Excerpt: Ladder to Heaven by Katie Welch

Excerpted with Permission from Wolsak and Wynn Publishers Ltd

Hide scuffed on rock. Tish and Tosh, satiated with story, flopped into the ocean, the ripples where their bulky bodies submerged rapidly swallowed by a flowing tide. The departure felt like criticism; was my narrative dull, or were the sea lions tired of terrestrial details? I had been guarding the story closely, turning it like a precious stone in a palm. It was all I had to offer. 

Heavy-bottomed cumulus clouds sailed in like schooners the next morning. On the beach, rain spotted stones and driftwood. I looked west to the flat, empty rock, disappointment filling my heart. I was learning things while telling my story; removed in space and time from my mistakes, they were obvious. I should have been honest about the drugs I was taking. I should have made friends in Vernon and stayed involved with my kids. Regret surged. But it was too late to fix what I had broken, and the only thing left to do was come clean. Above all, be honest, Leslie had repeated like a mantra. She would be proud of my sea lion confession. I had cracked, and truth flowed from me like a culvert draining a ditch. I considered telling my own story to myself but felt silly and self-indulgent. The rain was light. I waited an hour for Tish and Tosh to come, and then went back to the trees. 

Something white bounced near my bivouac. Bird? Plastic bag caught on a branch? No – the white thing was attached to a human. A person was raiding my camp! I picked up a large stone and scuttled through grass, staying low. I would surprise the intruder, scare them away. I was preparing to throw the stone when the silhouette became familiar, wide-brimmed hat, straggling silver beard, long limbs in a dark rain suit. 

“What are you doing here?”

Cheng’s moustache and beard hung forlornly from his face. He had a plump white bag in one hand and raised the other in greeting. I brought you some rice, he said. Mandarin syllables ran below a translation like water under snow. 

I lowered the stone. 

I have plenty to eat, and you are hungry. 

He was dangling the bag like bait – it was a trap. No one had food to spare. Cheng wanted something else, sex probably, and my libidinal flame had long since extinguished, but I considered the bargain in practical terms; with strict parameters, the act would be tolerable. An entire bag of rice per orgasm, for example. Otherwise he could demand sex for every grain in the bulging sack.

“I don’t have anything to trade.” 

I don’t want anything in return.

“Why would you give me anything?” 

You are alone. I feel sorry for you. 

“You’re alone too.” 

Cheng removed his hat, wiped his forehead and winced; above wire-brush eyebrows, his wound had been freshly bloodied, the scab reopened. He glanced around and deposited the gift on a tree stump. You have nothing to fear from me. I am a ghost. Take the rice or let the seagulls have it. I shall leave you in peace. Flourishing his hat in a halfhearted farewell, Cheng waded through wet vegetation. 

Rain fell on the squat white bag, water collecting in creases where it was cinched at the top. It was an impossible gift. How could anyone be so generous in a broken, selfish world? And what had he meant about being a ghost? I had seen his footprints pressed in mud. Hunger dissolved apprehension, and I touched the sack gingerly. It was a real nylon bag of long-grain white rice, sewn closed with thick orange thread. I pressed the sides and felt a firm texture give gently. With a final check to ensure Cheng was truly gone, I snatched the gift and hurried to my camp. Beneath the tarp, I greedily teased orange thread free and poured a measure of rice and two of rainwater into an aluminum pot, then closed and wrapped the sack and stashed it deep in my backpack. Rice! With mushrooms or fish, rice would make a true meal, but I was ravenous, and soon flames were licking the pot, perched on a beach-brazier of blackened rocks. I spied movement to the north and unsheathed my sharp knife, prepared to fight, but it was only a great blue heron taking off. Water boiled and steam hissed. I moved the pot to coals. Beneath the crash of surf and screeching of gulls, I heard a burble of tiny, nasal voices: 

Smell we do, smell we do. Find and find and find we will!

A pair of crabs sidestepped from under a driftwood log and halted when they sensed they’d been spotted. I lunged, snatched a crab by a spiny leg and dangled the creature. Pincers thrashing, the crab pleaded for its life while its mate scuttled to safety. I dropped the crab on the thin layer of boiling water above the rice and held it down with a stick until the carapace changed colour from dun to red, drooling at the prospect of mushy white starch and crimson crab flesh. Rain sizzled on hot coals. When the feast was cooked I squatted beside the fire and alternated heaping spoonfuls of sticky rice with the crunch and suck of salty, savoury crab legs. Delicious. When my hunger subsided I blushed; instead of thanking Cheng, I had chased him away and uttered threats.

It rained for two more days. There was no sign of Cheng. I slept, ate and hid in the trees. I decided that I would cook Cheng a meal if he came around again, but the next morning began with the cool white mist that prefaced sunny days. I tidied and stashed my belongings, and when sun burned through fog I went down to the beach where Tish and Tosh were waiting on the rock. I swam out. The sea lions swayed and huffed impatiently as I brushed off a resting place.

I returned to the spring of earthquake and fire.