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  AS THE CURRENT PULLS THE FALLEN UNDER

  AS THE CURRENT PULLS THE FALLEN UNDER

  A Novel

  DARYL SNEATH

  Copyright © 2017 by Daryl Sneath

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior ­written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations ­embodied in reviews.

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s ­imagination or are used ­fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Sneath, Daryl, 1975–, author

  As the current pulls the fallen under : a novel / Daryl Sneath.

  ISBN 978–1–988098–36–4 (softcover)

  I. Title.

  PS8637.N43A88 2017 C813’.6 C2017–904635–7

  Printed and bound in Canada on 100% recycled paper.

  eBook: tikaebooks.com

  Now Or Never Publishing

  #313, 1255 Seymour Street

  Vancouver, British Columbia

  Canada V6B 0H1

  nonpublishing.com

  Fighting Words.

  We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for our publishing program.

  for Mr. (Richard) Borek

  &

  for Ethan, Penelope, & Abigael

  &

  for Tara

  ‘Everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.’

  —Yeats

  ‘Tell the truth—but if the truth doesn’t tell the truth lie through your teeth.’

  —Karl Knotold

  FREEDOM STARTS HERE

  STEPHEN & SERRA’S: HERON RIVER, ON

  After they took Max away I went to live with Stephen and Serra on the river. There were canoes, including the one they gave Rayn on her fourteenth birthday, fishing rods and tackle, a vegetable garden I helped with, a tractor I learned to drive in all seasons with a bucket and a tiller and a snowplough and a deck that cut five-foot swaths, two snowmobiles and an ice hut Stephen spent the evenings of January and February in. There was the store they’d had since 1968: Down to Earth. I worked there after school and in the summers which I didn’t mind and at times actually liked. Three years went by in a flash and besides the obvious I lived a normal teenaged life.

  In the summer I often paddled the river in the mornings as the sun came up. I used Rayn’s canoe and the paddle she’d won. To those who didn’t know any better—which was everyone, even Stephen and Serra—riding the river in Rayn’s canoe was a sentimental thing to do: a son holding onto the memory of his mother, attempting to stay connected in some earthly way. I overheard Serra tell one of her friends that she thought it was nice. Beautiful, really, and sad. A child without his mother. Poor soul. But there was nothing sad or beautiful or sentimental about it.

  Before leaving for BC I struck out in the canoe one last time, four years to the day after Rayn died. As I came through the cedars and rolled the boat from my shoulders to my thighs to the ground the great blue heron perched on the stump on the far shore in line with our dock lifted and pumped its wide wings in slow low-sounding thwumps against the air. It lifted and soared and I watched it land downriver on another stump amidst the long grasses and it became still again and part of the landscape. I dropped the canoe in the water off our dock and climbed in. The air was cool and smelled of river water and earth. A temporary lunar coolness succumbing to the August sun. I reached forward, dropped the paddle in, and pulled. Fell into the rhythm of moving. The silent wake. The underwater sounds of the boat cutting through the surface. Of the paddle being dropped in and drawn. Wooden. Dull. Quiet.

  And then there she was in the bow. Smiling. An occasional hand through her hair. A look and a smile. Forever the way she was the moment she left this world behind.

  ‘So,’ I began. ‘This is it. I’m off to a place called Quest University. An old-fashioned liberal arts sort of place. They accommodate athletes, aspiring Olympians.

  ‘Had my last session with Dr. Carl the other day. To be ­honest, he’s one of the reasons I’m leaving. I don’t mean he encouraged me or guided me in any way. I mean he’s one of the things I have to get away from. Not to mention Baron. I’ve always felt like I was his product, his creation. Like I belong to him. Everyone thinks he’s the reason I’ve managed to do what I’ve done on the track, that he’s got the magic pill. I finally told one coach who wouldn’t stop badgering me about my so-called ‘program’ that the key was to have his runners sleep in three hour chunks and do five hard workouts a week at two in the morning with half an apple and thirteen raisins ten minutes before the workout, a peanut butter sandwich right in the middle, and three room temperature beers afterwards. I told him to be sure to record the 50 metre splits for every rep—accuracy is vital—and have them run counter-clockwise every other set for balance, both physically and psychologically. I told him for the three-a-week 50 click easy runs he should drive alongside the group with a megaphone out the window yelling things like, ‘Grass grows faster than you slugs run.’ Negative refrains can be great motivation. Oh, and once a week make the trek into Toronto to do some free running through the city streets. If you can survive an honest session of hardcore parkour you can ­survive anything. Plus it’s great for the, well, core. You should have seen him. Feverishly writing down every word. He asked me to repeat the part about the post workout beers. What an idiot. The world seems full of them.

  ‘So I leave tomorrow. Stephen and Serra are seeing me off. They’ve been so good to me. When I told them I was going they gave me your journal. They said you wrote in it all the time. They said you never showed it to anyone. Not even Max. They said you’d want me to have it. I haven’t read it yet. To be honest I don’t know if I can.

  ‘Anyway, I should be getting back. Stephen and Serra are throwing a little going-away party. Baron’ll be there. A few friends from school. I’ll miss them I guess. But not really. Not the way I miss you and Max. I figure whatever happens in my life one thing I can be sure of is that I’ve been trained well for loss.’

  And then she was gone.

  I turned the canoe around. The great blue heron lifted from the stump among the long grasses and glided on the air above me, making her own return home, I could only assume, as I made mine.

  CLIPPINGS (1)

  (taken from “Freak Summer Storm to Hit

  Central Ontario”: weatherwewatch )

  “Chance of snow overnight: 100%. 5 – 10 cm. With Toronto at the centre of the storm, the radius will stretch east to Peterborough, west to Hamilton, north to Barrie, and South across Lake Ontario. Temperatures will drop to between –5 and –10 °C. Expect flash-freezing conditions. Black ice on the roads. Ponds and small lakes and slow-moving rivers will crust over with 5 – 10 mm of ice. Animals will be confused. Especially migratory birds. Temperatures will rise quickly throughout the morning, reaching seasonal norms by noon. Most of the affected regions will have recovered by 5 pm EST and summer will have fully re-emerged by 10 pm EST.”

  ~

  If I were a numerologist (or a praise-be-to-God born-again literalist) it wouldn’t have taken much to convince me the weatherwewatch forecast meant something more than cold and snow. All those 5s and 10s. Coincidence was no explanation. It was the earth telling us something. God on high (praise Jesus, Hallelujah, let’s get high on God) talking down t
o us (as he’s wont to do), warning us in forecast code that the end is nigh. Prepare thyself. Pray, purge, plead for forgiveness. Love one another one last time. Embrace each other, brothers and sisters. Put your hearts together. Feel them thump-thumping through. Feel the love. Feel the beat. Clap hands. Embrace God. Embrace Jesus. Oh, Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners. Say goodbye to all earthly evil and welcome in all Godly goodness. Bye-bye Beelzebub! Hey there, Heavenly Father! Jesus, take me home! Sing Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Raise your hands to the heavens! Open your arms, open your hearts, let the good Lord of burning brimstone in. Let him judge, the big bully. Let him cast away the castaways. Let him pick his team. Let him flip his coin. Let the ascent of angels begin. And let the rest of us good honest souls—the non-believers, the undecideds, the oops-missed-the-judgement-day-deadline-begging-for-an-extension-so-as-to-cover-our-asses converts—fuel the bubbling terra firma fire that warms the dangling toes of the rising heaven-bound 5th and 10th Airborne Divisions of the Army of God chosen few. It’s the least we can do.

  I jest, but honestly, all it takes for some of the most devout apocalypse-chasers are a few number patterns in weather or dates to get the ball rolling on a good old-fashioned Armageddon campaign.

  I think I’d love to have the job of writing anonymous app reports. There could be a series: weatherwewatch, windwewatch, waterwewatch, whaleswewatch, warwewatch, weaponswewatch, westwewatch, westernswewatch, westernerswewatch, watcherswewatch. Instead of phones, users would get the feeds through a device they wear on their wrists, make it look like an old school timepiece. Call it the weeW. A classic chrono font uppercase W on the band. Choice of colour: silver, black, or gold. Get good old good-for-a-malapropism Dubya himself to self-deprecate in the ads: ‘I don’t go nowheres without my wee dubya.’

  I wonder, will an old-fashioned liberal arts degree from Quest University properly prepare me for such ambitions?

  It was late. The party was still going but people had begun to leave. They shook my hand and wished me luck, people I’d never see again unless in passing on a return visit home. Many of them still looked at me like the boy who’d lost his mother. Which I suppose I was. Their closed-lip grins and empathetic eyes. Out west no one would know about Rayn or Max or any of it and I wouldn’t tell them and they wouldn’t look at me with sad faces. Life would be normal.

  Normal. Whatever that was.

  The snow had started and I snuck outside. The three Chrises—Chris, Kris, and Criss (short for Crissy, short for Christina)—who I’d hung out with quite a bit in school, were outside already. I told them if we didn’t want an audience we should head down to the river. And so we did.

  In the midnight summer cold in our shorts and sandals we stood on the dock and listened to the listless black water lap lightly against the wood and we watched the strange snowfall in the light of a full August moon, passing one around.

  ‘Jesus Aged Christ but it’s cold. Isn’t it cold?’

  ‘It’s snowing, Kris. Yes, it’s cold.’

  ‘But it’s summer. It’s summer and it’s snowing. Isn’t that odd?’

  ‘Yes, Kris. It’s odd.’

  Criss took a pull, exhaled, and corrected Kris.

  ‘It’s H you know.’

  ‘What’s H?’

  ‘Jesus H Christ.’

  ‘No, I think you’re wrong.’

  Chris backed her up. ‘No, Kris, she’s right. It’s H.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘I always thought it was Aged. You know, like wine.’

  ‘It’s H.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘Mind-blowing, I know.’

  ‘What does it stand for?’

  ‘What does what stand for?’

  ‘The H.’

  ‘Harry.’

  ‘Hmn.’

  ‘She’s messing with you, Kris. It stands for Holy.’

  ‘Oh. But isn’t that a little, uh, what do you call it when a word isn’t necessary?’

  ‘Unnecessary?’

  ‘No, no, no. More than that. Vec—what do you call it when a word isn’t necessary?’

  ‘Redundant. Unless it’s intentional. Then it’s tautological.’

  ‘Redundant. That’s it.’

  ‘By that logic, Jesus is redundant.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, I mean, Christ, you never know what could happen.’

  ‘I never pegged you for a religious man, Kris.’

  ‘I’m not, but still.’

  ‘Still what.’

  ‘Still, you never know.’

  ‘Yes. You do.’

  ‘Well, I don’t.’

  ‘Anyway. I didn’t mean Jesus the man is redundant. I meant Jesus the name is.’

  ‘That’s okay. I guess.’

  ‘There’s only one person with the name Christ, so what’s it matter if you call him Jesus or Harry or Buck?’

  ‘Like Madonna.’

  ‘Yes, Kris. Like Madonna.’

  ‘I like her. She’s good.’

  Criss chimed in. ‘Nothing against Madonna, Kris, but someone like Gandhi might be a more suitable comparison.’

  ‘Gandhi. Is that a band?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Nirvana, right?’

  ‘Jesus, Kris. Are you that high?’

  ‘What.’

  ‘Nothing. I’m heading in. Criss?’

  She nodded and followed. Kris called after them.

  ‘Hey! You two. Wait for me.’ He ran after them. ‘Christ, it’s cold all of a sudden. Isn’t it cold?’

  (I miss those three.)

  They met Baron as he emerged from the cedar trail. They nodded, he nodded, and they carried on. I thought about catching up but it was too late. They were gone. I’d been trying to avoid him all night and had been successful until now. Chris had passed me the joint when he left and I was standing there on the dock holding it like a pro.

  ‘So. There you are.’

  I nodded and took a pull.

  ‘Celebrating?’

  I nodded again, held the smoke in, exhaled.

  ‘Mind if I join?’

  He stepped onto the dock and extended a hand, thumb and index finger in the receiving position. He took a hit and coughed, a disruption to the night. I heard the great blue heron on the opposite shore lift and take her leave. I should have done the same.

  He returned what was left of the joint. ‘So, kid. You got a plan?’

  I watched the black river water like it was a fire. ‘Not ­really.’

  ‘I can send you workouts you know. No problem.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. I don’t know.’

  ‘Olympics in three years, Vec. Gonna take some kind of regimen to get under 3:30. Which is what it’s gonna take to win.’

  I nodded. I didn’t care. At that moment I really didn’t.

  ‘I can help. Email, Skype, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. All of it. It’ll be like you never left.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Who you gonna train with? There’s that Durn kid. Second behind you at Junior Nats. He’s fast. Tough. Gritty. Like you.’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll look him up.’

  ‘I’ll contact his coach. I know him pretty good.’

  I shrugged again.

  ‘Give’m your cell and whatnot. He’s a good guy.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. I don’t know.’

  ‘We made quite a splash, you and me. Records’ll never be touched. Not for a hundred years.’

  ‘I appreciate everything. Really.’

  ‘Don’t sell yourself short. I was just the architect. You did all the heavy lifting.’

  He laughed. I didn’t.

  ‘We’ll team up a
gain one day, kid.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. Maybe.’

  ‘No, really. I’ve got it on good word I’m in the running for the Olympic team.’ He grinned like an idiot. ‘No joke. I’m going to be national distance coach.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘Olympic gold, kid. Ours to lose. Like I always said.’ He put his hands out. ‘Hey, have I ever been wrong?’

  I took a pull, held the smoke in, exhaled.

  ‘So. Listen. I gotta ask. Why the big move all of a sudden? I could see if you were going south. That would make sense. I coulda got you in anywhere. Full ride. All the bells and whistles.’

  Let’s be clear. I could have gotten me in anywhere. Me.

  ‘I just don’t get it. All the way out west. And such a small school. No track. No nothing far as I can see.’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know? Jesus H, kid, if you don’t know, who does?’

  I decided I liked Jesus Aged better. Right or not.

  ‘To get away I guess.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Toronto, London, Windsor. They’re away.’

  I shrugged again. ‘I like the idea of the ocean and the rain.’

  ‘Shit, well, you’ll get lots of that. It rains when the sun shines out there.’

  ‘I need to put some distance between myself and a few people.’

  I looked at him. He nodded. Idiot.

  ‘Dr. Carl, for one.’

  He nodded some more.

  ‘And Max.’

  He blew out a bunch of air and shook his head, like he really understood. ‘Yeah. Crazy. I don’t know if I ever told you how sorry I was about all that.’

  No. You didn’t. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t start now, especially if you’re going to use insensate dismissive phrases like all that.

  ‘Can’t be easy still.’

  I took a pull and held it in, shut my eyes and wished him away.

  ‘Listen. I gotta ask, Vec. Now that you’re leaving. Now that we’re having this little heart to heart. Now that’s it been a while. I gotta ask. Did your mother ever tell you about me?’