Title: Yuletide Flurry
Author: Robert Egan
Picture: http://www.impstalk.co.uk/
20082009/images/frozen-tundra.jpg
“Are you old enough?”
The well-manicured clerk smirks at me when I nod and set the large bottle of Red Stripe on the counter. “Actually – it's cold enough out there,” I halfway explain before walking to the back of the store for another Red Stripe and setting it next to the first bottle. I'm about to start my first round of Christmas shopping and I don't want to have too much of my wits about me. A few sips later and I've found everything that I could ever need at DEALS (nothing over a dollar). I reach for a pack of citrus energy gum to complement the bottle of lemon pepper and box of matches sliding along the conveyor belt, but I drop my plastic flute at the sight of a baby in the shopping cart behind me. He's looking at me with unblinking beady blue eyes framed by a skull cap and pacifier - plus he doesn't seem to be breathing. I'm the first to look away, but when I look back his eyes still haven't left me. His tiny hands clench and unclench and for a ludicrous instant I imagine them trying to throttle me. Back in the parking lot I finish the first Red Stripe to shake off a peculiar dread of disproportionately small things- they make me feel not myself.
Next stop is the land of plenty where people of all ages, hair styles, and waistband sizes can merge together to feed on unbeatable prices and their own shopping fumes that waft down the linoleum aisles. After finding a superman hat with ear flaps and wondering why the accompanying emblazoned gloves are too small for my hands, I start to travel around the store in interlacing figure eights. That odd sense of doom finds me again when I pass by a rack lined with baby clothes while the ever flowing stream of shoppers dilutes me further.
I notice that all my figure eight paths intersect roughly in the sporting goods department, so I stop there to let the source of my dilemma find me. I've zoned in on some intricate fishing lures when there's an overwhelming aroma of icy hot and stale nachos. “You know those lures are useless unless you combine them with a soccer ball,” a man dressed entirely in white says. Don't make eye contact, don't ask him what he means by that, I instruct myself silently. “Do you understand? Do you or don't you? It's a simple question – do you understand?”...he's waiting expectantly.
“What do you mean by that?” ... shit. He spends the next fifteen minutes elaborating on how to weave the lures uniformly along the soccer ball's surface. Supposedly if you paint the whole arrangement white, then the elves at the North Pole can't tell it apart from a Hunchick egg. Actually it's not really the North Pole but a remote part of Canada and Hunchicks aren't as rare as the animal lovers would have you believe. “What's a Hunchick?” I ask before I can stop myself. As we talk he is also piling items into his cart including jump ropes, two pound weights, rotten fish paste in a squeeze tube (intended for catfishing), a pair of kid sized hockey sticks, and a box of golf tees. I finally manage to disentangle myself from the conversation by slowly backing away along a trail of nods and smiles.
I choke on the last of my Red Stripes in the minivan when someone taps on the window- it's the man in white. “Ready for the hunt?” he asks matter-of-factly while hefting several bulging bags. Lock your doors and just drive away... I play out the scenario where I buy another bottle and try to wrap presents and convince myself that it's all original. Christmas morning will come and go while I put on my merry mask and try not to cringe at the tiny stockings hanging above a fake fireplace... “Yeah, I'm ready as long as that's not code for stab me,” I reply as I open the door.
The man in white is named Nigel and his eyes glaze over automatically at any question pertaining to his origin. All I know is that he seems to have a never ending wad of twenties that he uses to pay for gas and snacks all along the way to Canada. He only ever eats nachos plus purple pills that I take to be vitamins. He has a small hairy face that he rubs in contemplation for several moments before talking. He rearranges his expression to match whatever words must come while I keep my face blank and concentrate on the road. Mostly he spends his time in the back of the van assembling and combining his purchased items in ways that I'd never have imagined.
We drive non-stop since Nigel insists that we can't get there once the Yuletide flurry sets in. When I ask him if that's the name of a snowstorm he launches into an hour long history lecture that includes Vikings and perfect circles before lapsing into silence for the rest of the day. I keep quiet too because I have more questions than when we started and I'm not sure that I want to hear the answers. Despite my own doubts, I'm truly convinced that Nigel believes there will be elves in need of hunting wherever we may be going.
The trip takes almost 45 hours. Every time I almost nod off Nigel pulls out a container that looks like it's made of tree bark and rubs whatever is inside all over his hairy face. I'm still convinced that it's some potent version of icy hot from the way the stench burns my nostrils. My watering eyes force me to blink away the sleep. “Nigel – what the hell do you keep putting on your face man?” He murmurs something about Yuletide before tucking away the container secretively.
We pass the border into Canada without my noticing – the only hint that tips me off is the mounty on his horse blocking our path. By this time the road has degenerated into a snowy suggestion of hidden dangers and pine trees form a majestic wall before us. The mounty holds his hand up politely for us to stop – he is a walking stereotype in his red jacket and wide brim hat until he pulls out a small walkie talkie. Suddenly other mounties break from the pine trees and surround the van on all sides. The lead mounty motions for me to roll down the window with a disturbingly considerate gesture. For the first time in two days I find myself in desperate need of another Red Stripe.
Instead I'm surrounded by red uniformed strangers who all take a step closer as soon as I open the window the tiniest crack. The falling snow may have been playing tricks on my eyes, but I thought I saw each mounty bring a hand closer to a side holster as they took another step. One of them caught sight of Nigel in the passenger seat and all the red uniforms seemed to breathe an audible sigh of relief. “You'll have to leave the van and any firearms or blades that you have here sir” mounty #1 informed me in a voice devoid of any accent. I was struggling with a reply before Nigel started handing me supplies from the trunk. “ It's time to start the hunt – do you understand? Do you or don't you – it's a simple question.”
We lug our equipment through the pine trees for almost an hour before breaking out into a white expanse garbed in twilight. “What time is it Nigel?” He shrugs before applying some more icy hot salve to his face. “If you think there are elves out here, then does that mean you believe in Santa too?” Nigel rearranges his face for an expression that I haven't seen yet. It's a look that tells me I'm just another piece of equipment- if I don't serve a function, then my existence is no longer necessary.
The air reverberates with what sounds like the giggle of a giant baby. More baby calls of glee join this one while the dread resurfaces to send my mind reeling. “Hunchicks... don't panic. Put some of this on your face without making any sudden movements.” Nigel hands me the tree bark icy hot container in one smooth motion.
“I'm not putting your tree spunk on...” two yellow orbs appear from a snow bank two feet to my left and the accompanying baby chuckle thumps through my eardrums. Snow flies up as a six foot tall, wingless white bird lunges for my face. My left earlobe hits the snow about a second before I do, and I'm smearing generous amounts of icy hot across my face at the same time. The creature's face is about an inch above mine – it's flat like a barn owl's except the beak is sideways and extends out from the cheeks. At the corner of each yellow eye is a hole that pulsates as the beak tickles my Adam's apple... I'm being sniffed. The Hunchick coos and blinks twice while I notice that its eyelids close to the side just like the beak. The pain in my ear registers just as the Hunchick waddles off to join a pair of its fellows that have until now been staring Nigel in the face. Within seconds I can't tell them apart from the snow again. “Hunchicks don't like strangers, but the salve helps them forgive or forget,” is the only explanation offered by the man in white as he takes back the container.
We make camp by digging up snow within a perimeter designated by Nigel. Underneath is an elliptical pattern of stones that may have once been a perfect circle. Each stone is crusted over with light blue moss which Nigel scrapes carefully into the tree bark container. I lean against some of the larger stones and hold a snowball to my bleeding ear while he arranges the supplies on the frozen soil. The golf tees are the first purchase that gets put to use. “Come help me set these up... the first Yuletide flurry starts in thirty minutes” Nigel speaks with sudden authority. We hammer down about a dozen tees along the inner perimeter before my knuckles are cracked and numb. I watch in bewilderment as Nigel starts mixing rotten fish paste with snow to make slimy slush balls before he motions for me to take part.
Place a fish ball on a golf tee and smack it with a hockey stick as far out in to the white tundra as possible before moving on to the next tee. Nigel and I do this for the next fifteen minutes and the plops I hear off in the distance seem to number more than just our fish balls alone. Perhaps there are other elf hunters out there. Before I can ask I'm handed a rope. On one end is a very dangerous looking soccer ball covered in dozens of fishing hooks – the other end is tied to a metal stake. Nigel picks up a similar apparatus and shows me how to swing it over my head lasso style before releasing it out into the whiteness. We set up six of these before he hands me a knotted jump rope with a pair of 2 pound weights intertwined at one end. “What next?” I ask nervously as Nigel rubs his hairy face in anticipation. “Just wait... and if you see a tug on one of the ropes just keep pulling no matter what happens.”
Clank-a- clickity clankaclank clickityclickityclank. A wall of snow has begun to move below us and progresses with the beat that sounds as if it's being made with tiny spoons on worn out tin cans. A horn blares in the distance and is answered several times before Nigel takes out a silver whistle and produces the same call. A section of the wall of snow has broken off before diverging into hundreds of figures scurrying in our direction. There's a violent tug on the rope to my front and right and I'm sliding palm over palm along it before a conscious thought can occur. A baby-sized ball of white fur attached to the soccer ball end is struggling and spasms violently when I pull it over the stones. A pair of weights whams past my ear as Nigel smacks the sorry figure repeatedly with deadly efficiency. “SWITCH!,” his voice booms while he extracts the ball of fur from the soccer ball before going over it with a can of white spray paint to cover up the blood. He recasts it and moves on to the next rope that gives a tug.
Two balls of fur come over the stone wall with our next catch but one detaches itself quickly before Nigel stomps the other. The jump rope weapon hangs limp in my hand as I find myself facing unblinking beady blue eyes once again. This time the eyes are framed by white fur followed by more fur and then teeth. Two sharpened white sticks the size of large sharpies are clutched in hairy mittens.
Clank clank - the ball of fur beats the sticks together before clicking its teeth and rushing me. That peculiar dread of the disproportionately small keeps me rooted in place. The first spear grazes my shin and knocks me off balance just enough for the little bastard to get tangled in the jump rope weights. I swing him in to the stones crusted over in blue moss and the creature bellows deeply until Nigel beats it to death with a hockey stick. “Man up or die useless” he says tersely as he points for me to drag in the next rope.
An hour later the activity below has dwindled to a few forlorn figures trudging off over the horizon- my first elf hunt has come to a close. In the center of the stones Nigel and I have amassed 22 specimens of what I hazard to guess are elves. Though baby-sized each one is close to 50 pounds – my arms are sore from hefting each one on to the pile but the gash in my shin demands my attention. The edges of my wound have begun to sprout faint traces of white fur. I notice for the first time that Nigel's eyes are different colors- one green and one gray. It strikes me that this is the first time he's made eye contact, and he treats me with a newfound respect. The perpetual twilight about us deepens just a shade as he begins to somewhat answer my questions.
As you might have guessed the Yuletide flurry refers to the snow driven up by the elves as they tromp to their breeding grounds. Yes, some of the frenzied movement below us comes from their violent mating tactics although even Nigel has never been able to tell the difference between either sex. The man in white also reassures me that the white fur growing around my wound should soon fall out- it's a natural consequence of being sliced with an elf bone. Apparently elves have many uses for their own bones including wielding them as tiny menacing spears. These bones also form a ridiculously dense skeleton which is why each elf is surprisingly heavy. Nigel's only explanation for the furry wound is that perhaps some chemical in the bones is responsible for initiating hair growth. Elves has also been known to randomly attack any object taller than themselves. This applies to the Hunchicks as well which are their fierce rivals. Elves eat their eggs at every opportunity and the fish balls that we shot out below are supposed to mimic their smell.
Hunchicks and elves exhibit a strong response to a certain light blue moss that can be found growing on the occasional rock. Hunchicks are soothed by its icy hot stench whereas elves can't abide close proximity to even the smallest growths. The Vikings were the first to find this out as they had a short lived settlement in the area. They reportedly gathered all the blue moss stones that they could find before arranging them in perfect circles to keep them safe from roving bands of elves and Hunchicks alike. Yet these warriors with a talent for pillaging were unable to make their settlement last long, and as their time passed their perfect circle degenerated into the ellipse that now surrounds me, Nigel, and a pile of dead elves.
Nigel offers me some nachos before handing me a shaver and a trash bag. The man in white tells me that he and a handful of hunters are “under contract” with the Canadian government to contain the elf population within the bounds of this frozen tundra. In return for their silence they are granted full right to do with the elf fur what they please. As I begin to shave my first elf I notice the fur is the finest quality that I have ever encountered – it caresses my skin and offers warmth that I would never have imagined. Nigel assures me that there is a highly lucrative market among upper tier celebrities who want to see just how far their money can go. Underneath all the fur each elf is actually quite scrawny and their skin reminds me of sandpaper. We fill three bags before Nigel pull down his white hood and tells me to try to sleep for a few hours before the next flurry hits. One last question- why don't the hunters just use guns or at least some more conventional type of weapon? The man in white smirks before answering “well a napoleon complex is always great for a short laugh, but once you back it up with firepower you have an entirely different situation on your hands.”
I'm awoken by more clanks and clicks but this time they sound closer. Nigel is nowhere in sight and a dozens elves are carrying a human sized figure in white. The first tufts of soil inside the stones begin to move as white sticks break the surface – they've burrowed past our defenses. I grab my jump rope and weights and wonder if the Viking warriors before me experienced this same odd sense of peace. As the jump rope begins to swing for perhaps its last time I realize that disproportionately small is a relatively silly idea.
I'm awoken by the clink of glass – my half full Red Stripe has fallen from my unconscious hand on to the pile of bottles that litter the floor of the minivan. I guess I didn't quite get around to the Christmas shopping. I've traveled several miles north along the highway when I realize that I've already decided to skip Christmas this year. The cars and people around me seem disproportionately large as I head for Canada to celebrate my very first Yuletide.Do you understand? Do you or don't you – it's a simple question.
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Title: Lost in Language
Author: Diana Hawkins
Picture: http://www.pictureninja.com/pages/united-kingdom/england/london.htm
It was cooler in the metro-way, if you can imagine that. Upstairs was hell on earth. It was as if the rail companies had conspired against God and rebuilt Babel only to suffer the same but louder punishment. Loudspeakers screamed metro routes in Catalan, the train system shouted in Castellano, tourists were speaking in all kinds of jargon, and I was smack in the middle of it.
I was lost and trying to rectify that, so I went to the information desk. The attendant was speaking to me in French – I was dark so therefore I had to be from a former colony – the loudspeakers were blaring competing Spanish dialects, and after subconsciously eavesdropping on the German couple behind me, I thought: screw this, I’d rather be lost in space than language.
None of the clocks or TV monitors were right, which was strange for a train station, but then I remembered that this was Barcelona, where when you flushed most toilets, it only diluted the color -- You know you’re used to this city when you check the roll for paper before committing to a stall. And when you look down and find a torn up newspaper, you know exactly what went down and applaud the prior user for leaving some of it behind for the next.
I blame it all on the language: Catalan is an awkward tongue that you first mistake for strangely accented French but quickly discover is a mutt of a language. One whose pedigree was lost long ago but has still been allowed to compete in shows somehow. It will remind you of Spanish, but memories often lie.
It’s funny how words can do that: conjure up memories and thoughts of no relation to their respective objects. I ordered a slice cake in Starbucks, xocolata formatage, and expected an Aztec god to arise from the depths and offer me a plate of French cheese. Your average barista appeared instead and presented me with chocolate cheesecake on a napkin. If xocolata brings to mind the Aztecs, then will Mexico remind me of tortilla de patata only to disappoint by giving me a potato covered in flat bread? Perhaps, but at least tacos de queso will really be cheese tacos, and I won’t have to go through the embarrassment of sending another plate of cheese slices back to the chef who so lovingly sliced them ignorant of my mistake.
