HAVE to?” asked the third child.

“Shoo!” said the storyteller. 

So they left.

***

The next day was bright and beautiful.  Storyteller sat on a stump and smoked the storyteller’s pipe and thought on how fine and wonderful a thing it was, to tell stories and give guidance to the young.  And as the last ashes faded away from the pipe, on came the children: first, second, and third. 

“Ah, my storytellers-to-be have returned!  Now, sit down, sit down.  Tell me your tales.  You first!”
So the first child stood up and mumbled and coughed and began to speak. 

***

Once upon a day there was a dog.  And this dog was very good.  It was a great dog.  It liked to… to eat and to sleep.  But it wasn’t lazy!  It helped out a lot.  Around the house.  But in a dog way?  Because dogs don’t have hands.  He barked when people came to the door and things and anyways this dog was asleep once when a stranger came to the door, and he said hello to the people in the house, but they were asleep too because the dog was asleep so it didn’t bark and they didn’t hear him come in.  And he stole all their food and ate it in one bite.  So it was the dog’s fault.  But the dog knew she had to fix it and she chased after the man.  And bit him.  The dog bit him a whole lot.  And then uh. 

Uh. 

Uhh….

The man… gave back the food.

And the dog was happy so he went home and gave it to the people and it wasn’t the dog’s fault THE END.

***

“Well,” said the storyteller.  “That was pretty good.  Maybe a tiny bit… all-at-once, but very good.  Strong moral impulses.”

“Wait, how did the man give back the food if he ate it?” asked the third child. 

“Shush,” said the storyteller.  “Now, which of you will go next?”
“I will,” said the second child, upper lip stiffening visibly.

“Very good!  Go ahead, go ahead.”

So the second child stood up, ramrod-straight, coughed once very particularly, and spoke in clear, enunciated tones,

***

Once upon a time there were three brothers: oldest, in-between, and youngest.  Oldest was the best and littlest was the worst and in-between was neither.  Oldest brother would do as he was told, in-between would forget but do it anyways, and littlest would lie.

One day, their parents made them promise never to be rude or mean or nasty.  All three of them promised to do that, and littlest brother lied because he was evil.  But the other two brothers knew he lied, and so they took him and threw him off a cliff for being evil, and their parents were very happy with them. 

The moral of the story is that evil must be stopped at all costs.

***

“Oh.” said the storyteller.  “Well, that was very… clear.”

“Thank you,” said the second child.  “I wanted the moral to be very strong.”
“It’s moral to throw your brother off a cliff?” asked the third child. 

“Talk less about other people’s stories and more about your own,” said the storyteller.  “It’s your turn now.”

“Okaay,” said the third child.  And then the story began, without so much as standing up first. 

***

Once upon a time there were three children in a small village.  All three of them had parents that were very busy and needed to get lots of things done, so they sent them to work for the local blacksmith, pumping the forge.

Having all of those children working for him made the blacksmith feel mighty important.  He stood there at the forge smelting iron and forging tools and told himself over and over that the children were there because they wanted to be, because their parents wanted them to be, because he was the most important person in the village. 

“Truly,” he said, “nothing would get done around here without me!  On my shoulders this community lies!  I am here to teach all the value of hard work: with it, anything may be done!”  And he told himself this and things like it a dozen times a day, and the more he did, the more he ran the forge and the more tired the children got from working the big leathery bellows all day. 

One day, the first child didn’t come in, because they were sick from being exhausted pumping at the blacksmith’s forge. 

“Well, that just goes to show that some people don’t appreciate hard work!” said the blacksmith.  “You two are good children, and will pump harder!”

So they pumped harder.

The next day, the second child didn’t come in, because they were too tired to wake up after pumping at the blacksmith’s forge.

“Excuses, excuses!” said the blacksmith.  “You are the only one around here who’s paid PROPER attention to me.  Now you and I will get some things done!”
But the next day, the third child didn’t come in, because their hands were a blistered mess and their arms were strained from heaving the heavy bellows at the forge all day on their own, and the blacksmith had nobody to help him. 

“Well, that’s fine!” said the blacksmith.  “It’s normal for the industrious and earnest to suffer the slings and arrows of a lazy and needy community!  I shall shoulder my burden alone, as I am the only person who can get it done properly!”  So he took up his bellows himself, and heaved, and pumped. 

But the blacksmith had pulled the bellows so very little over the past few days that his arms were as thin as sticks, and it only wheezed onto the fires no matter how hard he tugged.  The only hot air that day was inside him, and by the time he went to bed it had all leaked out as he struggled and failed, leaving him a tiny little man as small outside as he was inside.

***

They sat there. 

“Did I do a good job?” asked the third child. 

“Buzz off, you little pissant,” said the storyteller. 

And so the children did, with confusion and frowns and big bright smiles. 

The storyteller refilled the storyteller’s pipe and smoked it down to the dregs four times over, looked at the big bright sky, and sighed. 

“I hate children.” 

Thez sat, surrounded by crinkled food wrappings, and watched a star die.

For the seven hundredth day in a row.

Proper days of course, not the star’s local system’s days.  All three of its planets had been tidally locked; fried crisp on one side and frozen solid on the other.  But those world’s days were long gone; the star’s bloating senescence had swallowed them up one after another and now it was the only thing left in its system, a terribly empty ball of gnawing, churning, dying fire. 

Very poetic AND very informative to the thousands of instruments that filled Thez’s ship.  But after seven hundred days of anything, the awe and the thunder of it always started to fade just a little, no matter how sincere your appreciation.

Thez, for instance, was only watching with two of her eyes.  Her third (installed on the back of her head on a dare in her student days) was preoccupied with some Sol system dramas playing on her personal journal, the real shitty kind with one thousand years of convoluted backstory and eight hundred characters, all of whom had sixty secrets each.

Lois Lane had just suspected that Clark Kent was Superman.  Thez’s toes curled in anticipation. 

“Proximity alert,” interjected the calm, neutral voice of her ship. 

Well, shit.  Had one of the others drifted a few tens of thousands of miles off course?  There were dozens and dozens of other vessels here to watch the fireworks; reality prospectors looking to make a quick buck from the torn seams of space and time the star’s corpse would leave; fellow scientists out to harvest some juicy thesis data or tweak a paper; tease-riders who were here to experience the sweet sweet agony of waiting for literal years for a proper BANG.  But most of them preferred to stay still and wait after their initial explorations for a proper observation post.

Maybe this was someone new. 

“Unauthorized docking,” commented her ship.  “Boarders arriving.”

Oh.  This was piracy. 

***

“I can’t believe she never noticed,” said the pirate for the sixteenth time. 

“He looks completely different when he’s Clark,” said Thez.
“Please.  It’s just posture and expression.  Same build.  Same face.  Same hair.”
“He styles it differently.”
“Oh like that matters.  Anyone can see it’s the same hair.”
“Lois can’t.”
“Because she’s an IDIOT.”
“She’s a reporter.”
“This is exactly why we have drones do news research.  This woman here.  Precisely her.”
“Well, I still like her.”
“You just think she’s hot.”
Thez drew herself up with all the dignity she could vaguely recall possessing at some point, possibly during graduation.  “Do NOT,” she said.

“Do so,” said the pirate.  She took a swig from one of Thez’s beverages, but she didn’t make any complaints.  There was still a gun pointed at her, however casually. 
“And anyways, you’re all over Clark.”
“Damn straight.  Boy’s a ten.”
“He’s gormless as a gutless fish!”
“All an act.”
“What, you want a liar?”
“Lying’s a good skill in my trade.”
“Piracy.”
“No,” said the pirate, somewhat peevishly.  “Academia.  This is just a side-gig.”

“Really?  What’s your field?  And why the piracy?”
“’Branes,” said the pirate.

“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“My sympathies.”
“It’s fine.”
“I mean, you know.  It’s just funny that, how it all makes perfect sens-”

“It’s FINE.  Stop talking about it.”
“Sorry.”

“It’s fine, fine, fine, fine, fuckity fine-fine-fine-fine-finerino, fine fine Finnegan’s finewake,” chanted the pirate.  Then she shotgunned Thez’s beverage, crushed the can on her forehead, buried her head in her arms and burst into tears.

Thez wanted to hug her, but the gun was still pointed at her.

“Proximity alert,” interjected the still very calm voice of the ship.

The pirate continued to cry. 

“It’s… probably nothing,” said Thez.  The gun wasn’t particularly big, but they didn’t need to be unless you had some sort of fetish for inefficiency. 

“Unauthorized docking.  Boarders incoming.”
“Let me do the talking?”
The pirate’s aim didn’t waver, but she made no protests.

***

“This beer is shit,” said the professor.

“It’s not beer,” said Thez.  “It’s tea.”
“No wonder it’s shitty beer then,” said the professor.  She took a swig anyways, belched, and threw the beverage can into the waste disposal.  “Ten points!”
“I’m still ahead.”
“You’re a grad, your points are worth half as much,” said the professor, the smugness that infested her very soul intensifying.  God, Thez hated her.  She hated her so much.  Hate hate hate.  And of all the godawful times to schedule her academic checkup.  The far side of a dying star was too close by half already, and now they were in the same ship. 
“That’s not fair.”
“And that’s just realistic.”
“Realism is overrated.”
“Reality,” mumbled the pirate, head still buried in her arms, “doesn’t matter a flicking fistworth of fly-spit on a fucking tarmac.”

The professor looked at Thez. 

“She studies ‘branes,” explained Thez.

“Oh dear,” said the professor.  And she very gently gave the pirate a hug.
“’M fine,” she mumbled.

“Of course you are, dear,” shushed the professor.  “Of course you are.  There there.  There there.”
Thez picked up another beverage.  She was getting a lot better about not noticing the gun pointed at her by now.  She wondered if the pirate’s arm was starting to hurt. 

“Proximity alert,” chimed in the ship. 

“Oh, fuck off.”
“Proximity alert.”

***

After the next two dockings they all sort of blurred together.  Some arrived out of curiosity; some arrived looking to be rescuers; some arrived just because everyone else was doing it.

At some point everyone moved out of Thez’s ship to the pirate’s, which was larger and more comfortable and most importantly had muted the ship’s proximity alert for professional reasons long ago, which was much more relaxing.  No matter how calm and neutral the alarm sounded, sooner or later you hated its guts. 

“Good party,” said the professor, who was wearing one of the pirate’s sweaters backwards and upside down.
“This isn’t a party,” said Thez.

“Tell the news drone in the corner.  It’s switched over from science reporting to sapient-interest piece in the last ten minutes.”
“Fuck!” said Thez.

“Oh, hush up.  Live a little.  You’re only young once.”

“Easy for you to say.”
“Damn straight.”
The pirate mumbled something and the professor handed her another beverage.

“Are you trying to get her drunk?” asked Thez suspiciously. 

“No.  It’s tea.”
“Are you trying to lower her inhibitions?”
“I have nothing but honorable intentions towards a fellow academic.”
“She’s pointing a gun at me, so you’d better.”
“I know!”

The ship’s speakers made a small but precise ‘ting’ sound, and another vessel docked into the tethered fleet. 

***

Thez woke up upside down and hung over and surrounded by food wrappings and crushed beverage cans and awful, half-shadowed memories.

There had been an argument.  Yes, there had been an argument.  An argument about whether or not the professor could crush more cans on her forehead in a minute than she could.  And at some point she’d realized that she’d save time if she crushed the cans when they were still full. 

It had been very sensible at the moment, and everyone else had agreed that it was such a good idea.

She was never, ever, ever, ever going to drink ethanol teas again. 

Hell on earth it was dark in here.  Where was she?

“Multiple unlicensed dockings,” said a calm neutral voice.

Oh.  She was back on her ship again. 

“Multiple unlicensed dockings.”
And it was still so dark, so dark because – oh. 

Thez checked the computers to make sure.

Yes, the star had finished collapsing before she woke up. 

That had been some…night?  She’d never had relativistic forces be a party game before.  Or done shots from a gun’s barrel.  Or a lot of other things she couldn’t quite remember and probably would very carefully avoid recalling. 

“Multiple unlicensed dockings.”
With any luck, her ship’s data harvest had collected things on her own.  As long as the party hadn’t damaged it, or they hadn’t turned them off on a dare, or one of a million hilariously fun disasters hadn’t targeted them, or, or, or, or.

“Multiple unlicensed dockings.”

“’urn it offfff…” mumbled the pirate beside her. 

Thez turned off the ship’s proximity alarm, gently threw the gun out of the bed, and snuggled down under the covers. 

So her grad work was done, one way or another.  However it was, that was nice.  It was nice to be done. 

Maybe this was something new.