April Fool by William Deverell Read Free Book Online Page B

this show is a venerable Douglas fir eight feet wide at the base, dwarfing even Nelson Forbish as he gapes upward. Arthur calculates the platform as not eighty feet high, as Stoney claimed, more like fifty, the height of eight tall men. It girds the entire trunk and is protected by a sturdy guard rail. A shake roof, supported by diagonal beams, is held to the trunk with foot-long bolts. Canvas rain blinds that can be lowered.Affixed to the beams, a fan of poles, sharpened at the ends like spears: the Dog-built barrier.
    He calls, “Are you up there, Margaret?”
    She appears over the railing, shouts down, “Here I am.” An expressive shrug, arms held out as if she’s about to take wing. “I didn’t plan it. My name was pulled from a hat.”
    â€œAnd how long will you stay?”
    â€œWe’re provisioned for…well, three weeks. That’s the plan.”
    Arthur stares up dumbly as the kinglets flit and cheep in the boughs above her. Two more heads appear. Cudworth Brown, the dissolute poet manqué, and his teenaged current interest, Felicity Jones. Margaret gathers them in a hug.
    â€œWe have sleeping bags, a little Bunsen stove, books to read–I may finally get to War and Peace .”
    â€œI’m not quite sure what to say.”
    â€œI can’t hear you.”
    He shouts. “It’s a shock.” What means her bold and naked smile? There’s no apology here, no misgiving.
    â€œArthur, I know this will seem extreme to you.” Extreme? To stable, steady Beauchamp? “I put my name in the hat with five others, I can’t renege, I have to do it. This is about finally taking a stand. If we don’t, we surrender. I can’t live with surrender.”
    Nelson is transcribing every word. Cameras are also at work: Flim Flam Films, a Saltspring Island company. By now, fifty friends and neighbours have arrived. Trustee Kurt Zoller is here. Striding anxiously into the clearing comes the CEO of Garlinc, Todd Clearihue.
    Last seen, he was giving a lift to the pixie. Arthur massages a crick from his neck, glances over at her, olive complexion under spikes of black hair. A row of rings in an ear and one in her lip. A jacket open to Che Guevara on her T-shirt, an exhortation: “Rise Up!”
    â€œThree weeks, did you say, Margaret?” Though shouted over the increasing ambient noise, it sounds of snivelling.
    â€œThat’s the plan, we’re doing shifts. Will you remember to put out the bird food? The vet’s bill has to be paid, and you’ll have to get in some feed.”
    â€œWhat about the kids, the goats?”
    â€œEdna Sproule will help with the birthing. I want you to eat at the Woofer house. Kim Lee is a knowledgeable cook, and you ought to be on a vegetarian diet anyway.”
    The hidden text: He’s helpless. He will be spoonfed lentil soup and tofu. Margaret looks proud and beautiful, Rapunzel in her tower. Removed, remote, unreachable.
    Everyone is listening breathlessly to these disclosures of Arthur’s helplessness and dietary needs. He will seem a worrywart to boot if he broadcasts his fears for Margaret’s safety. Not to mention her mental health, after three weeks living with this pair.
    Cudworth Brown is a former ironworker, runs the recycling depot. Most call him Cud, which is reflective of the slow, chewing motions of the ruminant creator that he is. He’s been writing poetry for the last dozen of his forty-two years, and has finally been published: Liquor Balls , a thin volume of lusty verse. The local literary celebrity has attracted, in Felicity Jones, his first groupie, an eighteen-year-old naïf repeating her final year at Saltspring High.
    â€œI can’t conceive of how you got up there, Margaret. How will you ever get down?”
    Reverend Al Noggins finally brings this neck-wrenching tête-à-tête to a close, moving Arthur away. “Have to keep the banter brief,