Arborescent. Marc Herman Lynch

      

       ARBORESCENT

       ARBORESCENT

      MARC HERMAN LYNCH

       a novel

      ARBORESCENT

      Copyright © 2020 by Marc Herman Lynch

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any part by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a licence from Access Copyright.

      ARSENAL PULP PRESS

      Suite 202 – 211 East Georgia St.

      Vancouver, BC V6A 1Z6

      Canada

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      The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada, and the Government of British Columbia (through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program), for its publishing activities.

      Arsenal Pulp Press acknowledges the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səl̓ilwətaɁɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, custodians of the traditional, ancestral, and unceded territories where our office is located. We pay respect to their histories, traditions, and continuous living cultures and commit to accountability, respectful relations, and friendship.

      This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons either living or deceased is purely coincidental.

      Cover and text design by Jazmin Welch

      Edited by Shirarose Wilensky

      Copy edited by Linda Pruessen

      Proofread by Alison Strobel

      Printed and bound in Canada

      Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication:

      Title: Arborescent : a novel / Marc Herman Lynch.

      Names: Lynch, Marc Herman, 1984– author.

      Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200205455 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200205463 | ISBN 9781551528311 (softcover) | ISBN 9781551528328 (HTML)

      Classification: LCC PS8623.Y53 A74 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

       For my father

      Contents

       Prologue

       Part 1

       Part 2

       Part 3

       Notes

       Acknowledgments

      PROLOGUE

       JEB BUCKLES

      In short, Jeb Buckles could hand-hew timber but couldn’t check his email to save his life: electronic devices being the work of the Devil. In his old age, surely he had become humbled, self-deprecating even, but that never kept him from testing the sturdiness of limbs, always being out on one, that is.

      In his seventy-second year, he built a trebuchet on the valley ridge a good fifty metres from his country manor. At one and a half stories high and with two human-sized hamster wheels, the pretty little chorus resembled a gristmill, its sentimental nature almost pastoral. He imagined naysayers asking, “How could an old fart, barely able to reach his own dick, manage to construct such an enormous bleached-wood siege engine?”

      “Well, I’m not your typical geriatric bugger, after all,” would be his response.

      He launched everything from typewriters to dumbbells to dishwashers into the valley floor. Once, he launched a hollowed-out Oldsmobile thirty feet into the air. Once, he landed a forty-pound filing cabinet squarely in the heart of a herd of deer, killing a doe and wounding two others. He told the story like a miracle: “Like hitting a pebble on a beach. Like tagging a moth in the woods at night.”

      Sometimes, when thinking of his son, Jeb wished he could “launch the dumbshit into space.” He’d loved the boy as a tyke, but there was something to be desired about the slacker, goodfor-nothing bloom. Parasitic in essence, children needed rigid forbearance: “Give me a month alone with the boy,” he would tell Marchella. “A month in the woods would turn that bent rod into a Corinthian column. Believe you me.”

      As Jeb Buckles’s eyesight deteriorated, he staked guidewires across his land. Jeb often walked down the valley to the river, two kilometres out, pinky hooked under wire, to stand in windswept snow. The expletives he delivered intensified with the wind: he told both the alpacas in their shelter and the yellow-beaked pilgrims under the trailer to “fuck off.” The wind tortured him until he threw down. But, rather than resembling a proper pugilist, he looked, Marchella said, more like a lady with a June bug down her dress.

      His cataracts worsened, but no doctor was gonna fudge with his eyes. “Better to have an eye,” Jeb would say when the goose sausage came out like the offal from a freshly field-dressed deer.

      His blindness worsened in the winter, when the light off the snow was biting, and there were only eight hours of sunlight. But the intricate lattice of guidewire did more than compensate for his disorientation. It amplified his touch, such that his reach stretched across the valley. He could feel the nose of a deer nudging the line on the opposite side of the estate, the light touch of a gopher’s tail, the sway of a copse, the roots wending through the matted earth.

      Stepping outside his back door, Jeb reached for the hip-high stake hammered into the ground, the thread practically invisible against the hard-packed snow. He curled his pinky around the wire.

      The trebuchet creaked with windmill-like sluggishness. The cantilevered counterweight was a hefty load the size of a small yacht. Jeb hoisted his own weight onto the tie, momentarily leaving the ground to allow the pawl to catch on the ratchet’s next tooth; the machine strained with tension. Foot-tall dead sunflowers stood in the snow along the edge of the escarpment, their stalks bent and discs covered in icicles.

      With mitted hands, Jeb yanked the thick, braided rope. With a clank and wobble, the contraption shuddered and the counterweight dropped, followed by a rush of air. And here the rush of siege, the mounting pressure toppling bodies that jostled over bloody fields. For Jeb, history was nothing more than men swinging from gibbets and skulls spiked on ramparts. This was progress as largesse, violence shorn down to evolutionary impulse. For him, an eight-pound trigger pull, the drop of the plunger, the whine of a drone—these were the products of men being men, a call of the wild as distinctive as a roar.

      His oohs and aahs died in the wind as the bathtub twisted, an awkward porcelain projectile turning from blackish blur to whitish speck, until it disappeared from his sight entirely; he listened intently, then heard the muffled explosion as the tub bounded to a halt among the other snowy lumps on the valley floor.

      “That sure is something,”