Today, we have an excerpt from Ladder to Heaven by Katie Welch: a “speculative story of addiction and resilience, as well as alienation from a bewildering, rapidly-changing world that simultaneously highlights the non-centrality of humans on our planet”. Due out in October, via Wolsak & Wynn, here’s the synopsis:
You don’t seem close to death. Why are you here?
A breeze brushed my skin, and I shivered. “It’s a long story.”
Story! Tell the story! The sea lions levered bulky bodies to front flippers and rocked from side to side.
In 2045 an earthquake ravages the Pacific Coast of North America and the world shifts. Suddenly people and animals can understand each other, while the chaos of climate change combines with the destruction of the earthquake in terrifying ways. Inland, where she should be safe, Del Samara finds her life spiralling out of control. Struggling with addiction and with her ranch in ashes around her, Del decides her family would be better off without her. Leaving her daughters behind, she retreats to her father’s fishing cabin with her dog, Manx. When she emerges three years later, she finds the world since the earthquake has become a very different place and she begins a dangerous journey to Vancouver Island to find her family and, perhaps, find peace.
*
Forest fire smoke cloaked Vancouver. My eyes were itchy, and the air tasted like ash. To the west, a roiling bank of cumulonimbus clouds had swallowed the sun, a low front at last. The promise of rain trebled my thirst; I had been talking for hours. My lips were chapped, my mouth dry. Tosh yawned, exposing those long yellow teeth.
“Rain is coming,” I said. “I have to go.”
Tish and Tosh flared nostrils and hoisted their heads to assess the oncoming storm. I didn’t wait for a reply. I rose, launched my body from the rock and landed with an awkward smack, salt water forced up my nose, then floated, gulping and gasping. Recovered from the poor dive, I swam toward the shore. Partway there, I came across the plastic bottle, half-submerged, draped with limp strands of seaweed. I tossed the bottle toward land, swam to it and repeated this process all the way to the beach where I propped the bottle upside down to drain. I got dressed. Put your skin on. The sea lions, silhouetted by sunset, looked like dark apostrophes enclosing orange and indigo clouds.
I took fishing gear around the north point and landed a small perch. The fish pleaded for its life but I killed, gutted and skewered it then fried it over a fire, waiting patiently until crispy skin indicated cooked flesh. Squatting on sand, I consumed the whole creature. I could smell the incoming storm, and my thirst was urgent. At the bivouac I slithered into my sleeping bag and listened to seagulls shrieking as they fought over my scraps. Night fell, and rain came at last, rinsing smoke and ash from the air. In murky darkness I donned my foul weather gear, stained mud-brown and repaired with duct tape, and covered my camp with a tarp.
At Stone Lake, I had perfected a water collection system using wide-mouthed plastic bags with a hole sliced in one corner. I tucked these holes into the red apertures of water bladders and created funnels with clothespins, then secured the plastic bags open to the dripping heavens. Rain fell in meagre quantities from thin clouds on the Okanagan plateaus but coastal downpours were thrilling; you could practically open your mouth and drink your fill. With the funnels in place, rivulets formed, and fresh water trickled into the bladders. Rain collected on leaves, flowed in waterfalls and coursed on saturated ground. Puddles formed and paths flooded. I quenched my thirst at last, slurping from the hollows on rocks and logs. When the rain slowed to a drizzle I returned to camp and stashed three full water bladders under a glossy rock.
Dawn arrived, glum and grey. Blotches of brilliant white popped against mossy logs in shining constellations, like stars in a leaf-mulch sky: mushrooms! On foraging expeditions with Gus and Helen I had learned to recognize a few edible species: ripple-topped chanterelles, ragged shaggy manes. The humble white fungi in Lighthouse Park weren’t familiar but when I nibbled a cap cautiously the mushroom tasted meaty and delicious. Once again, I was ravenous. I gambled with my life and like a gluttonous boar, snout quivering, collected mushrooms. Knock off the spores to encourage fresh crops, Gus had said, so I flicked each cap before picking the fruit, boots squelching in bog. I stuffed a nylon bag with fleshy fungi, fried half this harvest in a fish-greasy pan over a beach fire, and ate until my stomach ached. Burrowing in branches, I wondered if I would sleep forever.
I woke up needing to pee; I hadn’t poisoned myself. I staggered to a tree trunk and squatted, my stream mingling soundlessly with the wet forest floor. A warning shivered across my skin, and I scanned the clearing: a man was watching me.
I clawed my pants to my waist and ducked behind the tree. The man was tall and he looked strong – he had the physical advantage. I remembered Stone Lake and shuddered, red splash in a white field, iron-rich scent of blood. A few minutes passed and the man didn’t move; he was waiting for me. I felt like a deer, a shy creature seen by chance, counting on immobility to dissuade a predator. Tension mounted. Finally, I couldn’t stand the impasse and stepped out to face him, resisting the urge to glance toward my hidden treasures, backpack and bladders.
Long silver hair matched a trailing beard and thin moustache. Black eyes glinted like pebbles in a stream from under a broad-brimmed canvas hat. In a dark green waterproof jacket and pants, he was outfitted for the weather. A single raindrop hung from the tip of his delicate nose, and a calmness hung about him, a peaceful patience. He removed the hat formally, uncovering a violet lump of scabby flesh on his forehead, a gory third eye. He bowed and straightened, then smiled, revealing crooked teeth. “I have food,” he said in heavily accented English, then he uttered something in a foreign language. Layered over his speech, I heard what sounded like a translation. Shocked, I missed what he had said, and he repeated the phrase more slowly.
I speak Mandarin Chinese. But of course, you understand me.
He was right; I understood him perfectly.
*
Katie Welch’s Ladder to Heaven is due to be published by Wolsak & Wynn on October 14th.
Civilian Reader 