KOREAEBOOKDOCUMENT1.2.0Looking in... Portraits of the Canadian SoulCanadian eAuthorsCeACeAА=para.xmlredwindow3.jpgnormal.styџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџ/Пћpara.xmlю smaller.sty‹# small.sty(. normal.styХ8 large.stybC larger.styџM–]redwindow3.jpg•Ћѕ2Cover.jpgŠо”LRefugee.jpg+6peaceriver.jpg1aœtrial.jpg9§ЪYdragon.jpgWыбforum2.jpgю( +peggyscove.jpgїSdUgeorgia.jpg[ЉžŒsnowscene.jpgљ5 йWscuba.jpgв qimist.jpgCї “Edograce.jpgж< ‘ylovers.jpggЖ coffee.jpg„5 ˜1chicoutimi.jpg           Looking In. Portraits of the Canadian Soul   An Anthology By Canadian Authors published electronically M. D. Benoit, editor   ©2002 All rights remain with the authors Cover photo: Robert Servranckx Cover design: Shannon Mobley   All contributing Authors belong to the Canadian eAuthors (CeA) Association, which promotes Canadian Authors published electronically trhoughout Canada and the world. Visit their website at http://ceauthors.com     No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact ceauthor@ceauthors.com    
Table of Contents
Introduction
Editor's Note
The Tale of One Refugee by Eva Kende (Autobiography)
The Big Shake-Up by Rita Toews (Autobiography)
Personal Fog by R. K. Doiron (Autobiography)
A Mother's Love by Kerry Orchard (Fantasy)
A New Game by Edward Stack (Fantasy)
A Mari Usque Ad Astra by Norma McPhee (Science Fiction)
The Lightkeeper by Rick Sutcliffe (Christian Science Fiction)
Winter Poetry by Qasim Mahmud (Poetry)
When I Grow Up by Kay Shannon (Children)
Mist Devils by Dee Lloyd (Mystery)
Cheechako by Marjorie Daniels (Adventure)
Love Doesn't Separate by Jillian Dagg (Mainstream)
The Puck Stops Here by Judy Bagshaw (Mainstream)
A Sense of Place by M. D. Benoit (Mainstream)
List of pictures 
  Introduction When we think of Canadian literature, some immediate names come to mind-Margaret Atwood, Timothy Findley, Michael Ondaatje, Lucy Maude Montgomery, Farley Mowat, Alice Munro, Gabrielle Roy, Stephen Leacock... The list seems endless. Canada has always been known as a hot-spot of literary talent. In fact, the Canadian Government's Ministry of Canadian Heritage reports that in 1996, there were more than 18,000 writers working in Canada. And Canada is known for its high rate of literacy (more than 50% at a competent level, 99% functionally literate). In 1995, Canadians borrowed over 274 million books and other materials from public and academic library branches across the nation. Today, with the advent of technology and electronic publishing, one could safely estimate the number of writers in Canada at a much higher value. Never before have readers had access to so many talented authors. And now, more than ever, authors have even more chances of having their books read. With the click of a mouse, anyone in the world can enjoy the words of Dee Lloyd, MD Benoit, Kerry Orchard, Bob Thompson-the rising Canadian stars of electronic books. As the child of an author, I grew up with several routines: quiet time in the afternoon while Mom wrote; the almost daily walk down the street to mail the newest short story submission or book proposal. Just think how different that routine would be if my mother had been pursuing an electronic publisher. Instead of the trek to the mailbox, we'd have been logging into her email accounts. Electronic publishing, although still in its infancy, has progressed a long way since its initial inception. Ebooks are no longer something "weird" or "strange." They come from small one person publishing operations and multi-national New York-based companies. They can be read on a variety of electronic reading devices and PDAs, or even printed out from your home computer. Ebooks are available wherever you look online, too. From book retailing giant Amazon.com, to small mom-and-pop online bookstores, ebooks have broached the electronic highway, offering readers a new selection of quality reading materials. Electronically published authors have been recognised as just that-AUTHORS. And authors of fine books, no matter what form their binding comes in. Although you may not be familiar with the authors in this collection, rest assured they are following in the footsteps of the Canadian Literary Greats. Great stories from talented writers. What these authors and their stories additionally offer is a glimpse into the fascinating world of ebooks, and how they offer a viable, cost-effective, environmentally-friendly alternative to paper books. These are the stories you won't find anywhere else, presented in a way that will both educate and entertain. Read. Enjoy. Explore Canada's diversity from the comfort of your home. And know, too, that as you do, you are discovering the riches of Canada's electronically published authors. Shannon Mobley , Acquisitions Editor Electric eBook Publishing http://www.electricebookpublishing.com   shannon.mobley@electricebookpublishing.com  
  Editor's Note When I threw down the glove to our Canadian eAuthors and challenged them to write stories with a Canadian theme or setting, I couldn't imagine how wonderful and varied these stories would be. From personal reminiscences to science fiction and poetry, each author has brought to you their message of what it is to be Canadian. Nature and the weather, of course, take a prominent place, but the sense of place, the importance of community, friendships, beauty, and resolve also come through. Our eAuthors have demonstrated, in their own way and style, their love of Canada and its inhabitants, at the same time looking outward to the world around them. I hope you will enjoy these original works by these talented authors. M. D. Benoit
 
In this amazing true story, Eva Kende tells us how her and her mother fled from Hungary and came to Canada. She also shares her feelings about her adoptive country. Eva lives in the Canadian Rockies, in Canmore Alberta. Writing cookbooks, short reminiscences, articles on any subject that elicits enough emotion to drive her to her keyboard, is Eva's retirement activity to keep those "little grey cells active." She is never bored because she usually juggles several projects at a time. She believes that having daily challenges keeps us from growing old and writing from the soul helps keep our thoughts serene. Her story, Cushion Covers, appears in the recently published Chicken Soup for the Travel's Soul. Her cookbook Eva's Hungarian Kitchen, designed primarily for the nostalgic soul, surpassed all her expectations and is now in fifth printing. Eva's Kitchen Confidence, a cookbook that aims to encourage young families to return to "from scratch" cooking, is published electronically by DiskUs Publishing. You can reach Eva at ekende@telusplanet.net , or visit her website at http://www.telusplanet.net/public/ekende Hungarian Refugees arriving in Winnipeg, 1957 The Tale of One Refugee By Eva Kende   In the wake of 9-11-01, there has been a lot of talk about refugees. I thought that perhaps people might like a glimpse into the heart of one, to understand the depth of the refugees' feelings towards their host country. My mother and I arrived in Canada as refugees 45 years ago. Our sudden journey to the unfamiliar began with a trip to a luggage shop to buy two small bags that would hold our most prized worldly possessions. The Hungarian revolution of 1956 that had started with so much hope was quashed; Budapest was in ruins and bleeding. Mother yearned for the support and comfort of her brother, who had been living in Spain since the end of the Spanish Civil War there. It made her set aside all her fears and phobias about being away from home for more than an hour or two, and she declared that we were going. I was fifteen years old. No father, no siblings, just the two of us to face the great unknown. She did not make her decision lightly. The great migration started soon after the Russian tanks ended all hope on November 4th, 1956. Now it was mid-December. We had spent the evenings of the past month glued to the radio, listening to Radio Free Europe broadcasting messages from friends and relatives who had safely made it to Austria. Mother's best friend, Mariska, who was a decisive leader, her husband, Odon and daughter Jutka were leaving, which gave mother the courage to join in this trek to the unknown. It was decided that the five of us would have to rent a hotel room near the railroad station the night before so as not to be conspicuous in our neighbourhood leaving in the early morning carrying our satchels. We packed these small bags, over and over again. Mother's heavy stocking repair machine had to go in first. After all she had to make a living somehow, she rationalised. The doll my deceased father had given me for my first birthday, my constant companion and confidante during the war and throughout my childhood, was also a must. Next came the family jewellery, part heirlooms, part items my father had collected "in case" we needed to sell something for essentials. The photo albums were declared essential and I couldn't part with my new burgundy sandals and navy blue suit, the fruit of my first job as a summer student at the Horticultural College, no matter how unpractical they were. Of course, I couldn't leave behind either the new pale blue silk blouse the clever fingers of my beloved great-aunt Nene had so lovingly made from strips of remnants. Two miniature paintings, to sell if the need arose, fitted inside nicely. As we had a little bit more room yet, mother opened the linen cupboard to look for small pieces of embroidery and lace that might be sellable as well. She couldn't bear to part with the beautiful pink embroidered bedding that she had commissioned when she gave birth to me, so we packed it too. We paraded up and down our apartment testing the weight of the satchels and decided that we could handle carrying them for hours.  
I recently donated one of those bags, the pink bedding, a photo of my doll, and the ship's passenger list to Pier 21
, an exhibition hall in Halifax dedicated to immigrants and refugees who were processed into Canada through the Pier
21 immigration facilities. http://pier21.ns.ca/index.html
  My mother's cousin gave us a large sum of cash so that we could pay for the "guides" who led people across the border. We packed a string-bag with food and we were ready. We met Mariska and her family in the seedy hotel in the early evening. Our mood swung from sadness to nervous laughter and all ranges of emotion in between. We hardly slept. At about six in the morning of December 19th, 1956, before the city awakened, our rag-tag team walked along the wide, empty avenue to the railway station. For the first couple of hours, the trip to the industrial town of Gyor, halfway between the border and Budapest, was uneventful. I stared out the window, wondering if I would ever see this land again. But new regulations declared that you had to have a pass ― which of course we didn't have ― to travel into the border zone, which was a hundred kilometres long, established as an emergency measure by the Hungarian government. So, after Gyor, our troop, now swollen to about fifteen people, some of them total strangers, had to move into the baggage car to keep out of sight. I was lucky. I had a sled to sit on, but the Christmas tree behind me was prickly. At each station, when the border police came to inspect, all fifteen of us had to cram into the single toilet compartment of the car to hide. The largest person sat down on the fixture and the rest of us piled on top of her. This was repeated four or five times until we reached our destination, a small border village, at dusk. We marched to an outlying farmhouse where, crammed into the front room, was another small troop ready for the crossing. Suddenly, the door flew open and a very young uniformed border guard burst into the room. "You are all under arrest!" he shouted. "We are shipping you back to Budapest immediately". Anyone attempting to escape will be shot." Silence fell. He left the room and we heard some shots ring out in the yard. When he returned, people began to beg the guard to let us go and ply him with watches, money, and jewellery. He was stony-faced, but accepted the items. He assembled us and we started to march to what we thought surely was prison. There was no sign of our paid "guides." The direction we were going seemed to be wrong to me, but I imagined it could have been the deep dark of the night. Mother was ready to throw away her satchel as she stumbled from fear and exhaustion among the column of fearful humanity. I grabbed her bag and marched like a robot in silence. I didn't know what to think. Hours later it seemed, although I suspect it was less than half an hour, the guard called us to halt. He pointed into the inky darkness ahead of us and said: "There is the border and I am going to turn my back on you." It wasn't until a few meters later when mother tripped on a low wire that I started to believe him. We ― by now there must have been about 30 of us ― marched in silence for about an hour across muddy, evenly spaced ruts in the fields― it must have been recently ploughed ― that sucked the shoes off our feet and wrenched our ankles. There was even a blind woman in the group with a seeing-eye dog. The lovely "sturdy" walking shoes a neighbour had given me for the trip were ruined. The soles separated from the uppers in several places. I lugged the satchels while looking out for my mother stumbling along. About an hour into this walk across the fields, an apparition seemed to float in the sky. A small town lit in bluish lights, with a prominent church spire-all the street lights in Hungary were yellow-appeared outlined in mid-air. Our relief was palpable. People started to break their self-imposed silence. Odon remarked that we must be close to Budapest by now, because the church spire looked familiar to him. We had been walking for a long time and it felt as if we had turned around and walked all the way back to Budapest. Everyone laughed at this feeble attempt at humour. The satchels got a little lighter and it seemed that the ruts became a little shallower. As we progressed, it became clear that the apparition was an Austrian village perched on a plateau. It was the prettiest sight! We marched into the town, finding it hard to temper our happiness and relief at having arrived. All the pent-up tensions of our uncertain day and night bubbled out in noisy, uncontrollable chatter. A few windows opened, begging us to be quieter. The good burghers of the small town of Deutschkreutz had had very little sleep for the past month, as groups of Hungarians reached their village each night. In the centre of the town, we were led to the fire-hall, which was empty save for a thick layer of clean straw topped by a layer of humans of every age, sex, and clad in every kind of garb that one could imagine. About three hundred people curled up in the space normally occupied by several fire-trucks. In the foyer, a huge pot of sweet tea with lemon was boiling away, and several women volunteers were spreading jam on slices of bread as fast as their arms could go. Someone begged me to take some, but all I could get down was some of the hot tea. The knot in my stomach was still too tight for me to eat. I had to quickly dismiss the thought of bedding down somewhere in a free patch of straw. Our friends were arranging for a taxi to go to Vienna, where they had some friends waiting. They had US$11, just short of what was needed to secure transportation for all of us. Mother and I had no currency. The forints my mother's cousin had given us were used for the guides; besides, forints were useless anyway, since the cabs accepted only western currencies.It was suggested that we stay and our friends would get some money in Vienna and send for us. Mother became upset. Never an independent soul, the thought of being left behind alone with me was more than she could handle. An argument ensued and I couldn't take any more. My facade crumbled and I sat on the spiky wrought iron fence of the church in the Town Square, in the middle of the night, and cried like a three-year-old. My mother stood close by, still arguing with our friends, ignoring my childish outburst. Two young Hungarian men, obviously also new arrivals from across the border, came to ask what the problem was and I told them. They reached into their pockets and handed my mother two dollar bills to cover the shortfall of the taxi fare for all of us. She tried to repay them with some trinket from our bags, but they just waved her off and disappeared into the night. In Vienna, it became painfully clear that my shoes were wrecked. Slush and snow covering the streets kept my feet continually cold and wet. There were several relief agencies set up to help the refugees. For instance, one organisation gave everyone a green bag emblazoned with Unitarian Service Committee containing essential hygiene products. Another society gave out huge blocks of American processed cheese and powdered milk. We had cheese and reconstituted milk warmed on the radiator for supper for a month. Depots of used clothing were set up all over the city. The refugees gave tips to each other about where to go to get stuff. After several unsuccessful attempts, I finally landed a good pair of emerald-green leather shoes that fit well, although they didn't go with anything I wore. It didn't matter. All the refugees were clad in similarly mismatched garb. At this point, nobody cared, as long as they were warm and safe. All refugees walked the streets for hours admiring the well-stocked shop windows. Mother and I often bumped into friends and acquaintances. We exchanged news about mutual friends and where each one was heading to in this exodus. Mother got in touch with her brother in Spain, but he discouraged us from trying to go there. Women couldn't make a living and he was not doing well enough to consider taking responsibility for us. He suggested we try to go to Canada or the USA. He sent us a little money to supplement the freebies. The larger problem was for us to get a visa for one of those countries. The US quota on refugees was closed. Only sponsored people were considered. We did not have a sponsor. The same situation faced us at the Canadian Embassy, where several refugees milled around in the square in front. Up to early December, the Embassy had handed out, on slips of paper, nameless appointments for processing into Canada, to all who asked. But if people succeeded in getting into the US, or decided to wait for other family members, they didn't need these slips and gave them to others who needed them. We milled about the square for about half an hour, until we found a man who had an extra slip. After a cursory medical exam, we were told to show up at the railroad station in a few days to be transported to the Canadian refugee camp in Wiener Neustadt where we would be gathered, processed and assigned transportation to Canada. The Canadian camp at Wiener Neustadt was rumoured to be a former Nazi concentration camp. Some of the kids already in the camp would even take the newcomers to the ruins they claimed were the crematorium-I never tracked down whether this rumour was true. With nothing to do, the camp was always rife with rumours-  
Because the memories of those days were too painful, it's only recently, more than 40 years after the fact, that I c
ould face them and write about them. Previously, if asked about my experiences, I would answer as briefly as possibl
e, closing the door on the memories as quickly as good manners allowed. I never tracked down what our camp was origi
nally. I was afraid of the answers. Just recently, I found out, thanks to the extensive research conducted by Mr. Ma
urice Servranckx, that it's highly unlikely that these rumours were true. There were several German factories using
prisoners as forced labourers from the concentration camp of Mauthausen, but there were no extermination camps in Wi
ener Neustadt. Judging by the rows of toilets and sinks, I would guess the brick buildings were formerly used as an
army barracks, as a hospital, or possibly a residential school. Badly damaged during the war, the buildings were nev
er repaired before being pressed into emergency service to organise the collection of refugees bound for Canada. Bec
ause our stay was short, a matter of 3-4 days, none of the refugees ever resented this inconvenience.
  The camp certainly was not a pleasant place. The barrack-like structure had unheated bathrooms with rows of 20 sinks and toilets. It was so cold that water had frozen in most of the sinks. We were assigned cots in the middle room of a group of three, each containing metal beds with straw mattresses for ten to twelve people. Children, adults, couples, singles, strangers and families were all heaped together. There was a pot-bellied stove in one corner valiantly trying to emit some comfort. Those near the stove roasted while those in the next row froze. The windows leaked so badly we put extra straw mattresses against them to try to keep out the cold. Luckily, we only stayed 3 days. Nevertheless, the food, although basic, was plentiful, hot, and we enjoyed the luxury of having meat daily. The mess hall, well heated, doubled as a classroom for English lessons between meals. I attended as many classes as offered, in preparation for our new life in Canada. At dawn on January 24th, we were bussed to the train that was to take us to the port city of Bremenhaven in Germany to sail for Canada. One picture is engraved in my memory. I was shivering in the early dawn, waiting for the bus, when I saw in the well-lit doorway of the barracks the outline of a figure holding a fencing sword in one hand and a helmet tucked under the other arm. The picture was so incongruous that I stifled a giggle. I later found out that he was a young fencing champion, holding the items he treasured most. The train trip took all day and the next night. As we neared Bremenhaven, mother could hardly contain herself. Her brother, who she hadn't seen for 20 years, had promised to try to meet us at the ship. I was looking forward to seeing my larger-than-life uncle for the first time. As the train pulled into the station, grey with drizzle, there was no one to be seen. Then suddenly a lone figure came into view, mother shrieked, and I knew that it must be my Uncle Robert. He accompanied us onto the ship, bought me a coke ― my very first ― in the bar and gave us warm scarves and a big box of dates and figs for snacking on the voyage. The visit was over in a couple of hours, and we sailed for Canada. Almost as soon as we passed the marvellous white cliffs of Dover, the sea turned mean and we spent most of our time being seasick. Whenever possible, we made it to the after-dinner dance which was great fun. There were a number of young German and Yugoslavian immigrants aboard, in addition to our group of Hungarian refugees, meaning plenty of dance partners, even for a fifteen-year-old. The immigrants were dressed in their most elegant duds, while the refugees sported the mismatched hand-me-downs they had collected from the relief agencies. We arrived in Halifax on the afternoon of February fourth. The day was overcast and drizzly as we crowded the decks to get our first glimpse of Canada. We spent the night on the ship in harbour and in the morning we were led to a great hall for processing and from there onto our train for Winnipeg. Since most of the refugees knew little or nothing about Canada, had they been given a choice, would have wanted to go to Montreal or Toronto, the only two places they had heard about from former immigrants. It would have been hard for those cities to provide such a large number of newcomers with jobs and temporary accommodations. Immigration decided to send each boat or planeload to a different city in Canada to even out the burden.  
I became something of a hero on this trip. My geography teacher was an exceptional lady who poured huge quantities o
f information into our reluctant heads. As a result, I knew a little about Winnipeg and could cite some of the infor
mation learned about industry, transportation and agriculture. I also managed to have a vocabulary of 20 words of En
glish, so I was used as an "interpreter" communicating with the porters.
  The train was fabulous. We had never seen anything like it. It sported luxurious plush seats, friendly black porters in crisp uniforms, shiny brass fittings, polished wood everywhere, and boxes of Kellogg's Corn Flakes in every nook and cranny. We had never seen corn flakes before and never had dry cereal for breakfast. After tasting the freebie, we decided it was the Canadian equivalent to potato chips and snacked on it dry during the whole trip. As we left Halifax, we could see an occasional house here or there, but the sparseness of the population was odd to us mostly city folks. Even odder were the bright pastel colours of the houses. As the wheels clicked away the miles, day and night, with plenty of time to think and talk, a few people had panic attacks now that they were nearing our unfamiliar destination. The enormity of what had happened to us in the last few months, and the scary prospect of having to start a new life in a strange land, having to speak a language few of the refugees knew, struck the weak, while the stronger ones continued to plot and plan to conquer adversity, and soar to great success now that they were truly free. Others relieved their tension with jokes and wisecracks, to the merriment of the group. I often wonder how a psychologist would have evaluated the mood swings of our group.  
The long trip, and having to face the same problems together, built a special relationship among the people who shar
ed this trek into the unknown. We became a very special "family", in which you could understand feelings. For instan
ce, the young fencer and I were the only two Hungarian refugees, in different faculties, among 7000 students at the
University of Manitoba. We relied heavily on that mutual support during our first two years.
  In Montreal, a few of our sponsored compatriots, as well as a few adventurous ones, decided to stay behind even though they were told that they would not get help in getting settled from the Immigration Department if they didn't continue to our assigned destination, Winnipeg. From Montreal to Winnipeg, crossing the Canadian Shield, we hardly saw any populated areas. The sun shone brightly as frozen lakes followed forests and vice versa. On February 8th, we arrived in Winnipeg. On the platform, a contingent of middle-aged ladies, wearing silk dresses, straw hats, and fur jackets, waited to welcome us, to minister to us and help ease our way into becoming Canadian. Our ragtag group, emerging from the train, suppressed a collective giggle at their elegance that clashed with our own dilapidated clothes. Nevertheless, the intentions of the ladies soon proved to be very genuine, even if their understanding of our plight was somewhat deficient. The ladies spoke no Hungarian and we spoke no English. We communicated with hands and smiles. With their kind help and that of countless others, we started our long and often arduous trek into becoming Canadians. * * * Being a refugee is like being an adopted child, with all the ambivalent feelings and loyalties. Love for the birth parent ― or in this case the homeland ― is embedded like the genes of an adopted child, but the loyalty for the adoptive country, born from gratitude, is usually so strong as to always cause conflict within the refugee's heart. For instance, one favourite question among refugee groups is: "Who do you root for during the Olympics?" which usually elicits a lively debate that clearly shows the confusion of divided loyalties refugees feel for the rest of their lives. For example: In hockey, I root for Canada. I learned to love this sport here from my stepfather. My loyalty is definitely with the Canadian team when it comes to swimming, because I was an official of the Canadian Amateur Swimming Association when my son was a competitive swimmer and back then I personally knew all the swimmers. However, I will root for the Hungarian competitor if no Canadian is entered in the event, because I remember the impromptu parade in my neighbourhood in 1952 when the champion swimmers where carried home on the crowd's shoulders. The various skiing events cause no problem. Living in the Rocky Mountains, my skiing loyalty definitely belongs to Canada, or more specifically to the Bow Valley athletes. In other events, I choose the individual or team, from my two homelands, that seems to be more accomplished in the particular sport. Luckily, there has not been an instance when a Hungarian athlete was competing head-to-head against a Canadian at any Olympics. I would have been in big trouble then! There is a subtle and often blurry difference between immigrants and refugees. An immigrant has consciously planned to leave his or her home and settle in a different country. There was time to choose, read up and familiarise oneself with the country, its culture and language. The refugees, on the other hand, were uprooted suddenly and thrust into a strange land, usually following some dramatic, stressful events in their birth-land. Each refugee has a story to tell about his or her path and arrival to Canada. The details may differ, but the message is usually the same. The majority of refugees are the greatest flag-waving patriots in Canada. We came to this country in the wake of turmoil and danger in our homeland; penniless, destitute, still in mourning and in shock of having lost our home, friends and relatives in the span of a few turbulent weeks. We were confused, scared of our future, and found our dignity in tatters. We arrived in Canada to find caring people, helping hands and a warm welcome. Through the years, we tried to achieve the success we dreamed of, succeeding at times and failing at others, but we knew that this great country, Canada, gave us the freedom to try again, in anyway we desired. Here, we could keep our culture and pride of ethnic origin, yet become Canadian and raise our family in guarantied peace. Show me another country that provides all that and asks nothing in return for its hospitality. If you see a former refugee stand a little taller or has shiny eyes during the singing of O Canada, don't be surprised. That is our way of saying: "Thank You Canada! We love you!"  
  In this charming childhood reminiscence, Rita Y. Toews gives us a glimpse of life in a small town in Northern British Columbia. Rita Y. Toews is a Canadian freelance writer who took up the challenge to write at 50. She has assisted with the writing of three novels. The Price of Freedom (winner of a Clara Award) and Prometheus will be released by Hard Shell Word Factory in 2002. Shades of Gray, Prometheus and The Price of Freedom are being translated into German for release in 2002. Her short stories and essays have been published in numerous magazines, including: "Western People", "Mysterical-E", "Zygote", the Knights of Columbus magazine "Columbia" and "Green Prints". Rita is currently working on a mystery novel set in her hometown of Winnipeg, Manitoba, with Hungarian author, Alex Domokos. You can reach Rita at r.toews@shaw.ca . Please visit her website at http://www.adomokos.homestead.com   Peace River, near Taylor, British Columbia   The Big Shake-Up By Rita Toews   At the announcement, a wave of excitement swept through the classroom. Our real teacher was coming back on Monday! The cheer, born in the mouths of the bold grade sevens, grew and crested as it passed through the row of grade sixes and then to those in the grade five row. It died away in the timid mouths of the "me-too" grade fours. The little ones would do, or say, anything to imitate the older grades. No one was happier to hear of the imminent return of our much-loved teacher than Edward Reilly was, since it was Edward's mother who had been substituting in our classroom while Mrs. Dubois, our teacher, was away. At thirteen, I could think of nothing more humiliating than to have my mother teach not only me, but my fellow classmates as well. In 1960, school was quite naturally the centre of the universe for the children of Taylor, British Columbia, a small community located at mile 35 of the Alaska Highway in the Peace River. Taylor's only industry was the natural gas scrubbing plant and oil refinery that employed most of the several hundred locals, as well as a handful of Americans. Other than a movie theatre that operated on Friday and Saturday nights, there was nothing for us kids in the community to do. With so little to occupy our attention, anything that happened at school affected what happened in our social life after school and on weekends. Thankfully, we all thought, the last two months' purgatory was finally over, not only for Edward Reilly, but for our entire classroom. I remember the day it all started. It was in early spring and, when we arrived at school, nothing seemed unusual. The morning bell rang, we sat down at our desks ― but Mrs. Dubois didn't appear. Our heads turned to the long row of windows that looked out into Mrs. Dubois' yard, which was right next to the school. When she was late, we could usually see her scurrying across the yard pulling on her coat and admonishing her fat spaniel, Molly, to go home. That day she didn't appear, although Molly was snuffling about the yard, nose burrowed into this clump of weeds and that tuft of grass, searching out new scents that had appeared in the night. I was in grade seven, and at that time of the year the grade sevens' row was positioned right by the windows. So I posted myself in front of them as lookout so I could shout our coded warning word, "Jiggers!", when Mrs. Dubois started across the yard. The room quickly fell into chaos. My best friend, Linda, positioned herself at the front of the class with the pointer, pretending she was the teacher in charge of a spelling bee. She called out trick words for whomever was listening. Her favourite word was "cereal". If a victim said it was spelled c, e, r, e, a, l, she would laugh and say: "No, it's s, e, r, i, a, l,". My other friend Cheryl raced to the blackboard and scrawled "Tommy loves Cathy." As though on cue, Tommy howled "I do not!" while Tommy's sister, Ellen, added to his frustration by twirling around and around next to her desk singing-"You do tooo! You do tooo!" Suddenly, the room fell silent as Mrs. Higgenbottom entered. She was the teacher for the only other room of our small school, which held grades one, two and three. Mrs. Higgenbottom had to have been five foot eleven inches tall and must have weighed two hundred pounds. Even so, she always looked bigger than that, because she wore dresses with big flowers all over them and the dresses floated in the air when she walked. We figured it was a pretty good thing she was so heavy because on breezy days she might have just floated away when the wind caught under all that material. Her voice matched her body: it was big. Boy, when she told you to do something, you did it quick! That day, though, she didn't yell at us for making so much noise. "Children," she began in a subdued voice, "I have some very sad news for you this morning. Mrs. Dubois has suddenly become ill. So you'll be having a substitute for a few weeks." A groan of anguish rose from the thirty students in the room. The dreaded sub! Which meant we'd get Edward Reilly's mom! It wasn't that Mrs. Reilly was an awful teacher, it was just that she didn't know anything! Not which lesson we were studying in our textbooks, or whose turn it was to erase the blackboards and clean the brushes after school, and she got so carried away with teaching she didn't always remember when it was time to stop for recess. She just wasn't aware of all the important things. The dark days with Mrs. Reilly began. They went on for what seemed like forever, and still Mrs. Dubois didn't come back. Edward's mom kept coming back every day, no matter how miserable we made her feel, just so she would give up and stop coming. Edward was the most miserable. No one ever made clear the reason for our teacher's absence. When we asked if she was sick they told us she wasn't, not really. We asked if someone she knew had died, and after a long silence they told us well, not really either. We asked if we could go and visit her at home, since it was so close; they told us it would be better if we didn't. After several weeks, they said that her husband had taken her on a holiday. That didn't seem fair. She was on holiday while we were left with Mrs. Reilly. Now, I don't know what Edward and his family talked about over supper but it sure wasn't school because even after several weeks, she still knew nothing about how our school was run. For instance, she didn't seem to be aware that it was time for us to reposition our desks so we could use the side blackboard. Every spring, when the sun started to shine into the room in a certain way, it would glare off the front blackboard. That was the signal for the yearly Shake-Up. We all loved the Shake-Up, it was our favourite exercise of the year. Everyone would stand up gripping the sides of the desk, then would walk with it to its new spot in the room. If this was done right, it was like a funny dance. The grade sevens would start it off by walking their entire row to the back of the room and parking it behind the rest of the desks. Then they would simply turn the desks to face the other blackboard. Ha! perfect. In fifteen minutes the entire class was shifted to face the side blackboard, which had no glare on it. Mrs. Reilly's solution was simply to pull the blinds down and turn on the lights. Another example of Mrs. Reilly's ignorance: our school's grass and the role China played in it. Every spring the janitor, Mr. Konofsky, would bring a big bag of grass seed to school; if we wanted to, we could help him sprinkle it on the yard by the front entrance. Mrs. Dubois would say our grass was so tamped down it was the people in China who were enjoying it instead of us. Anyone caught walking on the newly planted grass seed would get a smack on the hand with the yardstick for their transgression. I swear it's true: I got it once. Of course, it wasn't my fault because Billy Leaper had pushed me off the sidewalk onto the grass seed. It kind of turned out okay, though, because later he wanted to see how red my hand was and he used that excuse to hold it while he said he was sorry. I must add that Billy was not only the most handsome boy in the school, he was also the only boy in our grade seven class. Other misadventures befell us while Mrs. Reilly was subbing. We didn't enter the Choral Speech contest, held in Fort St. John. That was always a lot of fun. The previous year, we came in second place and we placed a trophy in our school's trophy case to prove it. The man judging the contest had said he wished there were a trophy for the most enthusiastic group instructor, because Mrs. Dubois would have won it for sure. She stomped her feet and waved her hands around like a windmill so we would emphasize the words at the right spot. I'd liked it when we were supposed to point at the audience and say "...and remember! Once the mighty oak was just a NUT like you!" Everyone in the audience had roared with laughter. All this to say that we were thrilled to hear Mrs. Dubois was finally coming back. On the Monday morning, the first day of her return, we all sat in our desks so quietly that I could have heard a pin drop. Then, at exactly nine o'clock, the classroom door opened and there she was! She had the biggest smile on her face and she said: "Children! It's so nice to see you again!" The room went crazy. Some of us had made cards to welcome her back, others were offering apples and the little kids were giving her hugs. Her eyes teared up and she started to laugh. What a welcome we gave her. Then a man we'd never seen before came in with a big five-gallon pail covered with a lid. He was her husband and he was carrying something they had brought back for us from their holiday "down south" at the coast. Everyone rushed to his or her seat and order fell over the room. "Children, put your heads down on your desk, and no peeking. I've brought back a very special dollar for each of you." Down our heads went, and we heard the lid being taken off the pail, then― PHEEEW! What a horrible stench! The stench was so overpowering we had to throw open both windows and doors to let out the rotten smell, and Mr. Dubois took the pail outside. Mrs. Higgenbottom's classroom heard our uproar, so they got into an uproar too. Tommy, who got excited over everything, kept saying, "Oh, I think I'm going to be SICK," then he made a gagging noise that got everyone else going. It was pandemonium. It was great.  After everyone settled down again, Mr. Dubois figured out what had gone wrong. He and his wife had collected a pail of sand dollars ― those flat, hard-shelled star fishes ― from the beach were they had vacationed. Inside the shell of some of the sand dollars had remained bits of the sea creature; these had had over a week to decay. That's what we'd smelled: dead fish. The grade sevens, because we were the oldest, were given the task to go through the pail, find the rotten sand dollars, and throw them away. After that we rinsed the rest of the shells in water and bleach to get rid of the smell. It was fun, and we were thrilled with our special dollars. But it was later in the afternoon that the best thing happened. Our wonderful teacher, Mrs. Dubois, suddenly asked: "Children, why on earth are those blinds down? It's time for the Shake-Up!"
In this reminiscence of youth, R. K. Doiron, aka Robert Thompson, shares with us the meaning of loneliness and, despite all odds, his love of the ocean. A professional writer from the age of 18, Bob started in radio (doing News, Features and Theatre Criticism) in Vancouver, paying his way through to discreet Honours degrees (both First Class) in Literature and History. Since then, his writing has blossomed into an eclectic mix: a number of novels for the U.K. market; plays for performance at the Edinburgh Festival and an assortment of London theatres; one-person monologues for U.K. radio and `talking head' productions for U.K. television. all of which has combined to give him a critical reputation for his plots, character(s)-and as one of the best dialogue writers anywhere. He has also produced a variety of education texts and resources for secondary schools in 13 different countries. Of late, while his U.K. career continues apace, he has found a home for his `Canadian' novel at LtdBooks, where he released Year Of The Snake in January of 2001to 5-Star reviews from ScribesWorld and Simegen. He is slated to "go live" with his new ebook, Means To An End , early in 2002. He currently resides in Comox, on Vancouver Island, with his wife, two mini-dachshunds, an African Grey parrot, and 63 Chickens. You can reach R.K. Doiron at rthompso@mars.ark.com   or visit his website at http://www.anotherroom.com . Lighthouse, Trial Island, B.C.   Personal Fog By R.K. Doiron   Loneliness is a terrible thing. It tears people apart, gives them too much time to brood about the future, about the present and, worst of all, about the past. And the past, at least for me, should always be approached with a sense of dread ... At this moment, I am lonely. Not alone, but lonely. A new town, a new university, and new people. Left behind is a person who matters most. I see her on weekends, but during the week I'm lonely-and as it's Wednesday, this is the worst day of the week. I feel sorry for myself, the way we all do from time to time. So I sit on the patio staring at the swimming pool and listening to the radio-a soccer game that I should be attending, would be attending, if I were at home. A game that she is attending. I try to cheer or sing with the crowd, but I feel foolish. Besides, it makes the loneliness worse. The wind comes up and ripples the water in the pool. I dislike swimming pools. No-that's not true. Their water frightens me. It's strange, because it's the ocean's water I should be frightened of, but I'm not. It's the ocean I was thinking about as I turned to a fresh sheet of paper on my clipboard and take up my pen. I was fourteen and working my third summer on the commercial fish boats off the West Coast of Vancouver Island. It was a job I'd been trained for, thoroughly, virtually since birth. And like all fourteen year-old boys, I knew everything there was to know. My grandfather had warned me. He was the skipper; he'd gazed off into the fog-in that huge, slow way of his-and warned me, specifically, to keep both feet on the deck because the sea was choppy. Then he'd lumbered into the wheelhouse, expecting me to obey. I went over the side instead. I'd balanced myself precariously: one foot on the deck and one knee on the rail, while I bent over to rinse some fish scales off my hands. Next I knew I was overboard. I yelled and yelled and yelled, but my grandfather was deaf from years of working on diesel engines. The boat evaporated into the fog, simply vanished, and I was alone, struggling to keep above the slapping waves. Too late then. Too late to tell him he was right, as usual. There was only me, with my skin for insulation and my insufficient limbs to keep me afloat. The fog closed in. At least it felt that way as I was trying to get my bearings. All I could remember was three fathoms, according to the depth sounder, and that was all but useless in my present circumstances. How far from shore, from safety, did it become three fathoms deep, I recall being amazed at my own calm, at the matter-of-fact manner I worked out the distance from the charts I'd studied back on board, during those long quiet evenings. I searched my memory for the shape of the shoreline. I recall thinking Grandfather would be proud of me, provided he didn't kill me for disobeying him. And then I swam, striking out toward land. At least I hoped it was toward land. The fog had reduced visibility to a few dozen yards, at most, and three fathoms put me close to 10 miles off shore. I swam and floated-talking aloud to myself. "I know where land is. Sure I do. Keep swimming. What about sharks? Sharks, don't be so bloody silly. They must be looking by now. Don't panic, above all, don't panic. Run through the `times tables'. Two times two equal 4; two times three equals six." Kick and stroke. "Two times four equals eight; two times five equals ten." Kick and stroke. "Keep going, keep going." Kick and stroke.. I can still feel the numb, cold grey. Everything was grey: the sea, the sky-a dull, hazy, icy grey. My teeth began to chatter uncontrollably and my limbs felt lead-lined. When I stopped swimming, they would sink, rag-like, and drift around helplessly in the current. Only the pain of each new stroke made them part of me again. "Don't panic. How long can you survive? I read it somewhere. An hour-and-a-half, two hours. How long has it been? It can't be two hours, I'm still alive." Then I would move, and agony racked my shoulders and hips. I'd stop, start to sink. Then I would choke. I choked, over and over and over again. Salt water tore at my throat when I opened my mouth. "Where the hell are they?" I shouted, growing frantic, searching for the fleet of boats that would surely be looking for me by now, for the Coast Guard, for anyone. But even my loudest screams got lost in the all-pervasive grey, in that peculiar way fog seems to swallow all sound. I don't remember when land first appeared but suddenly there were, sheer and slippery, leading up to the foot of the lighthouse; and surf, smashing relentlessly against this stony surface. Wave followed wave in rhythmic succession. The roar of colliding sea and land engulfed me, numbing me more than the cold: it seemed, after a time, to emanate from inside my own head. The memory blurs. Fear is all that comes back. Fog, rocks, and smashing surf all around: and me, drifting past the lighthouse. Terrified. Helpless. Knowing if I got too close I'd be swept up and smashed against the rocks. All they'd find would be my broken body-if they ever found it at all. If solidly build wooden boats couldn't withstand the pounding of the surf in such circumstances... I felt the tide push me past the little point of land and back out to sea. And felt the fear: total crushing fear. I wet myself. I felt the warmth around my legs. My pants, boots and jacket were gone. I must have taken them off before I'd started to swim. That was an ingrained instinct, a part of my training. something I had done without thinking, without even noticing. "I'm gonna die. I can't get out. I'm gonna die ... and all alone." I screamed. I screamed again. I screamed a third time, with every ounce of strength I had left, with every fibre of my being. And a dog barked. I screamed. The dog barked again. I screamed. It went on for a long time-or so it seemed. Until, suddenly, there he was: a gorgeous Irish Setter, standing like a statue on the bow of a troller. He'd spotted me and was barking frantically, his tail wagging. Someone in a green plaid work jacket pulled me from the water. I knew the man but I couldn't place his name. "I made it. I made it. It must have been less than two hours." My voice sounded hoarse and eerie to my own ears, as I clutched the plaid-covered arm in both my hands. But it hadn't been. Later, I learned that it was more like four. That the whole fleet had cut their gear at the mayday call, had been searching frantically for me, had started to trade the discreetly worded radio messages which indicate they feared the worst. That I had no right to be alive; no right to be lonely ever again. I'd become hysterical ... I must have. All I remember is a big hand, a gigantic hand, coming out of the blur. It hit me. The blow echoed inside my skull. I came to, after a fashion, and a dog was licking my cheek. No. He was just breathing on me, staying close-attentive. Everything was quiet, except for the dog. The Irish Setter. I love them. I guess I always will. Work boots thudded down the ladder from the wheelhouse to the galley. A big toothless face appeared. I still couldn't place the name. The face opened and said: "Stay put, don't move. Here, drink this." The voice was gruff. I'd wasted valuable fishing time and they were angry. "Oh God, I'm dead," I moaned. "Please God, save me-he'll kill me, I know he will." Next I knew my grandfather was there. So was a man in uniform. My grandfather argued with the uniform. I heard snatches. the uniform being insistent, about something, followed by my grandfather actually speaking in whole sentences: "No. It'd get in the papers. What'd the old lady think?" Oh God. He really was mad. Inwardly, with all my strength, I cheered for the uniform. That's how foolish you can be when you're young. I actually prayed for the uniform to save me somehow. Grandfather picked me up. I was wrapped in a blanket and this huge bull of a man slung me easily over his shoulder. He stomped-or so it seemed to me-all the way back to our boat. Faces appeared in our wake, looked on. Some smiled, at least faintly...The usual ghouls who enjoyed an execution, I thought. He set me heavily on the stool in the wheelhouse, grabbed me by the back of the neck, and looked at me closely. "Oh God, here it comes." He shook me roughly. Then-he hugged me. For the first time in my life, my grandfather hugged me. Big, staid Yorkshire-bred fishermen don't show affection to anyone, especially to their male descendants. Damn near killed me in the process, mind-but he actually hugged me. "Ya young pup ya, I thought ya was gone, I thought ya was gone." It was all one big slow word. I had no answer. After all, the same thought had crossed my mind more than once during the past few hours. Leaning back, he stared at me intensely. "Ya okay? Sure ya are. Ya're tough, too tough ta kill that easy." "What did the man want?" I sat, shivering inside the blanket. I knew I shouldn't ask; it wasn't my place. `The skipper's always right', that's what I'd been taught. And he had been, hadn't he? "What man?" "The one in the uniform. Back there". I jerked my head toward the other boat. "Nuthin." He was gruff again, now he knew I was all right. But I asked again. It was important. He got angry. I could see it. He mumbled something, looking out the wheelhouse window. "What?" "I sed he wants ya in the hospital. Seys ya're in shock." He paused for a moment. "I sed no. It'd get in the papers, ya see, and ya're grandma'd see it." He was very serious. "Ya're grandma and mum mustn't know. We don't tell the women-folk about these things. Not ever. It'll be ar secret. Ya musn't ever say nuthin. Ya swear." I swore. He'd been serious. He'd been afraid of what would happen. My grandmother was one tough lady, as well as one of my favourite people. Slow to rouse, but she was a 'fishwife' in every sense of the word. And he was right to fear her wrath. He picked me up then and laid me on his bunk. Another first. He disappeared down the galley ladder, and returned almost immediately with some hot homemade rum. Someone must have given it to him, because he didn't drink. Not around me, at any rate. Awful stuff. I drank it, choking, but he held the bottom of the mug and forced me to drink. When I woke up next, we were at sea and he was not around. I sat up looking about the swaying wheelhouse and muttered: "That figures, we couldn't miss a nice day". I didn't realise it was actually the next afternoon, and you can't know how important that was. To miss a whole day of fishing was a sin in our family. It indicated just how worried he'd really been. I dressed, and went out on deck. I was going to apologise-for the stupidity, the trouble, most of all for having doubted him, feared him. He saw me. He clambered up from the hole in the stern, the one from which I'd gone overboard, and clapped me on the shoulder. "Well ya lazy pup ya, I thought ya'd sleep fa'ever". He'd yelled, but only to be heard over the diesel engine. I tried to apologize. I couldn't. I didn't. I was embarrassed. I tried not to look at him, concentrated on the smooth red paint of the deck instead. "Ya better pull the gear," he said finally. He went into the wheelhouse. I pulled the gear, and it hurt. Everything ached and I was weak, but I climbed back into that hole-and I pulled the gear. I cleared every line of seaweed and checked every lure. Anything to stay out of the wheelhouse. The sea, of course, gave no indication of what had transpired. It was better to face it than him. Later, I tried again to apologize. I just couldn't do it. Worse yet, I knew he wouldn't mention it. For him it was over, except that he never quite looked at me the same way again. There was always something extra in his eyes: perhaps a sign of respect that I'd survived-or, more likely, the knowledge of a shared secret. After all, I'd been raised to survive. And I had. Years later, I was living in Vancouver. The phone rang one night. It was my father, calling from Nanaimo. "Dad just passed away." I tried to comfort my father, and then I rang off, had a stiff drink, packed and left for the ferry. In between I tried to cry-but I couldn't. I tried to cry for me, not for my grandfather. I hadn't seen him in two years. I'd grown beyond him, you see-been the first member of our family ever to attend university. Been silly. Now he's dead and I never did apologize. But no amount of formal-or as he would've said, "fancy"-education reverses the lessons learned in six years on a fishing boat with a tough old Yorkshireman. Crying might be reasonable, under the circumstances, but I simply can't do it. Just as I never told the women-folk in question what happened. That was the deal. And the least I could do was to keep to the deal. Now, every time I'm lonely-I think about it. Someday maybe I'll cry about it and it'll all end. Sometimes I think I made it up. That it's just a silly dream. I can almost convince myself. But then, when I'm lonely-it all comes back. The fog, and the rocks, and the smashing surf. And the foghorn, I'd forgotten the foghorn. When it's really bad, I imagine that I'm wetting myself again. I'll jump up and rush to the bathroom. But that particular indignity hasn't happened. Not yet. The game is over. We won, I think. They say it helps to write. They lied. I feel just as lonely, just as miserable. I'm a little more tired. Maybe I'll be tired enough to sleep. I'll try.
  In this Fantasy story, Kerry Orchard demonstrates the power of love and the bonds of blood. Kerry was born and raised in Calgary, Alberta, Canada where she still lives with her husband, two children, two cats and a dog. She had an interesting life growing up and working at the racetrack. She has also done much volunteering for animal causes and in schools over the years as well as worked at different part time jobs, giving her many ideas for her characters and worlds. She began writing to beat the isolation of staying home and to cope with a chronic illness. Fantasy is her first love. Poetry affords her an opportunity to express herself. She believes that Fantasy is wonderful because the author controls everything from the laws of the world to the character's behaviour. It is escapism at its best. She is currently at work on her second fantasy, as well as a Canadian-driven murder mystery, another genre she enjoys. You can reach Kerry at kerry@kerryorchard.com or visit her website at http://www.kerryorchard.com .    A Mother's Love By Kerry Orchard   "My child!" The hollow wail pierced the ears of her watchers. "Where, where have you taken my child?" "Away; simply away, my lady. You may follow, if you own the courage." The one who held her reddened, fevered eyes with his did so with intelligence and wisdom both disconcerting and confusing. The fierce grey orbs danced with an emotion she could not place, in a face well worn but dignified. Hair, once jet-black, now streaked with shafts of silver, dangled knotted at his back. Her eyes flicked nervously to the well-polished sword fastened to his thick silver belt. His companion was much the same in appearance, though his hair was yet a rich ebony and abundant. He was, however, no less formidable. Both wore medallions of brilliant turquoise. The face of each was inscribed with a gilded silver emblem of a wondrous garden where flourished an ancient tree with leaves the colour of newly fallen snow. It is a dream, her mind screamed in warning. Must be, could be, only a dream. With trembling fingers, she reached out and pinched herself sharply. The pain stung and she bit back hot tears. "What do you want?" she asked, subdued, her once lively voice barely audible. "You," grey hair answered calmly, "only you. We offer...opportunity. A chance to change what is, to now, destined to come. It is an honour which you were chosen for." Her eyes darted frantically about the room. To her horror, she recognized nothing. The walls were of stone. Like a poorly crafted mask, thick, red curtains obscured the only window, allowing her no opportunity to discover her whereabouts. "Where am I?" a voice she did not recognize as her own whispered through her fear and confusion. "Where you have taken yourself. Now you must fight for your child. Fight for yourself, your return. Be assured, we will free her to you, for she needs you, but you must fight for the right and the privilege, if you can," he answered cryptically. She sat up suddenly, in a jarring, ungainly motion, long blonde hair falling in waves about a thin but determined face. Her green eyes, now blazing, bore into the two men. "You have stolen my child and now you expect me to battle to get her back! Battle what-whom! Who are you?" Her anger lost ground to fear. "Would you not, for her?" The question irritated her especially since he had ignored her other queries.. "Of course I would." Her tone betrayed the offence she felt. "Now, who-are-you?" Grey hair smiled gently, confusing her further. "I am Carn, and this," he waved a thick, well-ringed hand at his companion, "is Taqk. We are both bane and kismet to you." Dumbfounded by this, she stared down on herself, seeking some fabric of truth, familiarity, some vision of reality, only to find she was dressed in similar fashion to the two before her. Her robe, however, was a shinning yellow rather than black, and she bore no sword. She sat upon a well-cushioned daybed covered with a silky material she could not place. Where is my bed? She tugged at the robe. These are not my pyjamas. Her tortured mind demanded answers she could not provide. "Where am I?" she whispered sickly. Carn looked down at her kindly, but did not answer. "Come, it is time." She stood, knowing no other alternative, then froze. "Did I hear a baby cry?" she asked, pleading in voice. "Yes. It is yours." She smiled softly. "Jacqueline." "Jacqueline, it is a lovely name. Chosen for your mother, perhaps?" She nodded as the blood drained from her face. How could they know such a thing? Her mother had fled from her father's home when she was only two; she had not seen her since, and had told no one why she had chosen the name, not even her husband. Her father, cruel and angry, was long dead. Leading her reluctant body to a large room filled with shining armour, Carn pulled forth an elegant jewel-encrusted sword and ceremoniously handed it to her. She thought even Excalibur could not be so grand. "This is for you, Arian." "You know my name, too?" She wondered if there was anything they did not know. "Of course." Carn spoke confidently, with a barely discernible bow of his head. "Here you are empowered to battle the demons that dwell in this place." Taqk spoke in a gentle voice that stroked her like a mother's hand. "For they are your demons, Arian; know them well. It is what keeps you on this side. You must defeat them to return to your child." She glanced at Taqk, disoriented by the softness of his soothing voice. Were they friend or foe? Finding her own voice, she shouted, "What! I don't understand. I'm a housewife-mother. I know no demons. I can't help you!" she finished, appalled at them-herself, she wasn't sure which. "Who do you think I am? You must have me mixed up with someone else. I can't help you," she repeated firmly. "You are not here to help us, only yourself," Carn admonished. "Follow please," Taqk requested when silence blanketed them like a weight, subduing the echoes of her outburst. "I want to see my baby first," she demanded stubbornly. "No, not yet. You will, in time. Then, you must prove yourself." It was Taqk who spoke again and she could hear a sadness that seemed to seep from his soul. Sadness for her. "But―" Her cry, turned to a whine, was interrupted by Carn. "No," he repeated without irritation. Small and slight, Arian knew she was no match for the men who held her prisoner, never mind the demons they spoke of. Sweat dripped from her forehead to her eyes and she swiped at its stinging bite. She felt afire from head to toe. Her eyes burned and the sword, still clutched in her sweaty hand, felt as though it were weightless. Her legs trembled with weakness and her fingers itched. "Water," she croaked, suddenly parched. The two men turned to her with concern. "Of course." To her dismay, out of nowhere, appeared a pail and dipper. She drank greedily, putting its mode of delivery out of her mind. Arian caressed her sword as they walked and tried to pay closer attention to her surroundings. The corridors, stone and cold, lit solely by candlelight, ran about like writhing snakes, twisting and intertwining in a warren of tunnels. She wondered, hysterically, who lit all the candles every day. She realized with a pang she could never, despite the candles, find her way back alone. Back to where? she wondered, stopping briefly. What would be the point of going back when she did not know where back was? She ran her hand along a damp and chilly passage wall where she could feel the delicate etchings of inscriptions in the stone. She wondered what they said. They had not gone much further when her captors stopped abruptly in front of her. Peering around them, Arian beheld the thick, ancient oak door at which they stood, noting that the two men appeared to be bowed in silent prayer. She fidgeted and shuffled her feet. Was she also to pray? Meditations ended, they raised their head and moved slowly through the doorway, subdued, never once looking back at her. She followed, stumbling clumsily behind them into a field filled with massive flowering trees, their leaves the colour of winter's first dusting. Her mind's eye drifted to the emblem at their breast. The same tree. The meadow was stunningly beautiful in a way only nature can accomplish. The sky hung deep blue and cloudless above them, in a radiant arc, alive with the fire of the sun. The grass, greener than any she had ever seen, was like velvet to walk on. Flowers, like a patchwork quilt, covered the meadow floor, laid out in colourful splendour. Her eyes strayed ahead to the centre of the field where sat an ancient cradle, crafted of scooped, carved wood. "Jacqueline," Arian moaned. "Yes, she awaits your return." Carn spoke softly. He detested this part of his job, "But she is guarded." "I see nothing," Arian snapped, tired of the game and wanting only to see her baby. She rubbed the stinging droplets of sweat from her eyes and wondered jealously why the men were not warm. "Nevertheless, they are there." Carn turned to face her, sadness laced with hope in his eyes. "Go to her," he ordered quietly. Head high, sweat dripping from her chin, Arian began to walk on rubber legs. Her eyes on Jacqueline, she did not notice the white mist that snaked around her ankles until it finally enveloped her. Shrouded by the heavy white curtain, she could no longer see. "Jacqueline," she shrieked, "baby! Where are you?" A faint cry reached her ears, giving her strength. "Mommy's coming," she croaked. , Her fevered eyes searched wildly for an opening, some kind of break in the white-out. Nothing, there was nothing. Panic began to set in and she whirled about in frenzy, until her racing eyes happened on a small hole. She dove through without thinking, Jacqueline's tiny face filling her thoughts. Now there was only blackness, like the soul of depression, filled by the vilest of screams, shouts of terror. "Jacqueline," she moaned when something brushed against her leg. She did not know what it was, did not want to know. Trembling, she stood still and called softly once more, "Jacqueline." A cry. Yes, she was sure she had heard a cry somewhere to her left. She turned and stumbled in the direction of the sound that reached her even over the terror-filled shrieks. She had fallen. She closed her eyes tight and counted to ten before opening them to find she lay in the field of trees once more. The blazing splendour seemed to renew her strength. She could see Jacqueline now, engulfed by the shadow of the great black dragon who sat aside the cradle. The claws on the right foot dangled precariously into the crib as he rocked it to and fro. Close, too close to the precious bundle within. "No!" Arian's scream was terrible to hear. She charged toward her child. The dragon slowly stood, as though no more than stretching, behemoth in size, and lumbered toward her. They stopped about one hundred yards apart: opponents sizing each other up. She shrank back in fear. His claws were as long as her arm. Smoke spiralled from his nostrils like stream from a kettle. Arian made the comparison and nearly giggled insanely. His yellow eyes held her fast, and she knew she could not make that mistake. "Is this your baby, Madam?" the beast asked grandly, his speech elegant and lovely. It caressed her like a lover's touch, cosseting her into submission. She shook her head to clear her mind and answered thickly, "Yes." The silky voice would not fool her. She would not allow it. "Well, well, well. And you are to...win her, from me?" he laughed uproariously. "She is a beauty. I will so enjoy her. Children prolong my life you know," he added as though teacher to pupil. Arian swallowed her fear and bile. "You will do nothing of the sort. She is mine. I want her back." "You want to be her mother," he asked silkily, as though it surprised or amused him. Anger fired her soul. "I am her mother." "Well then, prove it. Come-fight your way to freedom. Save she, whom you call your child," the dragon chided, flaunting his power. Enormous wings flapped at his back as he began to circle her. She shook her head once more to clear the cobwebs of his voice and wiped the persistent sweat from her forehead. She heaved the sword up and swung it in a wide arc about her head. The silver glistened like a talisman under the kiss of the sun, sending spinning shafts of shining light about her. She was amazed at its handle, the lightness, and her lack of fear. She would fight anyone, anything, for her child: even death. The dragon circled, smoke curling and twisting teasingly from his flared nostrils. Arian knew instinctively that she must strike for the belly. Holding her breath, she made her first strike. Flames whipped around her as she charged through the dragon's raging fire. With a whoosh of flame, the air was sucked from her lungs, leaving them dry and burning. Gasping, she backed off. Jacqueline cried lustily in the background, a reminder to Arian of her prize. She trained her eyes on her target, then jumped left, before coming in right to drive the shaft into the dragon's unprotected belly, but she missed her target and fell plummeting to the earth. He backed off, laughter bubbling from his snout. "Not much sport in this," he howled with mirth, wiping the tears from his glinting eyes. He turned to poke a long claw into the cradle. Jacqueline let out a shriek. Arian's rage swelled up inside her. It broke free in a startling scream as she dove at him unexpectedly. This time, she did not miss. Like a gentle breeze on a hot summer's day, he was suddenly gone. After stealing a peek into the cradle, she planted her feet wide apart, grasped her sword and waited. Her heart ached as she ignored the baby's gasping sobs. Her arms were badly burned, aching, and she could smell the rancid odour of charred flesh. Her stomach heaved; her legs tried to buckle but still she stood. She would protect her child. Birds sang into the glory of her victory but she had only ears for Jacqueline. She could not even take in the tranquil beauty of the place that embraced her, a virtual Eden. Still she waited, but nothing happened. The birds continued their brilliant song and she felt, after a time, it was a good sign, an omen of safety. They had not been singing when the dragon was in residence. Moving slowly, warily, she crept the last few feet toward the cradle. There she dropped the sword at her feet and dove her hands into the folds of the cradle. She lifted Jacqueline high, allowing the sun to fall on the soft down of her fair head and gazed, for the first time, on her daughter. * * * "She's awake!" an exulting voice cried into the blackness of her mind. "The fever's broken!" it shouted jubilantly as its owner fled the room, tears streaming down his face. Someone leaned over her and gently caressed her forehead, now cool to the touch. "You gave us quite a scare, young lady. It must have been quite a battle to return, hmm?" She stared, unbelieving, at the gentle, elderly face before her. She knew it, oh yes, she knew that face. Her doctor. Her own, grey-haired doctor. She was, she glanced around quickly to be sure, in the hospital. The starched white sheets rubbed irritatingly against her skin and relief flooded her. The voice of a local newsperson droned in the background. Snow for Calgary tonight, it proclaimed. Alberta would be hit hard by a winter storm. "My baby?" she croaked, voice parched. The doctor smiled as a new face appeared beside his. Her husband gently handed into her warm embrace a brand new baby: her baby. "Jacqueline," she moaned as tears slid down her cheeks onto the sleeping child. All that I am, And all that I hope to be, Is in essence, What I have passed on to you.
Edward Stack gives us a taste of nostalgia and whimsy in the charming story about hockey days gone by. Eward has been a writer of Fantasy, Science Fiction and Horror for several years. After paying for his undergraduate degree as a soldier, scuba diver, and marine archaeologist he spent eight years teaching high school history at American International Schools in Africa and Latin America. Now he is back in Canada as a faceless bureaucrat here in Ottawa, with two children who are far more wonderful than anything he's ever seen or will ever write. His short fiction has appeared in Twighlight Times, STORYTELLER MAGAZINE, Bardic Runes, and The Ultimate Unknown, to name a few. Both STORYTELLER and Bardic Runes featured his stories on their covers. His epic fantasy novel "Ily's Dream" is available as an ebook from Jaqkar, which is where his collection of speculative fiction, "Wizards, Wonder & Worry" and his YA horror/Thriller "Food, Spirits, Lodging" are also published. "Wizards, Wonder & Worry" was a Dream Realm Award 2000 Finalist. You can read Edward at estack@sprint.ca or visit his website at www.speculativefiction.zzn.com     Montreal Forum, Farewell Ceremony   A New Game by Edward F. Stack   Howie sat in the dressing room he had spent so much time in, so many happy hours, but things had changed. All the plaques with the players' names had been taken down, along with the row of pictures of the men from the Hall of Fame. No equipment hung in the empty stalls and no-one walked the hallowed halls of the venerable arena. Still, Howie did not really accept that the life of the Montreal Forum was over until the wrecking ball smashed into the side of the old building for the first time. After that crashing sound Howie floated out through the dressing room wall into the main foyer of the Forum. Staring through the front windows onto St Catherine's Street he saw a crane towering over the building. Something must have gone wrong with the machine, for it ceased its destruction after that first apocalyptic impact. "I really didn't think they would do it." Beside Howie hovered other ghostly figures. He knew them all, some of them former players like himself, others, fans or people who had worked in the Forum while alive. There was even one kid who had died in a car wreck during a trip to visit the rink. Failing to reach it in life, the boy had made the Forum his home in death. In death, as in life, the ghosts looked to Howie. Howie Morenz, the greatest player of so many who had skated the ice of hockey's shrine. The building had killed him, complications from that leg shattered during a game gone tragically wrong, breaking the hearts of all Canadiens fans. Yet, it was where he had lived, really lived, been most alive. Was it so strange that it was here he had stayed in death? "Well, folks," he said. "It looks like it's over." "Why, Howie, why?" That earnest entreaty was from Saul, dead six years, but before that a season ticket-holder for forty-nine years of a sixty-eight-year life. The Forum existed before he was born and lived after him: In the beginning was the Forum. "Nothing is forever, Saul. You know that." Saul slowly shook his misty visage as Howie went on, "Remember how the Anglos hated the French when you were a kid? They sat on the opposite side of this building, cheering the Maroons against "les Canadiens"?" Nodding, Saul grinned, as did many of those gathered around, more and more of them as Howie spoke. "When the Maroons folded, all Montreal became Habs fans, Anglos and French cheering "les Glorieux" together. We all said that could not be, but it happened." The truth of what he said was indisputable, and he continued, "And the players now, from Russia, Finland, and countries that did not even exist when we were playing. Not all "Canadiens" come from good Quebecois stock any more." Again, no one could argue that he was not speaking the truth. Even so, one voice was raised in opposition to his logic: "But the "le Club de Hockey Canadien" still played here. They must play here. How can the Habs play anywhere but here? This is the Forum, this is the home of "les Glorieux"!" "Not any more." Howie was tired, but knew he must stay strong for those around him. It had always been his duty, and it would ever be. His ghostly finger pointed to a tall glass-fronted structure just visible from where they all stood. "Now they will play there. They already have." "But, Howie!" It was the boy who had died trying to see his beloved team play, just once, in the Forum. "Was I your hero, Danny?" "You know you were, Howie." The boy's face was bright, guileless. "You still are." Smiling, Howie looked at the child who stared at him so confidently, so faithfully. "I know, Danny. I was proud, am proud, to have been a Canadien. Like the rest, I played for love, for pride, for the team, for the fans." He paused, unsure if he should continue, but knowing the boy deserved the truth. "But hockey is a business, Danny. The owners must make money. Players are expensive now. If we are going to win more Stanley Cups, and we will, we must pay top players to come here. The Forum would draw them, but only money will keep them. You still want us to win, don't you Danny?" The boy, unable to speak, nodded, looking at the floor. Howie turned to face the ghostly audience that now filled the foyer. "So the Canadiens will have a new home, and will win new championships, new fans, new glory. This building will be gone, but "les Habitants" will go on!" The crowd cheered, and workmen in front of the building felt a chill on their spines. They looked at each other, but did not speak of what they thought, what they knew. Then the crane operator announced that everything was ready, and the destruction of the Forum could begin in earnest. Inside, little Danny was still worried. "What about us, Howie? Can we go to the new building?" Howie watched the workmen prepare to destroy their home. Danny's question was one Howie had asked himself many times of late. "I don't think so, Danny. I heard one of the new players wonder the same thing. He said the team owners took the old dressing room, with all its history, to the new building. They wanted to keep the spirit of the old teams with them. But he wasn't sure the ghosts were transferable." Shaking his head, a sad smile curling his lips, Howie spoke softly, almost to himself, "I don't think we can leave here." Seeing the question in the eyes of those around him, he explained, "The spirit is carried in the hearts of living people. It is in the banners that will hang from the ceiling, and in the cheers of the crowds who will fill the new arena. But us? I think we belong here. What would we do there? Where would we live? I don't know that place. I would be a guest in someone else's home. I think we are part of this building, and when it is gone.." The others heard what he said, then they heard the sound of the wrecker's ball smash into the building again and again. They cried out, fear and sadness tearing their hearts apart as the wreckers tore apart the building. Ghostly tears fell along with the shattered bricks of the building. As whole sections of the walls began tumbling down, a wind whirled through the foyer. With each crash of the huge iron ball a gust of that wind swept the Forum's ghosts away, singly, then in two's and three's, then en masse. Howie watched them go, his hands reaching helplessly for little Danny as the child was swirled away, on his young face the same mask of terror he must have worn when he died so many years before. Finally, Howie alone stood tall in the crumbling building, his heart and soul anchored to its rapidly collapsing walls, the foundation his. He had lived here the best part of his life, and all of his death, but it was over. Now what? By then the walls were almost completely flattened. Howie stood no longer in a building but on a pile of rubble, of memories, of dreams and fears. As he wondered what was to become of him, the wind gusted one last time. It carried him away from the building he loved, the home he loved, into the sky, everything blurring as he spun through the air. When he could focus again he found himself walking on clouds. In the distance he could see a big building of some kind, and around it swarmed a large number of people. Approaching, he saw that the building was taking the shape of the Forum. As it was being torn down on earth it was being built up here. "It is where you belong, just as Montreal was." Howie jumped. He had not heard that voice in many years. Leo Dandurand had been his boss long ago. Now they walked side by side once more. "Monsieur Leo?" "You were always bright, weren't you?" Howie laughed a nervous laugh, "What's going on here, Monsieur?" "The Forum. It is ours now, forever." "Forever?" "Yes." By now they had reached the foyer Howie had been standing in such a little while ago, but here it was intact, spotless, perfect. From deeper inside the building he could hear the old organ leading the crowd in cheers. Shaking his head, he walked towards the ice. Unthinking, he found himself heading towards the players' bench. There he found so many lost friends, and so many later heroes, all in their uniforms, sweat and blood on their faces like the old days. A few of them noticed him, giving him heartfelt greetings, hugs mixed with punches on the shoulder. Then they all turned their attention back to the game. Montreal was playing Toronto. It was the second period and the score was tied. "Monsieur Leo?" "Yeah, Morenz?" "Where is this?" "It's heaven. We play all the time, the seats are always full, we always play well, and we never get seriously injured. Even the cuts heal by morning." "Why are we playing Toronto?" Leo Dandurand laughed again, sharing a knowing look with the rest of the players, "You are new here, aren't you? Well, Toronto needs somewhere to play until Maple Leaf Gardens is torn down. Until today we had to play Chicago or Boston. Now we have the Forum for ourselves. Isn't it wonderful?" Howie noticed that Dick Irvin stood behind the players, arguing with Toe Blake. Georges Vezina was at the end of the bench adjusting his pads while Jacques Plante skated towards the Canadiens' goal. Plante's face was bare. There was no need for his mask here. "Do we always win?" Doug Harvey was listening and snorted, "Of course not. What fun would that be?" Howie laughed with his old friends and teammates. What bliss, to play all the time instead of just watching as he had for so long now on earth. Tears in his eyes, Howie watched. It was almost perfect, but he longed to play. As he was thinking this, Coach Blake pointed to him and said, "Let's go, Morenz, you're in!" Howie looked at the coach, at all his colleagues in their old uniforms, then down at himself. He was in uniform too. A he glanced up he saw little Danny beam and wave from the stands. Swallowing hard, Howie gripped the familiar stick, swung himself over the boards, landed comfortably on that long-ago broken leg, and skated into the center of the Forum's ice. Into paradise.
  In this science fiction story, Norma McPhee takes us from a well-known corner of the Maritimes to the stars. Norma McPhee bawled her way into the world in Canso, Nova Scotia, on a bright July morning, just before lunch. She grew up on Cape Breton Island, surrounded by books of every type, in a close-knit family known for its collectively weird sense of humour. Norma attended Holy Angels High School, an all-girl institution, where she left a trail of nuns and other teachers wondering what happened. From there it was off to Nova Scotia Teacher's college, where she managed to steal a certificate in Early Childhood Education. Her first novel, Into the Fire , was published in February, 2001 by LTDBooks. Norma works as a nanny to support her writing habit. She lives in Toronto, Ontario with two beautiful, brilliant little girls (if she does say so herself) and their parents. You can reach Norma at ncmcphee@yahoo.ca or visit her website at http://www.geocities.com/ncmcphee .  Peggy's Cove, before the storm   A Mari Usque Ad Astra By Norma McPhee   Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia Wednesday, September 3, 2042   "Just when were you going to tell me?" Glennis MacKay froze in the doorway, the knob still clutched in her hand. Why did her father's voice sound so strange? Not so much angry as.. "What are you talking about, Dad? I haven't-" "I'm talking about this." He snatched a pale green envelope off the hall table and shook it at her. "Were you planning to leave without telling me, too?" Leave? Glennis stared at the envelope, stunned. So it had come. So much time had passed that she'd thought it never would. That she'd been silly to even think she had a chance. "Well?" her father prompted. "I-I kind of forgot about it," she hedged. "Forgot? How do you forget something like this? This isn't like going off to Calgary or Toronto, where you can just hop a flight home if things don't work out!" "I know, Dad." Glennis put out her hand for the envelope. With an irritated growl her father handed it to her but her fingers were trembling so hard she could barely manage to hold the thing, let alone open it. Her father snatched the envelope back in frustration and ripped it open.   Ms. MacKay: We are pleased to inform you that you have been chosen from a field of over 30,000 qualified applicants for a position in Northern North America's first voluntary offworld settlement. Due to your single status and the constraints of a limited gene pool, a psychologically compatible partner of the opposite sex has been selected for you. Your partner is colonist #328-Kiley, Ian. The hyperspace vessel Venture will be departing for the Nova Acadia colony at 10:15 a.m. on Saturday, October 4, 2042 from Antigravity Pad C at John F. Kennedy Space Center. Colonists will be billeted at the Hilton Cocoa Beach, FLA, USA. Please check in at the hotel no later than 1 October for orientation. If you decide not to accept this post, please notify us as soon as possible so your place aboard the colony ship can be reassigned and another partner assigned to Mr. Kiley.   Rhiannon Wynn-Carter Assistant Director United Nations Frontier Ministry   "I got in," Glennis barely got the words out around the lump in her throat. "I actually got in. I don't believe it." "I don't believe it either," said her father, who had been reading over her shoulder. "Arranged marriages? Where's the colony, Iraq?" "The profiling computer analyzes our psych profiles and picks someone to complement our personalities. I think it's a much better system than picking somebody based on the width of his shoulders or the shape of his butt. Or the size of his wallet." "It's barbaric," her dad said. "Psych profiles my ass. They just want to make sure all the women start to make babies right away, instead of taking their time to find Mr. Right." "Which always works out so well-just like with you and Mom." His eyes narrowed in displeasure at her sarcasm. "That's hardly my only objection to this nonsense. Have you forgotten about the Chinese ship they lost contact with last year? They never did find out what happened to those people." No, Glennis had not forgotten. She had been close to pulling her name from the selection program when she heard. Then the call centre in Halifax where she worked invested in some of those new A.I. voice interfaces, and Glennis' job was downsized out of existence. "It's no different than when our ancestors came over from Scotland," she said. "There were risks then too." "Right. Risks back home in Scotland, like starvation. You're a hell of a lot more likely to starve on some godforsaken planet light-years from home than you are here." "Why are you being like this?" Glennis' eyes stung with angry tears she was determined not to let fall. "Why can't you be happy for me? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get chosen for something like this? Can't you-I don't know-be proud of me or something?" "I am proud of you," he ground out between clenched teeth. "I was proud of you before that bloody letter showed up. But another planet? How can you expect me to be happy about this? I'll never see you again." Glennis lost her valiant battle with tears. "I know." * * * Over the next few weeks, the cool silence between Glennis and her father lifted slowly, with a word here and a word there, but she knew a part of him would never forgive her for leaving. She was his only daughter, the same child who, at nine, had begged to stay with him when her mother and brothers left for Vancouver and her new stepfather's beachfront condo. It had been just the two of them since then. Dad had had a couple of girlfriends over the years, but Glennis knew he'd never really got over Mom. Lately she had wondered if having her always there, a living reminder of the love he had failed to hold, hadn't been holding him back somehow. The day before she had to leave for Florida, Glennis and her father strolled up to the lighthouse to mail her final letters to her brothers in Toronto and Calgary, and her mother and stepfather out in Vancouver. Then they walked together in silence along the rocky shore. It was windy, and the waves crashed hard against the rocks. Glennis took off her jacket in defiance of the cool fall air, and felt the salt spray sting her arms' bare skin for the last time. A shiver ran through her. Her father glanced at her, his eyes warm with sad understanding. "Cold feet?" he asked. Glennis gave a dry chuckle. "Yeah. I think my shoes got wet." * * * Cocoa Beach, Florida Thursday, October 2, 2042   "Am I late? How much did I miss?" a burly redhead whispered as he slid into the empty seat beside Glennis. It was the only empty seat left in the hotel's Grand Ballroom, transformed for the occasion into a five-hundred-seat lecture hall. "I slept through my alarm. I hope my new wife is a morning person." The woman in the seat on Glennis' other side glared at the man, hissing for silence at least twice as loud as he'd spoken. "Wonder who got her ," he murmured. "You haven't missed much. It's just a recap of the mission info from the recruitment package," Glennis whispered back. "You're a single, then?" The man nodded. "Me, too. Most of the people I've spoken to are. I don't think many of the couples who applied together made the cut." "HUSH!" said the other woman, loud enough to be heard back home in Nova Scotia. "Talk to you after." The man leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Glennis studied him. He was a lot more interesting than some boring speech about things anyone who had even applied to the colony program should already know. He was big, broad-shouldered. Muscular, but with a softening layer of fat over the muscle. A real teddy bear. She wondered which of the female colonists would have him to snuggle with. She glanced at his name tag, and her stomach gave a queer, fluttering twist. Ian Kiley. Glennis swallowed. An arranged marriage had been a daunting enough concept when her new husband was a faceless abstraction, but now... Ian Kiley's mouth fell open, and a hoarse rumble issued from his throat. And another. And another. Glennis suppressed a chuckle as the woman beside her glared. Glennis poked Ian in the ribs. He grunted, muttered, and started snoring again. "Probably up half the night drinking like those louts in the room next to mine," the other woman sniffed. "I wonder what poor girl got stuck with him ?" " Me ," Glennis hissed back, wondering why she felt so indignant on behalf of a stranger, assigned "partner" or not. The woman gave Glennis a horrified look and then turned her full attention to the lecture. Glennis closed her eyes and listened to Ian's snores. She might as well start getting used to them now. * * * In her dreams, Glennis stood on the rocks at Peggy's Cove and stared out at the water shining golden in the sunset. Overhead, the gulls wheeled and dove, their familiar throaty calls mournful, as though they understood she was leaving them. After Saturday, she would never hear a gull's call again. From somewhere behind her a stranger's voice called her name. Calling her away. She tried to ignore it, but the golden glow off the water brightened, spread, filling her field of vision. Blotting out the sky, the gulls, the land.. The strange voice called again, and she turned to face it. He stood so close behind her that when she looked up, his face filled her vision. Fair skin, freckles, eyes as blue as the ocean itself. A face framed with wild red hair. Ian Kiley. He bent his head yet closer, and his lips brushed hers... Her eyes flickered open. "I've always wanted to do that," Ian said softly, as he raised his face from hers. "I hope you don't mind. I read your name tag. You're. I mean, we're.." "I know." For a moment, Glennis thought she was still dreaming. But the cry of the gulls was gone, as was the glow of sun on water. There was nothing left but the sea of silent, empty seats surrounding them. Warmth flooded to the surface of Glennis' skin. "Did I-did we sleep through the whole presentation?" Ian chuckled. "At least I know my snoring won't bother you." Glennis managed a shy answering smile. "I didn't get much sleep last night," she explained. "I know the feeling. Butterflies?" "Seagulls." "Huh?" "Never mind." Apparently he did mind, though. "Are you from the Mari. I mean, Atlantica, then?" Glennis nodded, though she wasn't any more used to using her country's sovereign name than he was. The Atlantic provinces had remained a part of Canada for almost fifteen years after Quebec's separation, bowing to the inevitable just three years ago. "Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia." "North Bay, Ontario. I have family in Atlantica, though. Fredericton, and Sydney." "Do you get down to see them often?" Glennis wanted to kick herself for asking. Ian grinned mirthlessly. "Not so much any more, I imagine." He stepped back from her and helped her to her feet. "What's next on the agenda? I left my reader in my room." "They're going to take us over to the Space Center for an advance tour of the ship. After that is the singles reception. You know, where we're supposed to be introduced to our assigned partners. "I see." Ian winked at her. "I think we can safely skip that one, don't you?" * * * The hotel restaurant boasted a lovely view of the beach. Glennis gazed out over the water, ignoring her rapidly cooling brunch. Ian, on the other hand, had wolfed down his own food as if he never expected to eat again. "Hey, Glennis, listen to this. "Assigned partners are encouraged to get to know one another before engaging in marital relations, " Ian read from the Singles Ori