Fire Beyond the Darkness

They Told Me, Heraclitus

'They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,

They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.

I wept as I remember'd how often you and I

Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.'

William Cory Johnson, Heraclitus

In my beginning is my end.

"They say I'm dying." I said.

"When?" He asked.

"They're not sure." I said.

"So how do they know?" Began the return of Steve of the Jacuzzi. I had no answer.

"How long?" He asked.

"There's a better expiration date on my credit card." I said. In whatever kind of a 'race' life may be, I had very abruptly become a finalist.

"What's on the list?" He asked, referring to the bucket variety. We went through it, slow.

"Well, there's the Alsatian wine tour, the Ugandan gorilla tracking, and the Jack Daniel's barbeque championship." He said. "We could get through those this year."

"Steve." I said. "They're on three different continents."

"Look." He said. "I have to give a talk at the International Space University in Strasbourg in April, my boy is in the middle of Rwanda until June, and I've never been to Tennessee."

Except for a couple of fishing trips to Kenny's cabin in Barkley Sound, I hadn't travelled with Steve of the Jacuzzi since our last spin around The Final Cartwheel, thirty years earlier. It had never been a good idea to make my world small. At a time like this it could be fatal.

"Let me think about this." I said.

"Think fast." He said. "You're the one with the deadline."

"Unfortunate word choice." I said. "But the ultimate inspiration. A man can do what he wants but he cannot will what he wills. Let's do it."

"How do think Robyn will feel about it?" He asked.

"She'll be good." I said. "She's always good."

And that, dear friend, was how, on one fine Sunday in May, I found myself once again passing a murder of crows and the Jesus Loves You sign, on the way to the Vancouver ferry. Tucked away in my powder blue Osprey backpack was a bottle of Chateau Giscours (from the highly esteemed 2000 vintage) to go with the Oriental pork and duck that Robyn and I would consume, in our airport hotel room, the night before we said goodbye.

I kissed her next morning, like I had kissed her on the railroad tracks in Varanasi, that day so many years ago, in the beginning of our love. She ran through her list of things I should and shouldn't do, as she always did, and I made promises, as I always did.

The Arab taxi driver was playing some version of Beethoven's Egmont Overture from the Montreal symphony, overdubbed with a libretto about a Canadian general, an exuberant tribute of his failure to prevent the Rwandan genocide. We Canadians like our heroes tragic. Some countries make heroes out of heroes. Some countries make heroes out of cowards who pass themselves off as heroes. Only Canada could make a hero out of an antihero who admitted to being a coward.

Air France had just commenced direct flights from Vancouver to Paris. I declared my loyalty to the tripartite motto of the revolution, and inquired about an upgrade, but someone had removed the égalité from the liberté and fraternité, and reassigned my economy seat to the rear of the plane. The East Indian security agent who frisked me because of my money belt seemed to be performing his duties with a little too much enthusiasm.