The Donkey Cutter by Gregory Koop

Author:Gregory Koop
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Guernica Editions
Published: 2023-02-01T14:43:11+00:00

Saturday, July 30, 1892.

Eastern Reserve, Manitoba

Dill Pickle Recipe

100 small cucumbers

6 pints of water

1 pint of vinegar

½ cup of salt

½ cup sugar

dill

10–15 quart jars

Line jars with dill. Scrub the cucumbers and pack into quart jars. Boil the water, vinegar, salt, and sugar, then pour over the cucumbers. Fill the jars but leave ¼ inch. Seal.

Oma Katie Klippenstein

Monday, May 16, 1910.

Black Gully Lake

Through the nighttime, winds shifted from the north to the south and eased. The midmorning, warm, full of sunshine and clear blue skies, gave Black Gully Lake the feel of noon. A breeze combed over the pasture, slid inside Ibi’s tent before it passed through his mind and rustled the dust that covered his memories and insecurities. The calico followed the winds to Ibi’s chest, circled, and curled into a ball. Ibi stretched from his sleep then shoved the cat out of the tent. He draped a shirt over his face to ignore the day. But inside his mind, away from sleep, the courtyard of Ak-Metchet manifested. His breath strained as he saw empty tables, Claas’s chair empty, too.

“Claas, I almost lost them . . .” Ibi examined the desolate image of Ak-Metchet. The well was dry. And the windows of the homes were black, matte black. “I stood like you would. Remember how you’d climb upon your chair. Stand above us and share your visions.” He focused on his memories of Claas’s chair at the head of the table. “I can see it.” His voice echoed inside his visions. “They came, Claas. I was there over them all. I stood and showed them the proof—even the newspapers. They looked. They laughed. They turned their backs. I lost them . . . But then this girl stepped out of the crowd. And she sang. She had the sweetest voice. She both brought them back and held them to me. An atheist, Claas . . .”

Ibi’s dreamscape, a swirl of memory, rose out of his mind. What remained: Mareika inside an ascension gown, her long brown hair parted down the middle, draped over each shoulder, resting upon her breasts, her skin radiant with a pink flush. Ibi watched her breathe out from glistening parted lips.

He wove the outside world with his memories. Ribbons of birdsong and the chatter of squirrels wrapped around the Mareika he saw. Nature’s cadence joined the melody that rose from her. He desired to raise her gown off her, touch her skin, cradle her breast, take her hips. He reached for himself. But shame held him still.

He snapped the shirt off his face. He rubbed the image from his eyes. He marched to the lake and into its waters. The cold, still holding winter, stung his skin, pierced his joints and scrotum. He dove under the water and let only his head surface. The soak washed the sex from his imagination, but, oh, how he wished to find Mareika in those same waters. She felt the same static charge that promised lightning before thunder, tugged at the hair about his forearms, neck, and genitals.

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