FIRST CHAPTERS

THE POWER OF NOTHING by Robbin Yager

---

CHAPTER ONE - Jan 'To be still was impossible for her. They weren't living with a ghost, didn't have disaster stalking'.

Rain splattered the glass, resisted, then succumbed to the inevitable. She sighed and concentrated on one drop quivering along the edge. It fought for release, then cast off and burst on her shoe. Like that single splash, she needed courage to tell him she can’t be there, can't stand the thought of a funeral. And please don’t insist she come home.

But he did. As if she were wounded, as if she needed his words to go on. But she couldn’t face her father now. His pleading created another kind of death. With it he served the final dose. Guilt. She owed it to Richard’s parents. Show some sensitivity, ungrateful. Her mother joined in, arguing expertly, wielding it like a lash. It was a sign she must come home before something else happened. She knew no one. Where would she go for help, how could she continue, alone, with no money?

Depression had clouded her judgment, better to come home and think it through, rest awhile, take it one day at a time. Her mother knew a doctor who helped her cousin April, she now works for that law firm, remember?

Jan stopped arguing and grew silent under their persuasion. It was true, her life had completely changed. It might be easier to let someone else decide how her future should unfold. Theirs would be a swift exit, and she wanted out now. Everything can change. Every word they said built more evidence, proving her way was not going to work. Her believing it would was just naive.
Yet somehow she could not dismiss her belief. It had gotten her up on her feet every morning these past few weeks, and out the door, comforting when nothing else could, and no one else would. And she couldn’t just discard all that after one telephone conversation. It can change. It must change. The belief told her this much. It said everything they wanted would murder her courage, the courage that now needed a safe place to rest. Manufactured kindness never rescued disaster, never allowed space for something strong. Essential. She wasn’t sure what that meant. It resided deep inside her gut, locked tight. She had to believe in this, because their way would kill a part of her. And once it was gone, well… how do you return to the source?

Something detached from her skin. It chilled her to the bone. Winters deep freeze minus 35 howling wind never felt like that. Pity and endless reminders ambushed her soul. Remnants of meaning exhaled from every pore, and with the sound of their voices, sucked through the telephone receiver, into long dark filthy tunnels full of rats and whirring exchanges, down through thick black cables spanning the ocean, to bitter cold. To that house she hated. To them. They had her will. They were stealing it away, and she was letting them have it.

Someone said the single word no, and she realized it was the right word, her word. She said it over and over, louder and louder, knowing it was the one word they refused to hear. She didn’t care how they felt. This was her word, her life. And they could never have it. That she now had them all yelling at once was nothing compared to what she needed now. They had no idea, no clue, hadn’t listened to a word of explanation. They didn’t care about her at all, their words were only for themselves. And it must stop right now.

Jan set her anger free and hammered the receiver down, severing their anxiety in mid-sentence.
Anger never satisfied, even though she wished it would. It just transformed into frustration. If she let it, frustration grew into such a tight wad that paralyzed so badly, the words of her parents would seem like the ultimate solution to everything that was wrong. So thinking, she escaped the phone box for the street, pitied her pounding heart, sunk fists deep inside coat pockets and began the simple act of moving one foot, then the next. Barely able to focus on the dragging pavement, each step begged the question, why? Remembering made her resent her sorry life. Yet the blood flowed in her veins and by muscle on bone, legs still obeyed, moving onward. Not him. No, never again. His memory lingered, warmed to familiarity, and sulked to her outer edge. She wrapped it closer to sustain definition, to keep the fear at bay. Keep moving, where didn't really matter.

Hissing traffic sprayed grit on her face, remnants of comfort needed discipline. She liked the dull grey sky and the rain. When the nightmare surfaced she could hide the pain by squeezing tight until she could breathe again, sure no tears would come. It really didn’t matter anyway, she decided, no one ever noticed.
Walk on.

Lines, squares, rectangles, complemented her stone heart, beat time. Each step measured meaningless progress, a nowhere perspective overlapping the fluorescent London skyline. On her left, a singular museum tower pointed optimistically, telling her there is more, always more. By moving she will eventually arrive. There will be an end to the hardness in her heart and the hardness under her feet. Believe. To not have the stone burn in her chest, oh the softness. She tried, but the memory wasn’t willing. Right now she had no choice but to embrace the dread. So she walked, as she has everyday for weeks, going nowhere.
Columns streaked black against the evening sky, deep blue behind yellow billboard halos. There two enormous lovers existed perfectly, white blonde, blameless. Sharing a phone. Garish lips. Too angelic in this cell. Deceit. Where was death in all of this? Ordinary people passed on the ordinary street. She envied their warm homes, their warm routines, their safe predictable lives. To be still was impossible for her. They weren't living with a ghost, didn't have disaster stalking. Comfort would only cultivate time and space for the pain. To stop moving created an opportunity. Pain would slide onto her skin like the hand of an unseen stranger, desperate, irritating, needy. She wanted that hand severed, and the nightmare destroyed forever.
Walk on.

She looked down at the worn leaves, shredded by countless soles grinding, angry black. Coloured like her father harping, demanding she come home. His insistence frightened her. She knew she could go further than he ever imagined. She frightened him. Because he was afraid, he thought he must force her. But he was wrong, like on that strange day back in Canada, in the cabin, long ago. Or so it seemed. But that was long before the dread, long before Richard. Of this she was sure. She remembered that she trusted her father back then. Until that day. The day he insisted she no longer be afraid, everything changed.
How her brother protested saying she didn't have the right boots, she would hold them back, it was not for girls, called her excess baggage. But she went anyway, wearing her mother’s big boots, two pairs of wool socks faking the fit. It took hours of sulky silence between them on the bench seat, truck headlights picking through the dark wood. She fought to keep from nodding off, but the rutted trail would have sent her to the floor if she had not hung on. Finally, thankfully, morning feebled a test of light over the trees, her father’s signal to turn off the key and unload. They fingered the big red shells, counted each one, packed the extras carefully. Double check whispers clouded delicate and clear over the rifles. Under dark pine wood, long strides faded to shadow. She ran to catch up, forest debris snapping. Relief to see her brother waiting, until he hissed shut-up angrily into her face. Her father told her to walk silently, with purpose. Roll your foot from the outside in like this. Pick up your feet, don't shuffle along.
Without realizing why, she walked like that now, softly along the London street. She faced the evening rain, gathered a remnant of amusement and put it beside the stone.
Walk on.

Memory again, on the wooded path when she was younger, when the power began.
Pick up your feet, her father whispered. And she did, creeping like an animal. Slippery roots and leaves held her back, while they floated ahead, silhouettes barely visible under sky’s faint blush. Until the sight of them crouching on the trail created a welcome rest. When he said we have one, she kneeled before the impression in the mud. Something about the heart shape made her run her finger lightly over the edge. In it, she sensed a life, from calf to grown animal, vibrant and searching for survival. The gritty message brought a change in light; wind brought the scent of pine. Her head filled with imagining. This moment she only desired to disappear, dissolve in sweet osmosis with the world. She didn't want to be hunting moose. Hated the idea. Her father scoffed at the fragmented protests. He would show her how it was done. Then she would understand it took skill, luck, time. Understand, to think like the animal, learn the lay of the land, learn where the moose found shelter and plentiful food.

It wasn't easy being a hunter, he said, as if it would make a difference. He explained that sometimes a whole season would pass without seeing one animal. Those years were the most frustrating. Sometimes they encountered other hunters who had already reached their limit, out for one more. Luck gave them the chance. Shoot cleanly, without pursuit. Painless. There was little or no suffering. The animal didn't even know what hit it. And today luck had found them. Today they had a big one and they were close.
Her father licked a finger and held it up to test the wind, then cast it sharply ahead. She held her breath and waited for silent imperfections. Yes, she could hear soft rustling, leaves being stripped from the limb. Upwind. Moving slowly, browsing, unaware.

He signaled her brother and motioned in turn for her to follow. She placed her feet exactly where her brother did, pretending to be invisible. It was her father’s shot. Her brother would be the backup in case he missed, or wounded. Then the moose would flee. In the line of travel with a clear shot to the side, it would be a wide target. An easy shot.

The sun warmed her back, but she fought the urge to shiver. She dared not move. Her brother hunched over his rifle with intensity, facing the cluster of trees where her father had disappeared. Hadn't her father told her tension would foil the shot? But she did not say it. Jan never wanted to know. Not now, not ever. She crouched behind him, obedient in trust.
A single sharp crack wrenched her thoughts away. Echo ricocheted down the valley.
"HOLY FUCK!"
The thicket exploded directly ahead, wooden shards became huge antlers and her brother lurched back. The moose lunged for him, raging aimed dead-on, hurling mud, branches and leaves. Each hideous millisecond passed like an hour. Within each particle of time she believed he would lift the rifle and take aim. He tried — was not able. She knew the shape of his body held the shape of fear, and when she rose up, he could not take aim and shoot in time. Now standing even with the black shiny eye, she looked deep, telling it was so, and it knew her faith. And now it would know more than death. It would swerve and roar past. Like she was just another willow branch or stump or thicket. Pounding, snorting, a massive blur on her right — then — one dry leaf suspended for the briefest moment. She watched it float and rest in peace, then smiled and knew she had done it. Every simple thing in the universe sang in perfect harmony.

Her father came running, and hesitated before her brother in the grass. Their haunted stares penetrated the hole where the moose plunged through, crashing, fading over the ridge. Deadfall snapped like gunfire. And they stared until silence reclaimed dominion.
She glanced down at her brother crouched small, shoulders at his ears, eyes circled in glassy, colourless shock. He swiveled around to face her, giving all of his fear. She would not accept it. Her sense of peace and a slight wind filled the void.

But it wasn’t to last, because her father had now come between them, and stood directly in front of her. She didn’t understand that he was angry, until she saw how he was shaking. At first she thought it was fear. Then he began to tell her, it was the most stupid, insane, ridiculous attempt he had ever seen. Waving her arms at a charging moose like a lunatic was… insane. Why? She could have killed her brother — she was lucky it didn't trample him — gore him.

It took awhile before it bloomed into a full garden of horror. When he realized exactly what she had done, he grabbed her by the front of her coat and shook hard. His quavering anger pounded nail by nail.
"You could have killed him! I could kill you!" He splattered it word-wet on her face, intending to force a confession. She closed her eyes, didn't cry. She tucked it deep inside. No reason. To explain would be folly. He would never, never understand any of it. She had beaten the odds. She knew she would, even before her brother had seen the animal. She knew it back when she had touched the mark in the mud. Right then it had simply asked and she had simply answered — yes.

Her father believed she caused his failure. It wasn't that her brother couldn’t even raise the rifle, that he wasn't even ready. No. She distracted him. She must have done something. Why did she not say anything?

Her brother watched the accusations open mouthed, but never said otherwise, never defended her at all. He just repeated it was a mistake to bring her. The incident was never mentioned again, but she could sense the resentment. She could see it in the way her father looked at her, it always lingered there. Dark, brooding contemptuous anger. And it never occurred to anyone that she had simply saved her brother’s life.
But that was nothing compared to this.
Walk on.

© Robbin Yager September 2004 (This an updated First Chapter from 2003)
Calgary, Alberta
onjo@telusplanet.net

Writers like feedback. If you like this First Chapter write and say so. Hackwriters exists to nurture new writers so all constructive critical comment welcome.

More First Chapters

© Hackwriters 2000-2004 all rights reserved