Category: Latest

09:37. A late start. Water on his face, quick brush of his teeth, and he’s escaped the room. Walking down Old Compton Street to Charing Cross Road, through the entrance of Foyles. 

He heads to the top floor, to the café he can’t afford, passes a display of new releases, angry books; their enraged titles shouted from bright, bold covers, together resembling a wave of placards held up in unending protest. 

Breakfast of espresso and two slices of white bread smuggled in from Big Bite. He takes a sip, tops up the espresso with hot water from a flask. Another sip. Another top-up keeps the cup filled up to the brim with coffee. Keeps the water tasting of coffee for as long as possible. Get the most for his money. That way he can afford to keep coming to nice places. 

He looks across the café with searching eyes. He’s fairly certain the manager fancies him. Winks at him every time. He had a conversation with him once, said he hated the Chelsea Flower Show because it was too white British. Jack wonders why only gay men have ever shown interest in him. 

The sun is bright; golden rays shine on the customers. The windows look onto a sharp skyline of rooftops. Still, it’s cold outside. 

He watches mouths moving. Sometimes talking, sometimes chewing. Voiceless conversations. A young woman is reading a book with a flashy pink cover, titled, Misogynists Are Also Racists. His gaze drifts again, to the barista he likes to watch. Probably an undergraduate, a couple of years younger than him. Probably lives nearby. Might encounter her in the evening, on her way home. Oh hello. Hi. Nice to see you. How’s your day? Long, can’t wait to get home, do you live round here? Yeah. Me too, why don’t you come up, I’m feeling lonely tonight. 

But he hasn’t come here to daydream.

He removes his notebook and pen from his worn leather satchel and runs his eyes across the words he wrote the previous day. Notes for a novel. In the spirit of Bleak House. Large scale. London. Many POVs. Characters span all levels of society. Think Dickens in the modern day. And he is submerged.

The sound of laughter and he looks up, his eyes aching. Sees a couple sitting on high stools, holding hands beneath the table. They smile as they speak. One glances at Jack, then the other does. Their smiles say, Look at us. We are beautiful, what we have is beautiful, and whatever you think about us, and we’re sure you’re thinking about us, we don’t care. 

He can’t stand the sight of books today, so doesn’t stop to browse on his way back to his bedsit. He lets himself into the hallway and there it is, in his pigeonhole. Takes it up to his room, already disappointed. Sitting on his bed, opening the A4 envelope, a letter reads:

Dear Author,

Thank you for submitting your work to us. We have read it with interest, but unfortunately, we didn’t feel strongly enough to be able to offer representation. We hope this won’t put you off, as we are highly selective. Thank you for considering us and entrusting us with your work. We wish you luck in placing your manuscript. 

All the best

He puts the letter down and lies on his bed. It’s unusual for them to reply. So in some ways this is a pleasant surprise. He thinks about past friends who now have jobs or qualifications, who have achieved things. He remembers a bestselling British writer on Youtube announcing that descriptive writing is unnecessary. The business of literature is defunct because people can just look things up on Google images. As though the point of descriptive writing is to copy and paste images into books. She doesn’t see a future for literature. Perhaps she’s right. After all, nowadays, people want twenty-second-long TikTok videos in which people mouth the words to pop songs, suddenly cutting to show themselves in a different outfit.

He writhes in the injustice of it all, it seems everyone wants light, fluffy novels. Sterile love stories about vacuous teenage lovers. He wonders vaguely if his submission got through to the agents or whether the intern rejected it. 

He sits up. Tired of being miserable. What is the purpose of life if not ambition? he wonders. Perhaps it is simply meant to be enjoyed, has nothing more to offer than sensation. He rolls off his bed and pulls out a box beneath it. There’s £100 inside. His savings. Perhaps he ought to spend it. See if it makes life good. 

22:09. Jack stands alone in Tisbury Court, his arms crossed over his tattered Barbour Pretending to wait for someone, he watches, through the entrance to a massage parlour, down a lighted passage, a young woman sitting behind a desk. 

He senses the passersby watching him as though they know what he is about to do. And he wonders if he will go through with it. He waits as a group passes then, as though knowing instinctively that this is his opportunity, his hesitation falls away, as he is drawn through the lighted tunnel that leads to the young woman.

“You want a massage?” she asks, with an eastern European accent. There is a swelling of spots beneath her skin, beneath the layer of makeup she wears, making her face appear as though it is made from lumpy clay. Still, she is beautiful to him, because the beauty we see in others comes down less to the quality of their appearance and more to the extent of our desperation.

He searches for his words and speaks, but his voice does not project. His mouth is dry. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “I’m not sure,” he announces. 

“Would you like to look at the menu?” she asks, producing a laminated page listing different kinds of massages. He struggles with himself.

“Would you like one?” she asks again. Seemingly embarrassed, her smile glints in the light bringing out some concealed side of herself. 

He chooses the cheapest massage. 

She stands up and says, “Follow me.” Down narrow stairs, the place is not what he expected. Isn’t seedy or shabby. A pleasant perfume hangs in the air and eastern music plays in the background. The wallpaper is pink and floral and the light of a dim, relaxing softness. Off from the corridor, there are three rooms on each side. One of the doors is open, through which he sees paper sheets draped over a massage table. An aesthetic of cleanliness has been carefully cultivated.

The young woman leads him to a desk at the end of the corridor, where a woman possibly in her seventies sits. She tells the older woman which massage he wants, and the older woman demands £35 from him. Jack notices that £5 has been added to every massage on the menu downstairs. He searches his wallet for the £35, finds he has two twenties then hands them over. The older woman claws the money out of his palm, hands him a few coins. Before he can count the change he is led away by the young woman, toward a door, into a small, dark room. She flicks a switch and red mood lighting is activated. On the far wall is a mirror. He sees himself together with her. He looks quite handsome, he decides, his eyes glowing alive with a darkened light. To the side of the mirror is a small sink and table on which oil, hand wash and paper towels are placed.

He asks, “Will you be doing the massage?” she answers that she will. 

“Good,” he smiles nakedly at her. He half expected the masseuse to be the older woman. Have a young woman at the desk to tempt the customers, then reveal the real masseuse downstairs, after you’ve paid, when it is too late. She smiles back at him, tells him to get undressed, that she’ll be back in a moment. She closes the door behind her and he is left alone, in the quiet darkness of the room, listening to the beats of his heart.  Reluctant to take off his clothes when the door is unlocked and anyone can walk in. He wonders how much he is meant to take off. He doesn’t want to make any mistakes, to make any assumptions. He begins to unbutton his shirt slowly, then waits. Undoes his belt, the button of his trousers, then his flies. He waits, unwilling to go any further. 

Finally, the door opens, and instead of a cameraman bursting in to take photographs to send to his parents, like the paranoid side of him imagined, the young woman returns. 

“Hello,” he whispers. He feels a warmth in his chest. Approaching affection for this woman he has only just met. She goes to the table with her handbag while he removes the rest of his clothes. He looks at her and she looks at him. She seems to have no interest in his body, which disappoints him.

“Lie on the table, on your front,” she says and he does so. His skin, sensitive, seems almost brittle against the paper sheets. The air encases him, and something warm lands in the centre of his back. Her hands upon him, rubbing the oil into his skin. He suppresses a tremor that runs through his body in a wave.

“Are you okay?” she asks. 

“Yes,” he whispers. A moment passes. “Are you?”

She hesitates for long enough to smile. “I’m okay,” she replies. 

He wonders what she thinks of him. He isn’t her usual customer, he expects. He is young. His body appears well-toned, not because of exercise but because he is so thin. There’s nothing to conceal the muscles beneath his skin.

He likes to think he is more attractive and nicer than her average customer. He likes the idea that he is her favourite.

“What’s your name?” he asks. 

“Alina,” she replies. 

“I like how that sounds.”

“Where are you from?” she asks.

“London. I was born here. What about you?”

“Romania.”

“Do you like it in London?”

“It’s okay.” She pushes her hands down the back of his calves. “I haven’t had time to explore.”

“I see.” There is silence as she continues to work on his legs. “That’s a shame.” Another silence. 

“How old are you?” she asks, suddenly suspecting he’s under eighteen.

“Twenty-one. You?”

“I’m twenty-three. Are you a student?”
“I used to be. I graduated last year. I’m trying to get published now.”

“Really?” she asks. “What sort of thing do you write?”

“Fiction. About London. I like Dickens very much. Do you read often?” He peers over his shoulder at her. Doing so from this position hurts his neck but still he enjoys looking at her. Seeing her standing over his naked body has a feeling of uncanniness about it, as though he is seeing two things that shouldn’t be together.

“No, I don’t,” she replies. “I don’t have much time.”

“I see.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks. 

“No.”

“Why not?” Her voice is friendly, though it is the quality of friendliness which tries to relieve awkwardness. 

“I don’t know,” he replies. “Perhaps I don’t meet enough people.”

She doesn’t reply to this.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks. 

“No.”

“I like your tattoo of the star.”

“Thanks. I got it a long time ago. Before I came here.”

He falls silent and so does she. She works up his torso to his shoulders. 

“Okay, it’s time to turn over,” she says and he does so. She dims the light slightly. 

He asks, “What are the other customers like?”
She shakes her head and says tiredly, “We get all sorts of people. All sorts.”

“I see.”

“You say ‘I see’ a lot, don’t you?”
He smiles. “Perhaps.”

“Where did you hear about this place?”

“I’ve walked past it a few times. I live quite nearby.”

“Did your friends not tell you about it?”
“No.” He looks down at her, notices that he has begun to fill with blood, has left discharge on his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he begins. 

“Don’t worry,” she replies though he’s unsure if she knows what his apology is in reference to. “Just relax and enjoy yourself,” she says. There is something quite relaxing about her voice, almost motherly.

Ten minutes before his time is up she asks what he knows about these places.

“Not all that much,” he replies. “This is the first time I’ve been to one.”

She nods, tips her head, angling her words. “Have you heard of a happy ending?” she asks.

“Yes,” he replies.

“You know what it is?”

“I think I do.”

“It’s not sex.”

“No.”

“It doesn’t come with this massage.”

“No.”

“You have to pay extra.”

“How much?”

“£60.”

“Could you hand me my coat?”

She turns, takes his coat from the hanger and gives it to him. He searches his pocket for his wallet, removes the remainder of his money and hands it to her. She takes him in her hand and moves her hand up and down. He watches her eyes, tries to establish some connection. First, she does not look his way, just stares across at the wall. Then she turns to him, making eye contact. She smiles. And he experiences intimacy for a moment.

Later on, she wipes her hands with a sheet of paper towel as he stands up from the table and begins to dress. She goes to the sink to wash her hands as he watches her, seeing himself in the mirror. And he knows that he will remember this image for some time.

Lying in bed that night, he thinks back to this scene and realises that, for a brief moment, for as long as it lasted, he had escaped his frustrations. But as soon as the moment ended they returned to him, and now he has far less money than before, and his situation is all together worse. As well as this, the prospect of experiencing the same sensation again is less exciting. And so, if he is to continue to pursue sensation, he would have to chase still more extreme sensations, each coming at greater and greater expense. Until finally he would become so desensitised that he would be incapable of experiencing the very thing he had spent his life in pursuit of. 

It occurs to him that a life lived in the pursuit of sensation could not be maintained and seems also to provide only a shallow satisfaction. Still, he cannot draw himself away from thoughts about Alina and wishes he knew her better. The joy in doing so seemed far greater, deeper and nobler than the joy of any momentary though pleasurable sensation. So perhaps, if not in ambition nor sensation, the joy of living lay in our relationships with others; perhaps it lay in love. 

12:32. It is astounding what people who have nothing to do are capable of. This thought occurs to Jack as he stands on the street corner, watching the entrance to the massage parlour. The men come and go. He thinks that Alina would not share with them, the intimacy she shared with him. 

She appears and he sets off, walks up beside her, and glances as if spontaneously catching her eye. His face brightens. 

“Hello,” he begins. 

She looks with hesitation, like someone who frequently feels herself to be in danger. 

“It’s nice to see you again.” 

Recognition flickers briefly in her eye and the look of apprehension grows in her expression. “Hi,” she replies. 

“How are you?” he asks. 

“Okay.” She is still trying to draw away from him. 

“It’s nice to see you again,” he repeats for lack of anything better to say, and there’s some feeble sadness in his face. Perhaps he had expected she would want to talk to him; that he would be anything more than a nuisance to her. 

She recognises this rising despair in him and takes pity; decides it is not realistic to believe this sad, skinny creature will cause her harm and that, in fact, it is wrong to assume he intends to. She permits herself to smile. 

“It’s nice to see you too,” she replies. “Did you enjoy your massage?”

He smiles boyishly. “Yes, very much so.”

“I can tell,” she smiles. “What are you doing now?”

“Going for a walk. I needed to escape my room.”

“I know the feeling,” she replies.

“What about you?” 

“Going for breakfast,” she nods towards the convenience store. 

“Let’s go somewhere together. I’ll pay.”

She looks about the street, and the thought occurs to him that she is searching for someone to help her. “Where would we eat?” she asks. 

“There’s a Wasabi just up the way. I like their sweet chilli chicken.”

“Okay,” she replies, “I’ll let you take me there.”

They go back down Tisbury Court to Rupert Street, to the Wasabi on the corner. Alina sits at a long table in the centre of the room while Jack orders their food. As Alina waits, she watches the passersby through the large, sunlit windows and enjoys this feeling of escaping from her routine. 

He returns, sits opposite her and hands her a pair of chopsticks. He has bought them both sweet chilli chicken. She breaks the chopsticks, begins eating the food. 

“So,” he begins, cheery and light-hearted. “What do you want to do?”

“Eat this,” she replies.

“No, I mean in life.”

“Oh, don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a terrifying question. And it involves me asking myself, how am I going to get out of this hole?” 

He nods, picks at his food with his chopsticks. “I understand what you mean. I have no idea what’s waiting for me either. I don’t suspect it’s very good.”

“You don’t seem badly off. Not for someone your age.” 

“Well, I’m not as well off as I seem. I just…” he smiles, “spend money inconsistently. And things… I could be better off, if I had made different decisions. I feel I’ve wasted a lot of opportunities.”

She asks, “Why don’t you make different decisions then?” As though it were so simple. 

“I suppose I’m still hoping to have the life I want.”

She smiles. “Well, things can’t be all that bad, if that’s still possible.” 

He smiles too. “No, I suppose not. Anyway, you haven’t answered my question, about what you want to do.”

She looks up, watches out of the window. The light is a warm bright mask on her face. “I’d like to start a company, making bespoke jewellery.” 

“Really? That sounds interesting.” 

“Thank you. But I have no idea where I’d start. I make no money, I can’t get any loans so I can’t get my foot in the door. I can’t even afford the equipment to make the jewellery. With writing, you just need a pen and paper.”

He nods. “That’s true,” then looks out of the window with her. He says distantly, as if to himself, “The world has gone so downhill.” He looks at her. “No one has any interests anymore. They’re just… all the same.”

She adds, “You’re not the same.”

He smiles. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” A flame burns in his eyes.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He nods. “Anyway,” he looks at her. “Are you enjoying your food?”
“Yeah. Thanks, by the way.”

She announces that she’d better go, that her shift starts soon, but that she’s enjoyed their time together. At this moment he is happier than he has been for months. Then the moment passes. 

“Perhaps we’ll do this again sometime,” he answers.

“Perhaps,” she says, and he offers to exchange numbers. 

Throughout the week which follows, Alina is the main subject of his thoughts. Having a project that feels achievable makes his life seem less smothering and his own company less oppressive. During this time his main source of happiness is their text conversations. However nearing the end of the week, her replies begin to peter out. She hasn’t responded to his last message for two days and though that is entirely normal, it makes evident the fact that she is more important to him than he is to her. Troubled by these thoughts, as his love takes the form of an ugly obsession, he leaves his room late one night and wanders the streets, hoping to lose himself in the crowds. 

He finds himself at the massage parlour, watches its lighted entrance before seeing her appear. Retreating into the alley’s darkness, he watches as she emerges from the light, passes him, and then waits on the corner. She holds her phone by her thigh before a smile illuminates her face. She puts the phone away and embraces one of the faceless strangers separated from the horde. They kiss then go off, hand in hand. 

Jack remains in the darkness of the alleyway. 

09:37. The following day. Jack sits on a bench in Soho Square Gardens thinking about love. 

The problem with love, which romance stories ignore, is the near impossibility of anyone you love, loving you. Therefore, those who put love before all else, live lives of desperate longing and unmitigated rejection. I think Goethe came to the same conclusion in The Sorrows of Young Werther. But if not in ambition nor sensation nor love, in what lies the joy of living? 

These past few months, his thoughts have been like quicksand, into which he sinks deeper and deeper, with his struggle to escape them only accelerating the consumption of him, until he is completely smothered. 

Then he spies movement. Focuses his eyes. A worm draws itself painfully across a gravel path. And each bit of progress it makes, though barely perceptible, seems won through agony, as its soft body scrapes against the jagged stones. And yet there appears to be no destination, no point in this journey, except to inflict suffering on itself. It seems driven by an invisible whip, which is its will, and to which it is a slave. But why? What does the worm expect is waiting for it on the other side? 

Perhaps that is life, Jack wonders. A blind struggle, a hard journey to an unknown destination, worth making not because of the certainty that we will gain what we earn, for there can be no certainty of that, but because, though living with hope is painful, it is less painful than the pain of disillusionment, than the pain of living after you have given up. The thing to do, Jack decides, is not to be too focused on your purpose, on your destination, but to devote yourself to the journey, to struggle, and find some satisfaction in it.

With some hope renewed, Jack watches the worm, whose existence is his model of life, as it labours on. And just as the worm reaches the centre of the path, the midpoint of its journey, a robin swoops down, kills it and flies away with its corpse.

Alex is a student at Birkbeck, studying creative writing. He wants to be a novelist.

My dearest Theo

It has been several weeks now; how are you settled into your lodgings? I have been in correspondence with the van Stockum-Haanebeeks. They pass on their kind regards. It makes me glad to know they are thinking of me, but you are my preferred confidante. I have much to relate.

Dark nights have come to London. Away from the lamplight, there is danger in the corners of the city. But, though a new train track is laid here every day, still it suits me to walk wherever I wish to go, to be my own movement.

London rewards time and attention. The globes of gaslight of an evening make me feel I’m walking among the heavens. To look into the water from Westminster Bridge is to see the weeds as a widow’s shawl, lank and drawn downstream to the distant darkness. So far from the coast, the tidal Thames heaves its great mass inland or disappears out to sea to leave little but a stream in a bog of mud. I see many broken things on the water’s edge: fractured clay pipes, smashed crockery, discarded bones. The mudlarks make good work on the beaches when the river is gone.

But London fog is not like Helvoirt fog. The heavy soot of the myriad manufactories falls upon the city’s back. It makes my spit dark and thick. The mist shrouds the streetlight, leans in to tell its secrets. These are the streets of Dickens, of the lost children of civilisation, finding places to live in the shadows of ramshackle buildings that seem too derelict to inhabit. It frightens me, and, I confess, at times it excites me, too. Dickens’ old house is not far from Southampton Street, and I walk there at midday as I take my repast. I had the temerity to sketch his house on Doughty Street, but hated my work and threw it away. It was junk.

You know how I adore the work of Bunyan: his depiction of paradise is a Gothic window through which we can understand our fate. Theo, I found where the great man is interred. I walk there after work to the Bunhill Fields in Shoreditch, and sit beside his grave, where his effigy seeks to reassure me. So close to his mortal remains, I attain a rare calmness in my soul, albeit fleetingly. Blake, too, lays within a neighbouring plot, sleeping the great sleep. Defoe and his wife are nearby, consoling. It is hard to imagine being held in such reverence after your passing, though to present humanity with such deep beauty is tantamount to making real the Word of God. It amazes me to think they were once human, and walked these streets as I do.

Yesterday, an unusual incident occurred. A young woman brought to the office a hand drawing in the hope that Goupil & Cie might buy it. It was a sketch of my likeness, drawn through the sliding sash window that overlooks the street: her on the causeway, me at my desk. It was crude but affecting.

She had many drawings in a portfolio. I asked her, why draw, why not paint? She turned out her pockets and showed me the nothing there. Her clothing was of the east end tenement, her skin pallid and drawn. I gave her a few shillings for oils and canvas but she would spend it on food for her family, she said. She told me the poor are divorced from art because art costs money. They have little enough food; art is a luxury they cannot afford. We are wealthy, you and I, rich enough to pursue our fancies.

I asked where she preferred to draw, and she said Upper Norwood, where the light plays havoc with the workings of her heart.

I asked her to return to the office later in order to present her drawings to Mr Obach, but she never did. I placed the picture of my likeness in my billfold in my jacket and walked it home to my lodgings, where I tucked it into the frame of the mirror. Mrs Loyer said I was a fool to give her my money but I like the picture, Theo. I like to glance at it, from the mirror to the drawing and back, over and over, toying with the angles and the light.

This morning, as the dawn took the day, I crossed the street with a graphite pencil and sketched my boarding-house with the light at my back. My German friends complimented my efforts in the same kind way that you encourage me. I gave the drawing to Mrs Loyer’s daughter, Eugenie, who propped it behind the carriage clock on the drawing room mantleshelf. I can barely bring myself to look at it, fearing that I failed.

We used to draw, you and I, as children, do you recall? I wonder if Mother still has them filed away somewhere? They will be worthless now, I’m sure: she probably burnt them for kindling, in which case I’m glad they found good use. Remember how Father offered us coins for our artwork, and you took it and banked it, and used the money to buy berenklauw, but I refused, exclaiming that my drawing wasn’t yet finished. I suspect I would be a poor salesman of my own work. I would want to retain it to continue to work on it, or would give it away, bewildered that someone would want to own it.

I exhorted my German friends to walk with me to the Crystal Palace at Upper Norwood, this afternoon, to remind me of the dazzling light. We watched our first cricket match en route, which was amusing, if a little baffling. I said to a local, ‘My English is not good, how do you describe these positions they stand in?’ But they said my English was fine, not even the English understand their confection. The English love their sports. It is one of the things I love about them.

The Palace itself is astounding. We saw ourselves reflected in the glass, our vision distorted by imperfections in the vast panes. The engineering feats alone left me breathless. And to look to the East, as if looking toward Holland, was to see the connection between all things, including you, Theo. In such places, God appears in nature, humbling me.

As we walked home, with the lamplight left behind, a petty lurcher grabbed my jacket, intent on snatching my billfold. I fought him off with the patterns you taught me in The Hague, that excursion on the beach by the guest house. I lost my top hat as we fought. I held him by his grubby collar, interrogated him, discovered from his explanation that he needed money. I gave him two shillings and sent him on his way. I forgave him. He was poor and needed the money more than I. He called me a name I did not catch, something to do with my foreign status, but we shook hands and I begged him not to take such drastic action again. He promised he would try. The Church should look after these waifs, then they would not need to steal. The Church or the State, either one.

But that was not the first time I’d visited Upper Norwood, nor the first time the place had tested my mettle. I had been there on my own, Theo, this Spring, not long after I arrived in London. And I wept at what I saw. I wept. It was beautiful, it’s true, to get above the fog and breath the clean air, but there was something else. Indeed, I must tell you why I am writing, my Brother, for this has been long in the telling.

From Upper Norwood, I looked north to Muswell Hill to see the new palace named for Princess Alexandra of Denmark. Two weeks it had stood, open to the public, and I planned a trip there the following weekend, early-June, walking through Hampstead Heath, through Highgate, through Crouch End, closing in on its magnificence.

But disaster. Fire ran through the body of the building as I watched from afar as if I were there. The flames through the great windows were the tulips of our childhood, cupped in a vivid, scalding scarlet on the stems of the colossal lead downpipes. I was repelled and pulled forth, transfixed as the flames became tongues of demons in a tumultuous sky scarred by hellish light. The soot, climbing and crawling and creeping across the landscape like a flock of crows, was a harbinger of something I dare not comprehend.

I have thoughts such as those, Theo, that unsettle the darkest reaches of my nervous mind. The event left me changed. Did you ever sit on a chair and understand that, beneath the wild starry sky, you, of all people, were sitting upon this chair of all chairs? I found myself on such a chair tonight, a hazelwood dining chair, imagining the chair as it was, with me upon it. Then I sat upon the bed, looking at the chair without me, the chair as a chair-in-waiting, not a chair until it bore my weight but always with the potential to be a chair. I moved from chair to bed to chair to bed until Mrs Loyer begged me to stay my boots upon the bare oaken boards, so late at night in the fevered darkness. So I watched the chair under the failing circle of candlelight, wondering what is a chair, what am I. I was unable to answer, not even with the woman’s insinuating sketch, trapped in the frame of the mirror, keeping its vigil over me.

Theo, please excuse my poor handwriting tonight. I have been concerned for my thoughts of late, and I write swiftly, startling myself. My hand seems to know what my brain fears to think. I do not want to burden you but my angst gets the better of me when I think of your unfading forgiveness. Outside, I present myself with requisite decorum but within, in private, the crows have not left me. They move toward me, destined for my soul.

I may not post this letter. I may throw it on the fire. Perhaps, in that way, I can rid myself of this deepening darkness plagues me all the while.

We shall see.

Your loving brother.

Vincent

Craig Smith is a poet and novelist from Huddersfield. His writing has appeared in The North, Blizzard, and The Interpreters’ House, among others. Craig’s three publications so far are: the poetry collections, L.O.V.E. Love (Smith/Doorstop) and A Quick Word With A Rock And Roll Late Starter, (Rue Bella); and the novel, Super-8 (Boyd Johnson). He is currently working toward an MA in Creative Writing at Birkbeck University.

Coney Island, Brooklyn, New York. 1902.

“I ain’t got rickets sir, no. Nor the pox.”

“Yet,” he said, taking hold of my jaw in a hand that was cleaner than any I had yet seen in America, “show me your teeth.” 

I opened up and he rummaged a finger all around the inside of my mouth. Removing and waving it under his nose, he grunted, and an eyebrow crawled north in appraisal, 

“No consumption neither. How long you been on the island?”

“Since last New Year’s, sir.”

“Lucky little tyke ain’t ya? Scrawny as a plucked chicken mind, but hell, so was I at your age, and look at me now!” he said, puffing up a considerable chest and flexing both arms, so the ladies tattooed there danced like marionettes. I did my best to look impressed, and it seemed to work because he announced, 

“Lucky. That’s what we’ll call you. I’m Frederic Ault,” and scooped me up onto his shoulders. 

With that we set off away from the stink of rotting fish. Away from starvation and dysentery and the filthy shoreline where gulls battle for scraps and us kids did likewise. 

Though I had little sense of time then, I did know that it had been summertime when mama smothered me with kisses and shoved me into a throng of za chlebem children, weeping as the sailors herded us up the gangplank at Gdańsk. I knew too, that fall and winter had passed at sea, for it was Christmas time when I first marvelled at Lady Liberty and joined the shoals of lost children clustering around the tourist spots, where coins might fall from pockets more easily than in the bustling city. Where I learnt to avoid the Fagins looking to pressgang us to pickpocketry, and the Bulls that patrolled the esplanade, swinging their truncheons to dissuade us from trying. Where we huddled together for comfort and safety. Neither of which we found. 

The fall breeze was a Fagin to summer’s warmth too, on the day Mr Ault fished me from these dangerous shallows, and I rode his broad shoulders, so I guess I was about nine. 

I felt I had won some kind of jackpot perched up there, my bare feet dangling against his chest, his hair pomade sticking to my picker shirt. Walking towards a life, and away from a putrid death. Wherever he was taking me, it had to be better than here.

The further inland we got, the finer folks grew. Aprons and headscarves gave way to bonnets and fantastic wide-hooped dresses. Overalls and boots became pinstripe suits and snap-brimmed hats, rolled cigarettes to pipes or long, thin panetellas. Fat-cheeked children in britches and check-print dresses gorged on yellow lumps of ice.

“Frozen custard,” explained Ault, “s’like ice cream, but sweeter. Work hard enough and maybe I’ll spring for some.” Watching the children’s rapt expressions, I made myself a silent promise to earn a taste. 

A giant Wurlitzer at the boardwalk’s end played a revolving waltz, cranked by a sad-eyed monkey in a bellhop’s uniform. Wood faded to muddy sand, and we wobbled along like drunk acrobats till we stepped onto the solid sidewalk of Surf Avenue, passing a hotdog stand that set my mouth to watering on sight. I thrilled as dandies moved aside for Mr Ault’s imposing frame, and realised that he was well known around here, perhaps even famous, when a policeman nodded to him respectfully. I’d never seen one smile before.

A short walk later, past the amusement arcades, hotels, and bars, I saw the park entrance rising over the rooftops like a fairy tale castle. Three enormous crescent moons topping a gleaming white edifice, and below, three more, set upside down to serve as archways. On each, flickering lightbulbs spelled out “LUNA”.

“How’d you like it little fella? Not bad, eh?” said my ride, smiling up at me. 

I could only nod in response. He patted my shin, and we entered Luna Park. 

It was off-season, so the rides sat empty and silent, as if hibernating. Still, at close-quarters, the Switchback Railway’s full white-trestle framework was overwhelming to behold. To think that carriages full of people flew atop it dizzied me, and I realised with a start that I had been holding my breath, as the riders must do, imagining myself aboard.

In open ground ahead, a few roustabouts wandered around the base of a half-built big top, laying out ground spikes, while flymen casually walked the beams up high, lashing and riveting the tent’s skeleton together. 

“Home sweet home.” said Frederic Ault. “Say, you know how to say shit in Italian?”

“Sir, merda, Sir.”

“É vero ragazzo mio. Molto buona. You’ve plenty of merda to shovel, and Topsy only knows Italian.”

“Topsy sir?”

“Topsy son,” he said, lowering me to the ground and pointing, “my elephant.”

“Elephant?” My mind balked at the word. Even here, in this fantasy wonderland, it sounded entirely absurd. But there she was, tethered to a caravan, being scrubbed with soapy yard brushes, her deep grey hide glistening in the noon sunshine, the rivulets of water swimming down its cracks like rivers on rocks. 

She was beautiful. Huge. Impossible. 

“She’s…” I tried.

“Ain’t she just? Come on. Let’s see how she likes you.” 

Ault marched me over and nodded to the scrubbers. The four men paused work and leant on their brooms to watch, and I knew at once that I was being tested. Up close she filled your field of vision, like seeing an oncoming ship from the waterline. Her eyes were dewy and the colour of varnished wood, her lashes long and demure. I wasn’t fearful despite her size, she seemed more friendly than most people I had encountered in my short life. Her trunk snaked around my waist, and I felt its strength. I looked to my new master for instruction, but he just smiled and jutted his chin towards Topsy,

“She likes you, so I do too. Knew I’d named you right.”

The trunk continued its glide around my body, and I admit some fear crept in as it began to squeeze, but even then, somehow, I knew it was okay. 

“Sir, I think…” But then I stopped speaking. I was rising from the ground, up over her head. She gave a throaty rumble and seated me gently behind her ears, much like Mr Ault had done earlier. The men dropped their brooms and began slapping his shoulders in congratulation.

I was in.

Dan Crute is a scribbler, waffler, circus monkey, ageing strength disciple, and occasionally, a comic book artist. He’s just completed the second year of the Creative Writing BA at Birkbeck. He lives in London, where you can find him either hunched over a keyboard trying to make sense of his own writing, lifting something unnecessarily heavy, or hanging out with his six-year-old son. Makes a damn fine cup of coffee too. @danielalexcrute

She smokes a rollie whilst blasting hot air up her jumper with a hairdryer. The smell of fresh paint lingers through the smoke. The pangs of pre-menstruation tighten.

She’d been called into Stan, the director’s office, where he hovered over his laptop, and Josh, from human resources, leant against a filing cabinet.

            “What’s this?” Stan said.

Tempo looked at one of the surround-sound speakers, “Lungs”.

            “Lungs?”

            “The sound of life. You said be experimental. Be avant-garde, be ‘what you do best’ – you said that.”

            “You make sound for film. It needs to relate to what’s on the screen.” He puffed on his electronic cigarette. “I can barely hear it.”

            “Sometimes it’s what’s not heard that gives meaning.”

            “You must be joking – you have something else, right?” He forwarded the clip. “How long does this go on for?”

            “Two minutes, thirty – same as the scene.”

            “Eh?”

            “It’s intimate – there’s a gentle passion to it.”

“What’s a gentle passion? That doesn’t even make sense.” He stared at the James Bond poster on the adjacent wall. “They’re fucking.”

            “No, they are carefully exploring – there’s been a build-up,” Tempo followed his gaze, “You wanted Raindance – no one wants Sean-Connery-rape-scenes anymore.”

            “Redo it – you’ve got two days.”

            “They’re kicking me out of my studio – how am I supposed to work?”

            “Firstly, it’s not your studio – and I know the property manager thinks you’re living in there by the way.”

            “I’m not-”

Josh interrupted, “Well, obviously no one is accusing.”

            “It’s got asbestos,” Stan said, “So, of course, you can’t use it anymore.”

            “They only found asbestos upstairs,” Tempo replied.

Stan turned to Josh, “I can’t have this argument with her.”

            “Tempo,” Josh said, “Let’s talk about this later, yeah.”

            “Secondly, use Studio 4”, Stan said, “it’s got upgraded gear – that’ll cut out all the manual shit that takes you ages.”

            “It takes ages because it’s live performance. I have to physically make the instruments – you know that – if you wanted generic, you’d get one of the techies to

mix something.”

            “Josh – get Lucas to put together two-thirty,” Stan said.

Josh looked at Tempo, “You can get this done, right?”

            “Tempo have a go,” Stan interrupted whilst typing, “but I can’t afford another delay, so we’ll have to have a backup – I’m being more than fucking reasonable here, guys. And get one of the techies to record you.”

            “No, you know I do it alone – it’s in my contract.”

            “Two days. That’s it.” He looked at her, “The studio said don’t get a foley. They’re temperamental. But, I love your work.” His hand gestured her to the door, “You’re a clever girl.”                    

***

DANGER. NO ENTRY. ASBESTOS.

A hasp and padlock securely bolted. She shook the lock and kicked the door.  She

paced the corridor and caught sight of the property manager.

            “David,” she shouted as she ran up to him.

He turned around, with toolkit in hand, “Hey, Tempo.”

            “Did Josh tell you I’d be away from my studio?”

            “No. I -”

            “You can’t just lock me out – I need my things.”

            “I was told you had moved rooms.”

            “That’s bullshit.” She reached for his keychain.

            “You can’t go in – it’s not safe.” He edged away.

            “How is it any less safe than it was twenty minutes ago when I was in there – and how on earth would you have coincidentally known I was away at that precise time?” She was shaking, “They bloody told you didn’t they – they told you.”

            “I’m just doing my job.”

            “Please, can I pop in and get my inhaler?”

            “I suppose you can’t be without that.”

As they walked David turned to her, “I noticed someone had smashed the fire alarm off the ceiling. You can’t do that in the new studio.”

Silence.

            “Don’t forget you’re coming to mine tomorrow for dinner. Marco’s excited to try out a vegan moussaka recipe.”

            “Oh, I need to finish – ” she looked at him, “Tomorrow. I’ll be there.”

            “Marco was thrilled with the playlist you sent.”

            “I’m glad.” She watched him open the room. “Stay outside, David, in case there’s asbestos.”

***

Standing in the familiar surroundings of her cluttered studio, she approached her

jade plant and embraced the pot into her chest.

            “You’re a hardy beast,” she whispered into the oval leaves.

She grabbed a flat-packed box from the top of the shelves, punched out the

cardboard flaps, and scanned the studio. The two-seater sofa simultaneously

deflated and puffed, echoing her curves. She pulled off the crocheted blanket and

wrapped it around her shoulders. The skyline of boxes of objects collected

throughout the years: tiny Victorian medicine bottles she’d stolen from the Old

Operating Theatre, a broken hair-straightener that emitted a rusty clang when

the worn plates clasped together. Lost jewellery bells and creations made out of

chicken wire and gypsum plaster.

She’d made a conjoined-twins Jesus sculpture. Running her finger along its dusty form she shuddered as the roughness scoured.

She picked through her box of USBs, tapes and CDs. The recording of her ectopic pregnancy she’d saved from her old phone, labelled, “The Hypothetical”. Her bursting screams tugged onto the fallopian tube just as the egg had. After the argument with the nurse about keeping her phone, the recording was mostly background noise whilst it was shut in a drawer. No sound of the sedation or surgery.

            “Can you see why the nurse thought it was odd to record it?” The grief counsellor asked.

            “I told her I was a sound artist.”

It wasn’t a baby, but an idea travelling into nothingness. A secret until the doctors told her emergency contact.

            “You don’t want to be a single parent,” her grandmother said down the phone the week after.

            “I would have worked it out,” she replied.

            “It was no fun when your grandad left me with two children.”

            “It was different then.”

            “And I had my parents to help. You don’t. I’m far too old to babysit.”

            “I’m sure his family would have helped.”

            “Strangers will always offer but rarely deliver.”

            “I’d better get back to work, Nan.”

            “You’re lucky to be alive.”

            “I know, but it’s still upsetting.”

            “It wasn’t really a pregnancy, darling. I promise, you’re best off without it. Do forget about it.”

She opened the recording booth. The bucket she’d been using to pee in stood in the corner. She found some hand sanitiser gel and poured it in, shoving the bucket it in the cables cupboard. She picked up her stack of notepads and a handful of pens, all of which had snapped lids.

            “Tempo – c’mon now,” David called from behind the door, “I’ll help you carry your stuff.”

***

She’d spend hours in supermarkets, squeezing Victoria sponge packets, shaking boxes of bran flakes, rubbing kiwi skins; tapping on chandelier crystal and pressing camera buttons to release their shutters at car boots.

She’d let Collie, her old school friend, set her up on dates. The men would often leave early as she’d exaggerate her crunching and slurping; ding cardamom pods against wine glasses; clap lobster claws together with her irrevocable laugh.

            “Just try to be a bit more… scaled-back maybe,” Collie would say as they’d evaluate the dates.

            “They’re all so heavy-going. It’s bor-Ring.” She’d reply.

            “I know you – you wind people up on purpose.”

            “They always ask me if I DJ.”

            “Because you always wear those big stupid headphones around your neck.”

            “They’re noise-cancelling. Helpful when dating.”

            “They’re trying to make conversation.”

            “Please, no more Canary Wharfers you find at your little work lunches.”

            “They’re not all monsters.” Collie would swirl her glass. “I just want you to be happy.”

            “I am.”

            “I want someone to look after you. Scoop you up and cook for you – you can’t just eat chickpeas.”

            “Ha! You’ve been watching too many rom-coms – y’know they are funded by born-agains, and anyway, I don’t need looking after – they’d bore me to death, and then I’d be dead!’ Tempo would top up their glasses, “Killing someone isn’t very looky aftery.”

            “Or have some fun, for fuck’s sake.”

            “One night reflects all nights in a microcosm.”

            “How profound. Just give them a chance – they’re nervous.”

            “Why should I pretend to be something I’m not to appease their fragile egos?”

            “We’ve all got egos.” Collie would lick residue salsa off her manicured nails. “What about that guy Harry set you up with? You liked him – you said you could be yourself with him.”

            “He died.”

            “I know, but… y’know, it just goes to show – there are people out there.”

Maybe it was the cancer that helped him enjoy her soundscapes in the restaurant. The playful touches, his respectful tone. She’d write about him on post-it notes and stick them in her copy of Frankenstein. They became progressively more influenced by Catullus. 

He gobbles food like a frantic evangelical channeling god.

My auditory canal converts into a chapel.

A thousand mouthfuls, a thousand swallows, a thousand and a thousand, will never be enough.

Let no one speak your name, for it taints your rhythm.

For her birthday he had surprised her with tickets to see a light exhibition.

            “I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders, “but light doesn’t really make sound.”

            “Bulbs can buzz when you mess with the voltage.”

            “Of course!” he threw his hands into the air.

            “Season two, episode four of Who Killed My Neighbour,” her voice sped up, “I made the sound of mosquitoes getting electrocuted by not screwing in a bulb properly, and filtering the sound of squishing crisp packets through one of those prize-winning giant courgettes.”

            “A lot to unpack in that.” He said with his low, crisp voice as they walked under flashes of neon.

“I cut off an end, scraped out the insides and shoved my hand up it like I was fisting a cow.”

“Interesting visuals,” he laughed. “Light does vibrate like sound.”

            “You vibrate.” She responded.

            “Weirdo.”

            “Ha, you’re dating a weirdo. What does that make you?”

            His eyebrows lifted, “Lucky.”         

Keeping the good memories of him. Pushing away how he shrivelled from Olympian to derelict shell.

Tempo could not bear to think of his last sound evaporate.

***

Studio 4 is sterile and barren. The newness will take years to break in.

She presses her face against the dark glass of the recording booth. The cold hardness on her cheek made her think of astronauts looking out to Earth; the isolation of a swirling in a mass of time. Waiting for her womb to release.

The creation of lungs had started six months ago. She’d record self-induced asthma attacks and listen back copiously; slowing down, speeding up; clipping the edges of breath.  Nights spent gluing together an array of leaves; creating pockets where she’d insert a straw to puff air through. Browning hornbeam and beech younglings pulsating: too crispy, too sloppy. Tissue-paper bubbles weren’t satisfying. Tightly-knit stitches applied to pig intestines to form balloons: the smell of pain. Faint squeaks and wheezy cranks recorded on her well-worn Scully 28 1/2 4-track. 

The boiling kettle and Deep Heat on her stomach; sifting through her notebook of sounds. You’re a clever girl ricochets. I’m not a girl, she wished she’d said. You squirmy trust-fund prick.

She sorts through the junkyard of props she’d poured onto the floor – toys, boots, stones and microphones – clicking wires into silver machines – drinking up the humming feedback. Pivoting soundboards. Turning the lights down to a soft glow. Standing in front of the big screen, forwarding and rewinding the scene. Kissing the back of her hand. Oohing. Slugging. Bare feet dragging on a scuffed rug, mirroring the dance of fumbling sex. Distributing her body off-balance. Vapid gasps. 

Alia is currently studying an MA in Creative Writing at Birkbeck. Being neurodivergent, it is important for her to weave these elements into her stories. Alia researches, produce and co-hosts a podcast which is aired on an award winning radio station, Radio Reverb 97.2FM.

I arrived in Quito in October 1968. Rolling Stone sent me to write an article on a growing counterculture of freaks and hippies travelling to South America to experience ayahuasca. The hallucinogenic vine had been popularised by William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, who, according to their book The Yage Letters, had tripped their way across the continent in the early fifties. Since then, the political situation had also gone South.

Five days before I landed, President Velasco swept back into power on a tide of left-wing populism. His CIA-backed predecessor was dispatched into exile, but the spy agency maintained an extensive network among the media outlets across Latin America. Velasco’s refusal to disinherit Cuba, or chastise the radical elements of Ecuador’s Communist Party, had left the country isolated and paranoid. There was an unofficial moratorium on government cooperation with Western journalists, and our freedom of movement was heavily restricted.

This left my ayahuasca story dead in the water. I had ceased my daily visits to the travel permit office after I was bully-clubbed by a uniform with a cruel pencil-moustache. I laughed when he cursed me as a gringo – it was my first time – and so he struck me across the shoulder. I fled, hiding in a church near Los Rios for four hours, until a padre told me to leave.

We reporters roamed the capital, stray dogs hungry for political meat. My chance break came at an impromptu lunch with three middlemen who had just been fired from Texaco. After two bottles of Zhumir rum, they agreed to anonymously go on the record. My subsequent article exposed the oil company’s toxification of rivers. They were deliberately poisoning Amazonian waterways to force the local indigenous people from their ancestral lands. The conglomerate viewed the region as their personal, untapped reservoir of black gold.

I arranged a meeting with the sub-editor of El Diario, feeling like Rachel Carson. And like Ms. Carson, my Pulitzer-pretension did not last very long. A security guard met me in the newspaper’s lobby, leading me to an ornate boardroom via the service elevator. I was directed to sit on one side of a substantial mahogany table, across from the sub-editor, editor, and five men in Brioni suits. After four minutes, during which no-one offered me a drink, the paper’s owner arrived looking like he had swallowed poison. He reprimanded both of his editors without looking at me. When he stormed from the room, it became clear that the suits were Texaco’s lawyers. Their lead attorney stood up, smoothing out the folds of his jacket.

“Mr. Marlowe, give us your sources and this all goes away,” he crooned.

“What goes away?” I felt a strong urge to muss his silver bouffant.

He realised I was not going to play ball and promised that I would not live to see a single word in print. I knew what that meant in Ecuador, and so I left, making my way to the bar of the Majestic Hotel on the Plaza Grande.

*****

The barman settled my third bandido onto a felt placemat. I gazed out across the cobbled square, at vendors squatting next to hessian sacks of fresh coca leaves. The colonnades and façade of the Palacio de Carondelet were grubby. I was wondering if Valesco was there in his office, when a courier arrived and handed me a Western Union envelope. I stubbed out my Chesterfield and opened the telegram.

*****THE WESTERN UNION TELEGRAPH COMPANY*****

Joseph Marlowe 3 de enero 1969

Majestic Hotel,

García Moreno N5,

16 y Chile Esq,

Quito,

Ecuador

*URGENT*

COME TO MISSION ARAJUNO PASTAZA PROVINCE URGENT STOP

ALL EXPENSES PAID ITINERARY AND PERMIT WITH HOTEL STOP

DISCRETION ESSENTIAL STOP

GOD WANTS YOU TO WRITE AN IMPORTANT STORY STOP

SISTER MARJ SAINT MISSIONARY AVIATION FELLOWSHIP =END

I read the cable twice. I lit another Chesterfield and ordered one more bandido. “What the fuck is the Missionary Aviation Fellowship?” I asked the barman. He shrugged. And how do they know who I am and where to find me, I thought. My eyes rescanned the text, settling on the phrase, “ALL EXPENSES PAID”.

“Put this on my tab,” I said, slipping on my sunglasses and hurrying to the hotel’s reception desk.

****

The Cessna Caravan 206 banked down towards the jungle outpost. Beyond the ridges that sliced out of the canopy to the West, the Andean massif threatened to engulf the land like a tsunami of mud-stained rock and ice. Through the window of the airplane the forest was formidable, stretching out for two thousand miles towards the Atlantic. We had navigated over scattered swamplands, flying low over the blackwater tributaries that comprise the Amazon Basin.

“That’s the Curaray,” said my headset.

“Impressive,” I muttered. I could see three rivers from my vantage point. “Which one, Tom?”

The pilot nodded in the direction of Arajuno. Before leaving Quito, I had pumped my local contact for information about the evangelical mission. The Shell Oil Company had abandoned the town in 1948 when three of their prospectors were speared to death by a group of indigenous hunters. It had since become a thriving community of crusading Americans, whose aim was to convert the region’s Quichua and Waorani tribespeople. Access to the site was only possible by air; there were no roads, and taking a boat was arduous and risky. The missionaries maintained an aerial network called the Missionary Aviation Fellowship, operating between their stations across the Oriente and Quito. The organisation was the brainchild of Nate Saint, late husband of Marj Saint – the sender of my telegram.

My pilot had joined the Fellowship five months earlier. An ex-college football player from Cedar Rapids, Tom had been taught to fly by his dust-cropper father. He had graduated from Wheaton, a scriptural college based in Illinois, and when I asked him why he had chosen to come to Ecuador, he told me that he was an idealist. “But now I just like to fly,” he said. I settled back for the rest of the flight, sipping guarapo from my hipflask. Tom pointed us windward, following a broad stream towards Arajuno. Thatched huts were dotted along the riverbank where children waved at the plane as we passed. We took a final turn and landed on a thin red-earth runway; a gash that had been cut through the bush on the outskirts of the settlement.

The air was close as I climbed through the stiff Cesna door. I was greeted by a woman in khaki overalls.

“Mr. Marlowe, welcome to Arajuno. I’m Marj Saint.”

She flashed me a dimpled smile as we shook hands. She was in her forties, and her Lucile Ball haircut was streaked with grey. She was cheery and reminded me of a television homebody.

“I trust Tom looked after you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.

“Everyone calls me Marj. We’ll bring your things to your billet.” She wiped her hands with a linen cloth. “Tom, billet five please.”

We walked into town along a short trail through the dense woodland. Marj stopped to point out tiny, colourful orchids, and the splayed red fingers of heliconias. She knew the Quichua word for every bird that trilled from the canopy above.

“This is chonta,” she said, pointing at a medium-sized palm with fanned leaves. “The Quichua consider this their most sacred tree. They eat the fruit, and the leaves are dried in the sun, and used as rooves for their longhouses. It’s a hard wood,” she tapped her fist on the thick trunk. “They used to make spears from this.”

“Is that something they still do?” I enquired.

“Not our Quichua,” she quickly replied, “but the Auca who live in the jungle, they still do it.”

“The Auca?”

“Yes. That’s what we call the people who live in darkness. The uncontacted tribes. It’s the Auca who we’re all here for.”

“You mean, to convert?”

Marj smiled. “The Auca are dying. There are reports of cannibalism. They’ll wipe each other out without the Lord’s intervention. They have no word for peace in their language.”

We proceeded to the commune, entering from the North. Outlying huts and corrugated lean-tos gave way to brick buildings containing workshops and storehouses. We passed several men who were performing maintenance on a church roof.

“Howdy Marj,” said a crew cut with dark glasses. He was armed with a Browning rifle. “Rachel is back, she brought the supplies.”

“Thank you, Mike.” Marj turned towards me. “We take security seriously here. There’ll be a briefing after dinner.”

I was shown to my lodgings, a well-constructed wooden prefab that had been freshly painted yellow. I showered and lay down on the bed underneath the whirr of the overhead fan.

***

I was woken by a knock on the door.

“Mr. Marlowe, dinner is ready.” Tom had changed into fresh clothes and brought my bags from the plane. He wore cut shorts, a Wheaton college t-shirt, and a holstered sidearm. I nodded at it.

“I guess dinner is mandatory, huh?”

He grinned a mouthful of corn-fed teeth. “You good to go?”

I threw my bags into the room and closed the door. A group of brawny, brown-skinned men watched from the portico of the opposite building. Most of them wore pants and shirts, but one elderly man stood out, wearing only a thin cotton loincloth.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Waorani. The old man is new, he arrived four days ago.”

“Can I speak with them?”

The mission was funded in large part by the Dallas-based Summer Institute of Linguistics, whose goal was to translate the bible into all languages. It was mandatory for every missionary to complete an intensive course before being allowed in the field; Tom had spent three months in Quito learning Wao, the language spoken by the Waorani. I was interested to see how much he had picked up in such a short space of time.

As we approached, the old man picked up his belongings and strode out to meet us. His black hair was cut into bangs, flowing long down his back and shaved at the sides. He wore a large balsa-wood disc in each earlobe. A blowgun was slung over his shoulder and a delicate lizard skull dangled from a cord around his neck. He spoke to me directly whilst Tom translated.

“He has named you after his son, who was killed a few weeks ago in a raid. The Auca kill strangers on site, so he has given you a family member’s name so that you are known to him, and will not be his enemy,” he said.

“That’s good,” I said. The man’s fingers and knuckles were thick knotted vines.

“With great power comes great responsibility, Luke 12:48,” Tom countered. “You are now known to this man, so you’re part of his tribe. He expects you to give him gifts when you return to this place, especially because you’re white.”

“Can you ask him about his son? What happened to him?”

“No, it’s best we don’t. The Auca believe the souls of children are eaten by worms. Marj doesn’t allow that kind of thing, not in front of the Waorani who live here.”

The old man soon lost interest, melting away from his companions. I learnt that the others had all converted; they wore silver crosses and carried New Testament bibles. They lived in the community on a semi-permanent basis.

“Where do they live for the rest of the time?” I asked.

Tom sighed. “They return to their tribes. It’s a revolving door, no hellos, no goodbyes. One day they just decide to undress, and off they go. They go back to their old way of life, back to the darkness of the jungle.”

We left and made our way to the commissary. As we approached the dining hall, Tom said, “you should speak to Gimade. She’s a Waorani.” Before I could respond, he had slipped through the door.

Inside, Buddy Holly crackled from a hidden speaker whilst people clustered in groups, gossiping and clinking beer glasses. Marj approached, accompanied by a woman with wide shoulders and a full-moon face.

“Mr. Marlowe, I’d like to introduce my sister-in-law, Rachel Saint,” she said, handing me a cup of red punch. “She’s the one who heard about your Texaco article. She’s the reason you’re here.”

I frowned. “And just why am I here, Ms. Saint?”

They exchanged smiles.

“Tomorrow you will witness a miracle. I believe God put you in Ecuador to tell the story of this miracle,” Rachel’s voice had a soft Pennsylvanian lilt.

I paused. “And what miracle might that be, Ms. Saint?”

“Tomorrow we travel by boat along the Curaray. We are going to Palm Beach to rendezvous with a tribe of Auca. It is perfectly safe; I can assure you. We are even bringing our children.”

“Palm Beach?” I mumbled.

“A sand bar on the river. We call it Palm Beach,” interjected Marj.

“Tomorrow is the anniversary of my brother’s murder,” said Rachel, “Marj’s husband, Nate. We are going to baptise the men who murdered him.”

The dinner hall fell silent and I swallowed the cup of punch.

**

Nate Saint was the leader of Operation Auca. His young team consisted of five missionaries: himself, Peter Fleming, Jim Elliot, Ed McCully and Roger Youderian. Like Tom, the five men were zealous idealists yearning to battle against the forces of ignorance. They would have looked at home at a NASA press conference – chiselled Americans with flare and a thirst for adventure.

In October 1955, they assembled at Arajuno to prepare for first contact with an Auca tribe. The men knew the dangers. They had heard about the slaughtered missionaries in Bolivia, twelve years prior. This time would be different though, because Saint had a plan.

He had devised an ingenious method of using his Piper PA-14 to deliver gifts to the tribespeople. By lowering a canvas basket attached to a long piece of rope, and then putting the plane into a steep turn, the drag of the rope would eventually leave the basket motionless below the aircraft. This meant that Saint could lower provisions – tokens of goodwill – to the indigenous people on the ground.

Saint, Elliott, and Fleming had discovered a collection of Auca dwellings a short flight from town, which they nicknamed Terminal City. The strategy was to make friendly, aerial overtures until the team felt safe enough to make ground contact. A landing strip was cleared on a sandbar on the Curaray, which they dubbed Palm Beach. It was a ten-mile trek from Terminal City. The next thirteen weeks was spent making deliveries to the tribal community. Saint had rigged a one-way radio to the basket through which he repeated the Wao word for friendship. The tribe reciprocated with their own offerings, including a talking parrot and a macaw-feathered crown.

The missionaries’ confidence peaked, and at 8:02am, on January 3rd, 1956, the team flew the first of five supply runs to Palm Beach. Time was limited, the oncoming rainy season meant the river would soon rise and flood the area. Youderian constructed a tree house for shelter, whilst Eliot walked the beach, sermonizing to the forest. Saint checked the camp’s equipment, documenting the mission with his journal and camera. He hid his disappointment during radio calls back to base, announcing daily, “all’s quiet at Palm Beach.” Meanwhile, Fleming flew the plane over Terminal City, dropping gospel-pamphlets into the clearing, and shouting the Wao word for river through a loudspeaker.

On Friday 6th, the team had gathered for morning prayers. Yelling emanated from the treeline. Three Auca appeared, a young man and girl accompanied by an older tribeswoman. The man wore a thin strip of cloth that tied his penis to his belly. The missionaries called the man George and the girl Delilah; the Auca spent the whole day at the beach. They showed no understanding or acknowledgment that the white men could not understand their language. George was gifted a shirt but refused Fleming’s attempts to clothe him. Later that afternoon, Saint flew George over Terminal City. George, leaned far out of the plane, waving and hooting at his kinsmen below. When they returned, the missionaries led afternoon prayers, but George and Delilah drifted off down the beach and back into the forest. Youderian remained with the older woman by the fire. She chattered at him all evening until he retired to the treehouse. She sat by herself, continuing her conversation alone. By morning she was gone.

Considering first contact a resounding success, Saint and Fleming returned to Arajuno to celebrate. All was quiet at Palm Beach once more. During a flight over Terminal City later that day, Saint spotted George, who gesticulated wildly at the plane with his companions. On Sunday morning, January 8th, the Auca village seemed empty. Certain the tribe were making their way to the river, Saint made his final broadcast, “Looks like they’ll be in time for afternoon service. Pray that this is the day! We’ll contact at four-thirty.”

*

I stood on the white sands of Palm Beach and watched the ceremony. It was January 8th, thirteen years to the day when Nate Saint and his team were massacred. Five Waorani men, dressed in formal Western attire, were baptised in the shallows of the Curaray River. Nate and Marj’s son, Steve Saint, performed the ceremony, immersing his father’s killers, one after another.

When the ritual was over, Marj invited me to walk with her along the riverbank. “Life magazine covered the story of the ambush, just after it happened,” she said. “But this is the real story. Redemption.”

“And forgiveness?” I asked.

“Only God forgives those who are redeemed,” she replied.

We clambered above the ragged waterline. The skeleton of Youderian’s treehouse clung to the trunk of an enormous ceibo tree. Fifteen metres away, Marj pointed out the common grave of the five missionaries.

“The rescue party were armed,” she said, “but they couldn’t bring the bodies with them.”

“How do you feel about leaving them here in the jungle?” I asked.

“Rachel said it best. She wrote back home to her and Nate’s folks, ‘the unmarked graves are five grains of wheat planted in Auca soil.’ That’s how I feel. We’re all proud that the blood of our husbands and brothers became the seed of the Auca church.”

I was shown where the bodies were located. Saint’s wristwatch had stopped at 3.12pm. A gospel-pamphlet had been found, wrapped around the spear that protruded from his torso. It had taken three days for help to arrive. By that time, the plane had been stripped of its canvas and the corpses were bloated and grey.

I scanned the beach. A group of missionaries knelt in a circle with the Waorani who had been baptised. Another group were throwing around a frisbee. I turned away. Tom was behind me, accompanied by a Waorani woman. She was dressed in a brilliant-white shirt with bright floral piping.

“Mr. Marlowe, this is Gimade. I think you should hear what she has to say,” he said.

“Why? What’s going on, Tom?”

“Gimade. She’s Delilah,” he said, “she was here on that day.”

We returned to the narrow motorboat. Tom translated Gimade’s story to me as she spoke.

The missionaries had learnt their rudimentary Wao from Gimade’s older sister, Dayuma. She had fled the forest when her father and brother were speared in a raid. Gimade was searching for her long-lost sister when she happened upon the encampment at Palm Beach. Accompanying her was a man called Nenkiwi. He was a noted troublemaker, who had drowned his second wife and pretended that she had been taken by an anaconda. Nenkiwi followed Gimade everywhere.

When the two Waorani left the beach, they sealed the fate of the missionaries. For an unmarried man and woman to travel without a chaperone was unthinkable. They were discovered, and Nenkiwi had to think fast. He blamed the missionaries, telling the tribe that Gimade had been kidnapped and assaulted. It worked – it was decided that the white men were devils upon the discovery of photographs in the bucket. Gimade went along with the pretence to save her own life, and a raiding party was assembled.

EPILOGUE

Flying back to Quito, I flicked through the dog-eared copy of Life which Marj had given me.

“This is the story of darkness,” she had said. “Now you can tell the story of light.”

The article led with a photo of the missionaries’ widows and their children. The reporter had done his research well, including detailed information on the men and their families. I noticed a picture of a young Gimade – the caption referred to her as Delilah. It had been pulled from Saint’s camera which they found at the bottom of the Curaray. The last photograph he had taken had been stripped of emulsion by water-damage – the image of Gimade had been replaced by a patch of blackness.

I tossed the magazine into my knapsack and pulled out my hipflask. Looking out of the window, I imagined the jungle as a vast wheatfield, ears of corn bent by the wind.

“Marj was wrong,” said my headset.

“What?”

“About the article,” Tom replied, “Marj was wrong. It’s not a story about darkness, it’s a story about sacrifice.”

I thought about Gimade. I had asked Tom why she had wanted to tell me her story. She had answered directly, in clear English: “perhaps you are here to tell our story, not theirs.”

I sat back and took a slug of guarapo.

“Tom, do you know where I can get some ayahuasca?” I asked.

Colin Clark is a creative writing and English literature student at Birkbeck University. His favourite writers range from New Journalism’s Tom Woolfe, Joan Didion, and Truman Capote, to postcolonial writers such as Sam Selvdon and Chinua Achebe.

“Genghis Khan? Never heard of her.” – Diana Ross

I

When Genghis Khan died, they buried him in lowland shrub beside a river and then re-directed the river over his remains as per his wishes, so that he may lay undisturbed in the afterlife, if there was an afterlife; which he didn’t think there was. Better to hedge your bets though, he figured. In order that his resting place remain unknown, the men who diverted the river were slaughtered by the men who dug the first pit. This final group of men were themselves then instructed to commit suicide, or instead take jobs as estate agents. It was a shitty deal but Genghis knew best.

  The tomb they buried Temujin –or Genghis as he came to be known- measured seven feet by ten. There were no fancy adornments, no inscriptions of any kind. An oak cask in a stone shell, and that was it. To look, you wouldn’t have guessed that here lay the great Khan, conqueror of worlds. That is, but for one small detail; Temujin’s final wish.

  The Steppe Book of the Dead, a weighty tome containing the unabridged – albeit empirical – account of Mongolian conquest speaks of a family burial with his younger brothers, while the Mongolian Book of Motown tells a different story: that instead of his brothers, Khan was interred with the surviving members of the Supremes. With hindsight, we now know that the truth was actually much less extravagant: Genghis Khan was interred with a vending machine and a personal computer.  

It is common knowledge that Temujin, first of his name, had become towards the end of his life a fan of video games. It’s just never been certain quite when or how this interest took hold. Contemporary historical opinion now points towards the early 12th century and a battle that would shape history.

#

It’s important we set the scene. In 1201, war appeared in the sky clutching a guitar. It had been building for some time. R&B was on its way out, the philosophers said. Here is this new sound, this “motown”, with its multi-layered arrangements and memorable hooks. Change too, could be felt on the grasslands of the steppe. One tribe above all had begun to expand rapidly. Finally, and then suddenly, against this backdrop of strings and dynamic three-piece harmonies, thirteen sides found themselves drawn into an unavoidable fight. For several months, the Khanate waged war with those steppe-tribes yet to pledge allegiance to their cause. Genghis was trying to mobilise the many different Mongol groups within the steppe –a temperate grassland stretching thousands of miles from Romania to Manchuria- into a single centralised machine. By unifying this stretch of land under a single ruler, he hoped to flex dominion over much of east Asia, and perhaps the world. This struggle and counter-struggle has become known as  The Battle of the Thirteen Sides, though at the time it had a more unassuming name: The Years Before Disco. Khan’s men rolled through village after village, town after town, gathering momentum. Those who pleaded for their lives were sometimes granted clemency, but needless to say, those who remained defiant were cut down and fed to the earth. Genghis, as ever, fought from the front.

At some point during the battle, the great Khan took an arrow to the neck, necessitating his withdrawal from the fighting. With the Khanate close to victory, however, Genghis instructed his two foremost favoured generals, the fearsome Guyuk and Subutai, to command in his absence, and returned home to recover.

Camp, in those days at least, was different. Khan found himself surrounded by some of the worst people in society: weak men, angry children, and the elderly (in his autobiography, Khan’t Slow Down: the Life and Times of Genghis Khan, he speaks of a fear rooted in the “weakness of growing old”). Khan slipped into a diet of comfort food and soft drinks. Apart from the odd update from his generals, the days were long. And this is where our story picks up.

II

One day, while out looking for apples, Genghis Khan came across an arcade. It was not uncommon; early Mongolia was full of craft workshops, creative spaces, and, of course, places for those who needed their video game fix. Khan missed the thrill of war; the relationship of command. He’d heard about the arcades through his soldiers, and he was curious. And so it was that Genghis Khan found himself standing before a virtual recreation of ancient Egypt, stoning runaway slaves with the swipe of a stick, the push of a button. Slaver 7 had been a huge hit in China before finding success in the outer fringes of Asia, thanks in part to intrepid traders brave enough to smuggle it out along the Silk Road. With time on his hands, Khan soon set five of Slaver7’s top ten highest scores. These would come up on the screen in a bold white font as the game loaded up. Those with scores higher than his own were summoned to the national palace –a square tent attached to wooden columns in the ground –  where each then denounced their own scores as the works of fortune, fiction, or myth.   

There was no coming back now. Khan had a computer installed in his tent and commanded local designers to develop something more challenging to meet his needs.  He wrote in a WordPad document later recovered from a flash drive: “a love which burns brighter than Diana Ross, brighter, even, than conquest, burns for…

 an accurate hospital resource management simulation, the likes of which the world can barely imagine.” 

Speculating, as any historian must when trying to piece together events from so long ago, it is not difficult to see why Genghis may have found satisfaction in this genre above all others. The ‘management resource’ sim is a classic video game staple that requires mastery of the multi-tiered aspect of empire management; from overseeing a business day-to-day, to developing systems that might speak to its future; it is a genre that will test your ability to manage both people and linear time. 

Before long, the game, titled Hospital Makeover: Mongolia!, was complete, and installed in his tent. This period seems have been, broadly speaking, one of great satisfaction for Khan. He drank, ate well, and set new high scores. During this time, his advisors patented the catchphrase, “those bastards!”, so regularly was it heard to ring out from his tent. Guards, fearing the worst, would rush in, only to find Genghis sat on the bed in a state of agitation because his in-game hospital had sprung an in-game curveball; unannounced inspectors, a virus running rife; that kind of thing. “Trying to fool me like the Shah of the Khwarazmian empire, is it!” Khan shouted at the screen the first time this happened, before winking at his red-faced guard. 

  Unlike his cousins, who found short-term amusement in the comical ailments of the game’s virtual patients, Genghis played in a state of alert seriousness, and always with furrowed brow. The emergencies and the accidents, the sprite of a ghost as it departed the body of one lost; everything was a challenge to be met head-on. After a time, we might ask why so serious? But perhaps that in itself is to miss the point. If we’re all just agents of the waking world, what’s the one absolute waiting for us in the wings? Well, perhaps in the early days of 1200, Temujin saw that too.

#

On the day they buried Genghis Khan, the people of the Steppe were told that the immortal Khan had ascended to Heaven, where he waited, bow in hand, for his people to join him. The river atop his grave ran with a new-found vitality. In time, on either side of its banks, flowers bloomed and lush reeds grew fat. The area became a place of great beauty and tranquillity. Roe deer and elk were drawn downstream to the pools of turquoise that would gather in unnumbered basins, as dragonfly skimmed across the surface drunk on the wind. Gobi bears bathed with their reflections in the cool waters, watched in turn by the solitary sand leopard waiting her turn. Truly, it was serenity; a cool slice of heaven under the baking sun.  

III

It was in this place of serenity that the first shouts went unheard. Genghis, embalmed within an inch of his life, skin finally flawless in death, stood upright in the tomb He stared open-mouthed at the disc sitting in the Hospital Makeover: Mongolia! case – the greatest hits of Leo Sayer vol. 2.

Who could visit such vengeance upon him? 

Vol. 2 – even that irked him somehow. Where was the first? He tore out the card inlay before pulling apart the case itself. Nothing.

He thought back to his final weeks above ground in the office. Everyone had said how well he looked, even though he knew they were just saying it.  Who could have done this? His instructions were crystal clear. Maybe, he supposed, an intern from one of the conquered kingdoms was at fault. They took on so many at a time, in part to beat child labour legislation, that it was sometimes difficult to keep track of who was useful and who wasn’t. He checked the hard drive of his computer to see if there was already an install of Hospital Makeover hoping that maybe someone had had the good sense to foresee an occurrence like this, but there wasn’t and they hadn’t.

The Mongolians, like many before and after them, believe in manifest destiny, a destiny that was… manifest. At the heart of that idea was death, which instead of being an end, rather represented a beginning: a short prologue tacked on to the business of eternity. In this moment now, Genghis saw the rest of his end stretching out before him. He wandered into the one other space in the tomb, a pokey utility room containing a mop, sink, and the vending machine. They hadn’t done a bad job on the interiors, though there were thin flecks of white paint dried onto the sink bowl. He turned towards the vending and machine pressed the button marked Cherry Onion. In fact, it was the only button – as he had requested. The machine’s unseen gut rumbled behind its logo of cherries superimposed on a waterfall and dispensed a can. Khan reached down, sighing. He had decided he would sigh for the rest of his life.

Sitting in the otherwise empty drop chute was a blue can. Khan gasped in horror. He already knew what it was. He grabbed at it all the same, squinting at the lettering. 

Seabass Shandy:

Mongolia’s favourite shandy…

With a hint of sea bass

– read the tag line beneath the picture of an anthropomorphic cartoon fish with an eye patch supping from a can. Mongolians loved the stuff, but not Khan.

He could feel his breath now coming and going with ragged velocity. It didn’t help that the vending machine bathed the room in a sickly cherry light. It also didn’t help, he realised, that he’d be wearing the same underwear for the rest of his afterlife, but that was less important. He looked down at the machine again. One button. A total failure of imagination.   

So, of course, he pushed it again.

Once, twice. Two more cans of Seabass Shandy. He pushed again –

another can.

Another push; another can.

The automated engine of the heartless machine seemed to roar back louder each time, challenging the great Khan to a fight he couldn’t win. 

“What in the fuck is this?” he thundered.

All this activity had the effect of tiring Genghis. He reached down into the machine’s chute and grabbed one of the cans, flipping it open with a single flick of the thumb, sucking from the hole ‘til blue foam ran down his mouth. He threw the can to the ground, reached down, and cracked open another, draining it in the same way.

It tasted like sea bass; it really did.

Just then, a low, barely audible moan seemed to very gently shake the room. Khan gripped the vending machine with the alertness of old. When it had gone, he chuckled. A distant earthquake they will never feel on the surface, he thought. How quaint to be closer to the earth’s core. And yet… the noise had seemed like it was in the tomb. Puzzled, Khan poked his head out of the utility room and performed one of his famous – he called them – “360 degree scans”. He felt giddy on the shandy. Had he imagined it? Was the trauma of the last ten minutes finally catching up with him? He leaned against the illuminated monster that had been the vending machine. No sooner had he calmed that the sound returned, shaking the utility room more than before, so that his teeth chattered. Genghis, frightened, unsure, looked down and saw the source of the violence: the noise was coming from him, from the volcano of his gut. In that moment, the volcano erupted again, firing out thick reams of bubbling molten lava. A fizzy phosphorescent blue. It was the Seabass shandy. Khan fell to the floor, sliding down the vending machine, into a fit of giggles. He was roaring. He was vomiting. He was roaring some more. He reached back into the chute, grabbed a third can.  

Time stopped.

Khan drank, Khan vomited. Khan wandered into the main room and slumped in his solitary fold-out chair.

One god-damn chair, he thought. There would have been more – three to be exact – but the Supremes had declined his offer. He looked at the empty can, then the CD, back to the can, now to his computer.  

He placed Leo Sayer in the optical drive and sighed. 

#

Genghis Khan’s final resting place remains unknown. In 2004, a Japanese and Mongolian research team located what they believed to be the site of his tented palace. Piecing together the calcified records of court officials from the time, it is thought his tomb lies nearby, though to this day it has refused every effort to yield its secrets.

Okala Elesia is a British-Nigerian writer living in London. His stories can be found in Extra Teeth Magazine, Necessary Fiction, and a few other places. He is currently studying for his MA in Creative Writing at Birkbeck.

Church is, I’m sorry to say, a mixed blessing.  I wish I could testify that it’s been all fellowship and edification, but in truth God’s people come with a steady stream of frustrated tears and angry words as well.  Over the years, Kees and I too have earned a few scars, which of course are wounds that have found healing—though they’ve certainly left their mark.  

The latest struggle has centered around our dear friend Linda.  Mina and I befriended her when we while we were a part of a women’s self defense class back almost two years ago.  Well, with a few starts and stops, God’s really been to work in her life, for the good.  Late last spring she concluded a whirlwind romance, marrying a fine man a few years older than herself, a fellow named Danny Grable.  They have been awfully good for one another and have become an active part of the church.  

Lo and behold, as a mirror match to their whirlwind romance, within a few months Linda was expecting, and she delivered a healthy baby girl at the beginning of February.  They named her Olivia, after Linda’s mother.  How wonderful it was to see the ladies of the church fawning over her and piling up the gifts of sleepers, homemade blankets and crafty knickknacks with the baby’s name and birthday painted, embroidered and stamped on them.   We may not do music as well as the big Pentecostal church up the highway, but we sure do know how to welcome a little one.

Little Olivia was baptized now two Sundays past, and the service was one like I’d surely never seen before.  But the journey to the baptismal font was long and painful, and it is a story that bears retelling.

Of course, soon after Olivia was born, Pastor Morton went to visit with Linda and Danny, and amidst the congratulations and oohing and aahing, he asked them about baptism.  They talked over the meaning of baptism, and different dates that would work best for members of their families, and then Linda surprised Pastor Morton with a request he’d never received before.  She said they wanted Olivia baptized by immersion.  When he told me about it later, Pastor Morton said at first, he thought Linda had her baptism terminology mixed up, what with her being a new Christian and all.  But no, it soon was clear to him that she meant what she said:  they wanted little Olivia baptized by dunking her completely under the water.  Linda explained that after she had come into the church, and she learned about baptism, she was really struck by what it said about the sacrament being not only a sign of cleansing from guilt, but also dying to sin.  Because of the symbolism, she wished she had been baptized in our church by immersion.  Then, a few months before the baby was born, her cousin told her about attending a service in a church in Saskatchewan, where the baby was dipped under the waters, head to toe!  Right then, Linda decided, she wanted her child baptized in the same way.

Well, Pastor Morton said he wasn’t about ready then and there to sign on to dunking a baby in church.  Who knows what odd cult her cousin might have stumbled into!  He told them he’d give it some thought, do some checking, and talk it over with the elders.  Linda and Danny said they understood, as this was not something that the pastor or our church had ever done before.    

Over the following days, he checked around and soon discovered that although the practice of infant baptism by immersion was not real common, it certainly was a legitimate practice.  It had a long history in some branches of both the Anglican and Eastern Orthodox churches.  Through the internet he contacted a priest who performed such baptisms on a regular basis and found out how to do it.  It turns out, the trick is to blow quickly into the baby’s face, just before the dunking.  The baby is so startled by the blowing that he will gasp; he’ll quickly breathe in and hold his breath for a moment, just long enough to dip him under the water and then quickly lift him out again.  The priest said if the water is warm, and your timing is right, it goes very well.  If your timing is off, well, then there’s a lot of choking, coughing and screaming.  But either way, the deed is done.  

Armed with this knowledge, Pastor Morton decided to seek the elders’ go ahead to baptize Olivia via immersion.  He explained the reasons why Linda and Danny had made the request, the symbolism they saw so visible in immersion instead of sprinkling, and the matter of technique as explained to him by the priest.  He had also already made the arrangements to borrow a brand-new livestock watering trough from the Seed and Feed Store over in Dempsey.  Kees and the other elders gave him the green light to go ahead, but they asked him to please try a practice run with Olivia in Linda and Danny’s bathtub.

Well, of course word of the plans for the upcoming baptism soon spread through the church like dandelions across a spring lawn.  Pastor Morton had talked to the chair of the Worship Committee about decorating the water trough with greenery or ribbons or some such thing, and of course the elders could hardly wait to tell their wives what was in the works.  And that’s when the squabbling started.  Reactions to the news ranged from delighted to curious to downright ornery.  A number of my friends in the knitting circle told me they thought it was the worst idea they’d ever heard of.  Edna Walsh told me I’d better get over to Linda’s and talk her out of it to save the church from the embarrassment of it all, before we were written up in the Gazette in the same section where you read about people’s vegetables that looked like movie stars or that lamb that had been born last spring with six legs.  

Now, I have to admit, when Kees first told me what was in the works, I had my doubts as well.  But to hear some of the members of the church talk, it was as if Pastor Morton would be doing the baptism dressed as Bozo the clown!  What really got my apron in a knot was the way many people didn’t bother to find out the truth of what was planned, and all manner of rumors and wild stories were being circulated.  And, because other members thought the immersion baptism was a great idea, the arguments and the fighting broke out all over.  

But it was one person in particular who made a crusade of the movement to get Pastor Morton and the elders to change their minds: Henk Blystra.  Henk called up the pastor and surprised him with an earful of opinions over the phone, and demanded to meet with the elders to, as he put it, ‘talk some Scriptural sense into them.’  Given the way conversations were spinning out of control in the congregation, Pastor Morton thought it best to give an opportunity for Henk to express his objections.  Thus, a special elders’ meeting was called, and Kees and the others made time to come together again to hear him out.  

At the meeting, Henk made his case, or perhaps I should say, Henk launched his attack.  He said that the plans for baptizing Olivia were not Reformed, because the emphasis in the Heidelberg Catechism is on washing, and no one washes babies by pushing them underwater.  He went on to say that baptism by immersion was not Biblical, because the Apostle Paul himself was baptized in someone’s house, back when no one had a bathtub or any other way of completely dunking an adult believer.  So, he said, Paul must have been sprinkled, just as real Bible believing Christians are baptized today.  He quoted Genesis 18:4: “Let a little water be brought, and then you may all wash your feet and rest under this tree.”  He also read John 13:5: Jesus “poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him.”  If washing by sprinkling was good enough for Jesus, it ought also be good enough for us, Henk said.  He then went on to criticize Linda’s character, and question her faith, suggesting that the elders had been taken in by the foolish request of a baby Christian who was herself, in reality, barely beyond paganism.

Well, of course Kees was fit to be tied.  But he wasn’t the first one to speak up.  Karl Schneider said that he’d been thinking about their decision too, especially with all the talk going on, and he thought that perhaps the church would be best served by a regular baptism, as he called it.  Too many people were getting upset by the decision to dunk the baby.   But then Kees lit into him, saying that the gossiping of a few busybodies ought not be listened to by the elders of the church, let alone blessed by their giving in.  Of course old Henk didn’t appreciate being called a gossiping busybody, and he started up again.  The whole thing apparently got fairly ugly before Pastor Morton put a stop to it by ending the meeting with prayer and sending everyone home to cool their jets for a while.   

Neither Kees nor I slept well that night, because of course he told me everything that was said in the meeting as soon as he got home.  We knew Linda would be devastated if she knew what was being said about her.  She already was upset enough at some of the comments people had made.  And that’s when Kees and I talked about leaving the church.

Understand, what I mean is leaving the Annora congregation, not leaving the church as a whole.  The conversation’s twists and turns that night surprised us, we’ve been part of that little church for so long.  My parents were among the first families to launch the church soon after the wave of immigration after the war.  Kees and I were married in the old sanctuary, before we put on the addition.  And yet, on top of all the ways we’d been blessed by the Annora church through the years, there were also a whole heap of hurts as well.  We’d put up with criticism about some of the ministry we did, there was the teasing that our Andrea underwent from the other kids at the church, and the gossip that went on after our prodigal son Martin disappeared and then later came home.  Church can be a wonderful source of blessing when it is healthy, but when church goes bad there’s nothing quite as painful in all the world, I’m sure.  How could we stay on in a congregation that didn’t know what it means to be the church to each other?  

It was a couple days later that I ran into Henk at the hardware store.  I’d been stewing for all that time about the things he’d been saying, not only at the meeting with the elders, but what others had passed on to me.  And so right there between the plumbing supplies and the power tools, I let him have it.  I told him the church and the kingdom of God would be better off if he minded his own business and started searching the Scriptures for verses to apply in his own life rather than preaching to everyone else.  And before he could say a word, I left.  It was a bit awkward, because I took a bag of birdseed with me, and the cashier had to chase me down in the parking lot, but I felt I’d made my point.  

Right that afternoon we got a call from Jenny, Henk’s wife.  She was short and to the point, saying both Kees and I needed to come over and clear the air.  It was a bit late by the time Kees got home, but we double checked with the Blystra’s and yes, they still wanted us to come to talk.  When we arrived, there was none of the usual niceties, though Janny did serve us tea before telling there was more to this story, and she looked over to Henk, expectantly.  He cleared his throat, and his story came tumbling out.  

It was right after the war, back in the Netherlands, that he had been left to watch his younger brother Arie, who was only a few months old.  His mother had needed to supplement the family income by doing some housekeeping for a wealthy family in a nearby town.  Henk’s aunt was supposed to come over to watch him and his brother, but she hadn’t shown up and his mother had little choice but to leave him in charge, though he had only just turned five.  His memory of what happened was foggy, but Henk did remember that little Arie started crying, and though he was supposed to leave him in his cradle, Henk picked the baby up and realized that he was wet.  Wanting to be a big helper to his mother, he decided to give his brother a bath.  He pulled up a chair to the sink, filled it with water from the pump, and put Arie in.  

At this point in the telling, Henk stopped speaking, and he buried his face in his hands.  Janny started to say something, but Henk cut her short, holding up his hand.  He composed himself and continued.  

Arie drowned.  Henk didn’t even realize it, not until his aunt finally arrived and found them in the kitchen.  When his aunt started screaming, he ran and hid in his bed.  No one got him out until the next day.  And it was right after the funeral, while everyone was eating soup and buns, that the minister’s son, who was a couple years older, told him that his dad had said that Henk was a murderer, and he needed to repent of his sin.  

Henk stopped speaking.  He sat with his face again in his hands.  And Janny said, “Henk has always had trouble with the church, with ministers, and with babies.  He could not be around when I would bathe the kids.  I had to always do it when he was out in the barn.”

I could not speak.  The tears were trickling down my face and into my lap.  Kees, however, was not without words.  He reached out to Henk.  He moved next to Henk on the sofa, reached out and put his hand on his shoulder.  He reached out as a fellow sinner, as an elder of the church, and as a brother in Jesus Christ.  He put his hand on Henk and recited the words of Isaiah 42: “A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.”  Only he recited it in Dutch, from the version they’d both grown up with.  

Kees and I did not say much to each other as we drove home.  When we went to bed, Kees fell almost immediately to sleep, according to his unique giftedness.  I could not sleep.  I was a mess of tears and grief and guilt.  

The next day, Pastor Morton called and left a message for Kees.  Henk was withdrawing his objections to the baptism, and he asked that Kees would explain matters to the elders.  In the end it was decided that Olivia would be baptized by immersion, not because it would please the congregation, but because it would please the Lord.  

And so, two Sundays back, Olivia was baptized.  She responded appropriately to her dying to sin and resurrection to new life, with confusion and wailing.  Pastor Morton’s timing may have been just a little bit off.  Of course, Henk did not attend that Sunday, but Jenny did.  And in the fellowship hall afterwards I watched her as she held Olivia, cooing away at her even as the tears fell on her baptismal gown.  

It was a great celebration for we were all reminded that God reaches out and embraces in grace his undeserving and unknowing children.  A wide-eyed baby.  A young couple in love.  An old man haunted by memories.  A foolish young preacher’s son.  And a repentant old housewife, whom he is trying to teach patience and wisdom.

Everett Vander Horst is a pastor living, working, writing and serving with his family in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. For many years he has been experimenting with reading original short stories as preaching. You can watch the telling of these sermonic tales here.