How we talk about climate change

Posted on January 29, 2026 by cathyhird

Last fall, I was part of an animators circle for delegates to COP 30. These reflections arise from that experience.

A couple decades ago, we talked about “global warming.” This was an accurate description of the issue—our planet was and is getting warmer. Then, we shifted to “climate change.” Not sure if it is true, but I heard that this shift in language was an intentional political shift with the goal of lessening public concern. “Change” is continual so maybe not something that can or should be prevented.

Although I think we should still talk about global warming—it is a fact—talking about climate does broaden our view. We are not just talking about daily temperatures but all aspects of weather from rainfall to snow cover to wind. Talking about climate invites us to think about our relationship to all aspects of weather.  

The UN forum on climate, COP 30, took place in mid-November in a city known as the gateway to the Amazon. Given the importance of the Amazon, this was a good place for this year’s conversations. I followed a group of church representatives through the eleven days and kept tabs on the official reports and what the World Council of Churches reported.

Church people are using the phrase “climate justice.” I read a post from an Indigenous representative to which said over and over that those who suffer most from climate change are not the people who caused our planet to warm. The Global South is more affected by drought and intensifying storms, but it is the industrialization of the Global North that caused the greenhouse effect. And in Canada, remote Indigenous communities are disproportionately affected by wild fires. This makes climate change a justice issue.

Talking about justice reminds us to look at who is affected. It reminds us to look at who has benefited. Like the conversation about privilege when discussing racism, talking about climate justice helps us to see why we might find it hard to change: the Global North will have to give up stuff.

The World Council of Churches is using another phrase: climate justice action. It is a bit awkward, but this language is important. “Justice” can be a static concept. It sounds like something that can be enacted in law. What the world-wide church is calling for is concrete actions that will move us toward climate justice.

There is another phrase that gets bandied about: climate innovation. Day Five of COP30 was about fuel and transport, about practical ways to transition away from fossil fuels, ways to get to net zero in an area like shipping. I heard a radio program recently where a woman was talking about the dramatic shifts taking place in some countries. China is moving quickly to electric vehicles because they make cheap EVs. Indonesia is moving away from coal toward solar generated electricity because solar panels have become much less expensive. New technologies can help us lower greenhouse gas emissions.

I worry though. While new technology can help us stop using fossil fuels, if we have an EV we may drive just as much. Change airplanes and we may fly just as much. If we think that climate innovation will get us to net zero, we may not reevaluate our lifestyles, think about having less, using less. If technology can solve our problems, we don’t really have to change our behaviour.

There was a phrase in the report of Day Four that jumped out at me: “long-term, investable climate resilience solutions for vulnerable nations.” This statement was made in the report on a new project that was launched to help countries with adaptation plans. If the focus is building resilience, then we are not trying to stop the warming of the planet but adapt to it. But the word that really got me was “investable.” The project (called FINI) is about how to channel money to poorer, vulnerable nations, which feels like a good thing at first glance. However, international corporate investment is going to go where a company thinks it can make money. This runs the risk of taking money out of the Global South and into the coffers of the north. Again.

Last summer’s forest fires reminded us of the cost of global warming. Heat and drought affected farmers in Ontario. We know climate change is real. What we need are actions large and small, public and individual that bring change. But how we talk about what is going on in our world affects the kind of actions we will take.

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Rooted or Not

Posted on October 8, 2025 by cathyhird

For a book club this month, I read a novel that never tells you where it is located. It feels like a European city, but is it Paris where the author lives or Berlin as another person thought or Prague? It has an old city and some rundown neighbourhoods, but we never learn where it is. We also never learn where the two main characters are from. They have come to Europe from two different Global South countries, but which ones? They have family back “home” but what is their native language. They speak to each other in the language of the country where they live and eat at cafés and wander the streets looking to buy an apartment.

The whole book felt unrooted for me. The people felt unrooted, adrift. I guess that was the author’s point. The book was The Anthropologist by Ayşegǘl Savaş.

Part of why the lack of specificity bothered me is that in my own writing, I am hyper aware of place. For my first novel, I visited the Acheron Valley in Greece because that’s where the princess’s kidnapper came from (and because we wanted a holiday and it is a magnificent location). In my Grey County novel, we go to my favorite shale beach twice because it is such an unusual location. In the sequels, I had to rely on online maps, but still I carefully researched the locations in Scotland and Brittany so that the places felt real. I want the characters to walk on the earth, to deal with the environment. And I don’t think we lose universal themes when our locations are specific. I think we lose connection when we are not rooted. Still, I recommend The Anthropologists as an exploration of thirty-somethings drive to find their way wherever they find themselves.

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Reflections on Place

Posted on March 20, 2025 by cathyhird

I have found that place is foundational to my writing (and living). Here will be some reflections on how place influenced my stories.

When I started the novel Moon of the Goddess, I knew where the captured princess Thalassai was from but not where her captors called home or why they took her.

Thalassai was from the ancient Greek city of Tiryns on the south shore of the Peloponnesus. This city is not as well known as others like Sparta and Corinth, but it is the place where Herakles was based when he performed his labours of repentance.

To figure out where the kidnapper came from, I picked up a used travel guide for Greece and flipping through it I found the Acheron Valley. Between the mountains and the ocean on the west coast of Greece is a fairly narrow strip of cultivated and inhabited land. The Acheron Valley is defined by a river that flows from the base of a mountain. In ancient times, it was thought to be a branch of the River Styx and was the place where Homer had Odysseus meet the shade of the prophet Tiresias. He thought there was a shrine there. I had to visit.

The modern city is called Parga, not on the map of western tourists, but full of Italians when I visited. There are two hills and some have argued that three thousand years ago the river flowed between them.  One of the hills has the city, in ancient times called Ephyra. The other is crowned by the remains of a medieval church. But beneath the church is a chamber. Some argue that it was a farmer’s storage for grain. Others that it was a shrine. On one wall, there is a crack that is exactly like the cracks in the cliffs that shelter the Acheron River.

Walking along the river shadowed by mountains and standing in that ancient place underground inspired me with possibilities. This might well have been s the shrine of an ancient earth goddess. The hill might well have housed a community of priestesses.

And the city on the other hill? I believe that at one time, they acknowledged the earth goddess without question, but the Olympians were rising. The older prince of the city wants to shift direction. That’s why Thalassai was kidnapped. My time in Parga opened me to this beautiful place and to the complications of a story set in Bronze Age Greece. You can delve into the place and time and story in Moon of the Goddess available from me and on Smashwords.

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Characters of Unseen: Miles

Posted on August 9, 2023 by cathyhird

Miles

Year 2041

“This is home,” said Miles’ roommate Josh as he drove up the farm laneway. “House was built in 1886. The part of the barn you can see was built the year after.”

The other two roommates in the back seat leaned forward to get a better look. “That’s old for Ontario,” said Qiang. “This such a young country compared to home.”

Hyun-woo punched him in the shoulder. “Don’t be such a Chinese snob. Korea is just as old.”

“So is much of Europe,” said Miles.

Qiang shook his head. “Canada is different.”

“Only if you ignore the indigenous peoples,” said Josh. “I mean most of us did, but they’ve been here thousands of years.”

“Same where my family came from,” said Miles. “Just because Jamaica didn’t have big brick buildings, they treated the earliest peoples like crap. Brought my people–from a land older than Europe–to carve up the island and make Europe rich.”

“The land here has been carefully cared for,” said Josh. “I can show you an area that we think Huron peoples farmed, not far from here. When they cleared land, they piled stones in the centre of the area. The settlers chose to pile the stones in lines, but still lived close to the land. Lately, all those fence rows have been buried, stones, and trees and all the critters that lived there. My folks are trying to learn some of the older patterns.”

Josh’s parents were the reason the four university students were in Grey County to spend a weekend on a farm. With grain harvest completed, his mom and dad had gone to visit his sister who had a new baby, had summoned Josh home to look after the sheep and chickens while they were away. And the farm dog and barn cats. Josh had invited his roommates to come and help, to see where he came from, to party when chores were done. “We’ll dump our gear in the summer kitchen, throw stuff in the fridge, get the dog, and check the barn and pastures.”

Shortly after, with beer and perishables stuffed into the fridge, Spike the Australian Border Collie led the way to the barn. At the door, Josh turned. “I still think you should be an electrical engineer, Miles, not a computer geek, the way you are interested in electrical problems. I should warn you that we have a bit of a stray voltage problem this year. My folks have updated the wiring in the house and barn but something got missed, I guess. It’s not a big deal, just five or ten volts and only sometimes. The weather’s been dry so we probably won’t notice anything.”

Miles touched his back pocket to make sure the miniature volt meter he always carried was in its place. Not that he needed it. His Gift allowed him to trace electrical flows, to sense the movement of electrons. But for other people to believe him when he said there was an electrical current where there shouldn’t be, he carried the tech that would prove to them what he already knew.

“Aren’t random shocks bad for the sheep?” Hyun-woo asked.

Josh shrugged. “Sometimes the sheep steer clear of the one section, but mostly they don’t seem to notice. Let me show you how things are done here. Not that we need to chore today, but you might as well know what you’ve gotten into for the next two days.” Josh pulled open the door and started to explain how they got the round bales of hay into the barn and then down to the sheep.

With the dog upstairs hunting for mice, Josh led the way to the stable area. Miles was surprised how big the sheep were. And how loud. They were not afraid of strangers, but instead, approached, eyes on the strangers as if curious about the visit. Josh explained that they were checking to see if the visitors had brought grain. Miles closed his eyes and reached out with his senses to see where he could trace electricity. There were the overhead wires to the lights of course, but he sensed something to his right.

Leaving Qiang and Hyun-woo snapping pictures of the sheep with their phones, Miles ran his hand on the wooden barrier between pens walking slowly. The feeling of a small electrical current increased. He came to a post where a wire ran down from the ceiling to a junction box. No wire left the box. He got out his volt meter. Sure enough, the meter confirmed what his Gift told here: there was power to the box and a trickle down to the water bowl below. “Josh, the wires stop at this junction box. Why were they here?”

“Used to be a heated water bowl, but we replaced it with one that doesn’t need hydro. It uses warmth from the ground and great insulation to keep the water from freezing. Why?”

“There is power to this box, and I think it is grounding to the pipes that fill the water bowl.”

“Really? There shouldn’t be power to the box.”

Miles held up the meter. “Pretty sure there is.”

“Huh. Let’s check the electrical panel.” Josh led Miles out one of the stable doors, and they pushed their way through the grape vines to the panel on the barn wall. Josh ran down the list of circuit breakers.

“This one is the one for the old water bowl. And it’s turned on!” Josh flicked it off. “Must have accidently gotten switched on.” He smiled broadly. “My folks will be so embarrassed that a silly mistake like that caused this problem. Too bad we won’t be here to rub it in. But I’ll do my best.”

“Before you gloat, let’s go back and make sure that the problem is solved.” Sure enough, Miles felt no trace of voltage around the water bowl, and the volt meter didn’t show any either.

“Now do we get out into the sun?” asked Qiang.

“The way these sheep look at us in a bit creepy,” said Hyun-woo.

“Let’s go, then,” said Josh. “This way.”

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Characters of Unseen: Deena

Posted on May 15, 2023 by cathyhird

Deena

year 2038

Rain drops fell on Deena’s forehead. She reached up to pull her hood over her head and realized her blond hair was sopping wet. Her eyes flew open. Another damn stupid dream about water! The clock read just after one am.Rolling over, she pulled her pillow over her head and willed herself back to sleep.

Like that’s going to work. Turning flat on her back, she tried the relaxation technique the school counselor had taught her, tightening her feet and letting them relax, moving to her ankles, her shins, her knees. A drop of water fell on her forehead. She reached up to brush it off, felt nothing. No relaxation technique was going to work if she imagined water when awake.

Deena pushed herself up in bed and decided to go for a walk. Mom will be pissed if she finds out. Tiptoeing across the bedroom to the closet, avoiding the creaky boards in her floor, Deena grabbed jeans and a warm sweater. Dena headed for the back door as it was farther from her mom’s room, less likely to tip her off. Using her cell phone as a flashlight, she made her way around the dark house to the well-lit sidewalk.

Every few steps she felt like she stepped in a puddle though it had not rained in three days. Am I hallucinating? She paused, wondered if she should go back and wake her mom, tell her to take her to emerg. The sense of water under her feet got stronger. Maybe a jog would clear her head.

Two blocks, and she turned into the elementary school playground. She heard a splash. Still could not see any water. I’m definitely going crazy.

“I did not expect to meet anyone here.”

Deena shone her phone toward the voice, ready to run to safety. A small bent woman with kinky hair leaned on a cane. “Neither did I.”

“Shouldn’t a nice young girl like you be in bed.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she explained. “Kept dreaming.”

“About what?”

Deena bit her lip. No need to tell the woman she was still imagining water. “Water. But I better go home.”

A wide grin came to the woman’s face. “Not until I show you something. Come with me.”

When the woman turned away, Deena hesitated.

“My name is Sophia,” said the woman.

Somebody called Sophia who was leaning on a cane couldn’t be dangerous. Deena followed. Each step felt wetter than the last.

“Shine that phone of yours here.”

Deena stepped up beside the woman, felt like she was knee deep in a stream. The light from her phone showed water bubbling from the ground. “What is this?”

“Given that the water mains follow the road, I suspect an underground stream has shifted its path. That’s why we couldn’t sleep.”

“You couldn’t sleep?”

“I’m an old woman. I don’t usually wander the streets after midnight. I dreamed of water and knew something was up. Wait just a moment while I make a phone call. I have a contact in Metro’s water management department.”

Deena bent down to touch the bubbling water. It was ice cold. She listened as Sophia explained to whoever picked up the call that there was a problem building in a school yard, gave the location and ended the call.

“They’ll be out to investigate. Our job is done.” Sophia took Deena’s arm. “Come with me. There is an all-night cafe just a few blocks from here. I need to explain that we are water dousers.”

The woman’s touch on her arm felt warm, but Deena could not figure out what her words meant. “You dreamed of water too?”

“Indeed. You and I are Gifted with a connection to water.”

“Being wakened by nightmares about drowning is hardly a gift.”

“Tell me about it. But it is our connection, our Gift. In past ages, we would have been the ones who found water, who told people where to dig or drill a well. These days, the Gift doesn’t get us an easy job, but it is what it is.”

“What is it?”

“My friends and I call it a Gift. Some people are connected to plants. Others sense particular emotions in other people. You will always sense water flow.”

“So, every time I dream about water it is because something is leaking?”

“You catch on quickly. Normal flows your senses get used to. But if something shifts, you will know it.”

“While I was walking, I felt like I was stepping in puddles.”

“Because you were getting close. I can teach you what I have learned over the last sixty years since the Gift emerged when I was about your age. How to get back to sleep when you need to. And I’ll introduce you to other Gifted people. “

Deena shook her head. She still wasn’t sure that both she and Sophia weren’t crazy. Then, she pictured the bubbling water, remembered the icy coldness. That water was real, and her senses, what Sophia called her gift, had led her to the spot. Deena decided to go with the old woman. If Sophia could help her control the dreams, handle the times when her sense of water overwhelmed her, she might get back to feeling normal.

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People of Unseen–Maria

Posted on May 2, 2023 by cathyhird

Maria

Year 2032

Waiting for the light to change, Maria felt a build up of anger behind her on the sidewalk. She pulled her arms in, tried to shrink away from the flames. People crowded closer. She took a half step toward the curb. The feeling of being trapped increased.

“Damn refugees,” a man muttered. “Brought disease. Took our jobs. My taxes pay for your shelter.”

Someone jammed their elbow against her side, setting her off balance. A car raced by. She turned and pushed her way to the back of the crowd. Still anger boiled around her. Home, the refugee center where she and her husband with their two young children lived, was just ahead. She had to cross this road. She could go down the block, away from this knot of people, but she knew it would do no good. The anger was everywhere.

It was this new influenza virus, the H8N9 strain. Just ten years after the Covid-19 pandemic, this flu threatened to shut down the city. Blame was being shouted at the government, at homeless people, and recently, the anger had settled on refugees. She heard the words muttered in grocery store line ups and by people she passed on the street. The anger was a heat that burned everywhere.

Her empathic ability connected her to anger. She felt it as heat when someone around her was angry. And these days, it was like a raging fire everywhere she went. Despite the fact that experts said that the strain of avian flu had been brought by migrating birds, had killed almost all the pigeons in the city before crossing to humans, too many citizens of Metro had decided that refugees brought it north.

The light turned green. The waiting crowd hurried forward across the road. Maria waited a moment and then followed. She kept her eyes lowered, waited to sense anger. At the other side, she hurried toward safety. The refugee center was in the middle of this block. A flame of anger pulled her eyes up. A man stood with folded arms glaring at her, blocking her way. The same man who elbowed her before. Maria took a step backward. How was she going to get home?

A woman walked around him, glancing back at him, then turned and met Maria’s eyes. Her steps slowed. She walked past, then came back and took Maria’s arm. “I’ll walk you home,” she said.

Maria hesitated before nodding. “Thank you.”

The woman nudged Maria toward the buildings, keeping herself between Maria and the man who now looked even angrier.  After they passed, Maria glanced back and saw him glaring at her still. How to cope with such fury in a stranger?

“This is my building,” Maria said. “Thank you.”

“I don’t like the misguided blame being attached to you refugees. As if you have not already suffered enough having to leave home.”

“Meeting kindness like your helps a great deal.”

“Be careful,” the woman said, then continued on her way.

Inside the shelter, Maria slumped into a chair in the common room, her whole body shaking. She needed to get her thoughts together before going to the room her family shared.

Maria folded her hands in her lap and stared at her fingers. This encounter suggested there was real danger. She had planned to turn down the nannying job she had been offered. The mother had been nasty, the oldest child burning with anger at the idea a live-in nanny was necessary. But the house had a tiny apartment, once the servants’ quarters. The job offer included having her whole family move into that apartment.

Maria sighed. It was a way out of the crowded core. Her family would be safe from the anger and blame directed at helpless refugees. It was a job. It would be a start here in Toronto. Living with the anger of that child would be exhausting for her, given her empathic connection to the emotion, but maybe she could help the child let go of what troubled him.

Stopping by the refugee office, she gave the details of the job to the staff on duty who would arrange for the work permit. At her family’s room, she pasted a smile on her face and announced the move. Her two children were disappointed, but she assured them they could return to the centre for evening programs or on the weekend. Within a week, the family moved out of the shelter into the slightly larger apartment. As she collected the morning paper from the front step three days later, the picture on the front made her weep. Flames engulfed the refugee centre. The headline claimed the fire was arson. Ten people had died. It could have been us!

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People of Unseen–Amanda

Posted on April 10, 2023 by cathyhird

Amanda
2043

As the door of the convenience store swung open, Amanda smelled samosas, hot and tangy and delicious. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk as a young man stepped from the store with a paper bag slightly stained by grease. She could almost hear her therapist voice in her head telling her samosas would be perfect. At her last session, the therapist had issued an ultimatum. If she was not going to take medication for her anxiety, she had to address the issues that went along with it, such as lack of sleep and weight loss. Amanda entered the store.

Her anxiety came from her Gift, the ability to see the divergent possibilities in front of a person with a choice to make. Some days she was overwhelmed by the potential futures she saw. But he idea of medication terrified her. Not that she loved her Gift, but she always saw the possible timelines settle into the choice the person made. Medication might make it harder for her to discern the actual choices, leaving her more disoriented people actually made. Not that she gave that explanation to her therapist. At least, she now had a couple people to talk to about it.

A few weeks earlier, she had met Giovanni, an empath with the ability to sooth other people’s emotions. As she saw him trying to decide whether or not to accidentally bump into her, easing her anxiety in the process, she had been floored. Amanda smiled to herself. Giovanni had been equally stunned when she named his Gift. A dinner invitation to meet Giovanni’s partner Brindle was in her phone before they parted ways. Now the two were her closest friends, and confidants who understood both her Gift and its consequences.

Inside the store, the smell of curry and good Indian food had Amanda take a deep breath. She looked over the menu of ready to go food on a screen by the cash register, placed an order for chicken and spinach curries as well as three samosas. An easy dinner tonight.

While her order was prepared, she wandered the aisles. Near the back of the store, a teenager scowled at cans of prepared pasta. Dizziness hit Amanda. Her Gift kicked in. At that moment she saw two girls: one picked up a can, stuffed it in her backpack and headed for the exit; the other put her hands in her pockets and slumped toward the door. She’s thinking about stealing the food, Amanda thought. Glancing up she saw a security camera. If the girl took the can, the storekeeper might well catch her in the act and call the police.

As the girl reached for the can, Amanda got between her and the shelf. “Don’t do it. I’m pretty sure you will get caught.”

“No skin off your back if I do.”

Amanda studied the teen, wondered if she was homeless. The pinched look of hunger was there in her eyes, so even if she had a place, she did not have enough to eat. “I’ll buy it for you.”

“Why?”

Why indeed? Amanda asked herself. The answer was easy. “The choice you were about to make worried me. It’s easier on me if you don’t have to make it.”

“What?”

And I am not going to explain my Gift to you. “It’s a long story. Just meet me on the sidewalk.” Amanda returned to the counter with the can. She called up the payment app on her phone, and the shopkeeper scanned it. Outside, the teenager looked ready to bolt, nervously tapping her toe against her heel. Amanda handed her the can and the bag with the samosas. “Sorry I can’t help more,” she said.

“Why would you?” the girl asked.

Amanda decided to tell the truth, though the girl would not hear the whole story. “Every day I see people getting into trouble in ways that I can’t help. It makes me really anxious.” Amanda shrugged. “Being able to get you a meal is a triumph of sorts. For me. For you, it’s just one meal.”

“Better than nothing.” The girl stuffed the food in her pack and turned away. A couple steps along the sidewalk, she stopped. “Thanks,” she said without looking back. “There should be more people like you.”

“You are welcome,” Amanda said. But I would not wish this Gift on anyone. Maybe I should pick up a donut to try to keep my therapist happy.

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People of Unseen–Giovanni

Posted on March 9, 2023 by cathyhird

Giovanni

year 2026

When the door slid open, a wave of uneasiness hit him from a skinny man with a pinched face. Glancing at the other four passengers, he saw a senior partner from the law firm he worked at as an accountant, the partner he believed was stealing from the firm. Her he definitely wanted to avoid. Slipping in with the others, he moved to the other side, brushed shoulders with the skinny, anxious man. A little of the man’s uneasiness dissipated. Did I do that? He pulled away, pressed himself into the corner.

Two weeks earlier, the founder of the law firm had sent him to a forensic accountant, a person called Brindle, to investigate the possibility that some was stealing from the firm. As they worked together, Brindle informed him that he, Giovanni, was a Gifted empath, someone who could sense others’ emotions, with the added Gift that he could sooth away worry. As infatuated as he was with Brindle, Giovanni could not believe that such a Gift existed.  Anyone can read emotions from body language, he had told himself.

A couple people got out of the elevator on the twentieth floor. Glancing over at the law firm partner, he thought she looked calm as she leaned on the elevator wall. Despite that appearance, Giovanni sensed turmoil boiling in her. A scent like burnt toast seemed to fill his nose.   

Will she recognize me? He looked away and stared at the elevator door. He rubbed his temples to ease the pounding in his head. Brindle’s report had been in the hands of the founder for a week. Nothing had happened yet, but Giovanni expected charges would be laid before long.

At the thirty-fifth floor, he let the partner exit ahead of him. As she headed away toward her office, he relaxed. His head cleared. Slowly, he walked to his desk. He had always hated elevators, thought it was claustrophobia. But could Brindle be right that it was the proximity to the anxiety of others that overwhelmed him. What am I supposed to do, walk up all those stairs?

As he instructed his computer to open to his work page, he remembered Brindle’s argument that he leave this firm before charges were laid against the partner that was stealing. “Come work with me,” Brindle had suggested.

Giovanni had been so tempted. Brindle was gorgeous and enticing. But this job was secure and working with someone you were falling in love with did not seem sensible.

Anxiety once more filled Giovanni’s body. Looking up he saw Mary, the head accountant returning to her desk. Her face was hard, her body tense.

Mary looked at him and shook her head. “Things are about to get messy,” she said. “As clear as the accountant’s report was, the partner involved is going to fight this. It’s going to be a very public battle. I’m not sure the firm is going to survive.”

“Computer, shut down.” Giovanni laid his palms on the desk, pictured never having to ride up that elevator again. “Sorry to leave you to handle this Mary, but I’m resigning. I’m going to HR right now.”

“You did the job you were asked to do.” She held out her hand to him.

“Sorry to leave you in the middle of this.” As he  her hand, he saw the lines on her face relax, watched her shoulders pull away from her ears. Am I helping her relax?

“I will miss having you around, Giovanni. You have a way of making problems seem manageable. But I totally understand not wanting to hang around as things explode here. What will you do?”

“I’ve had an offer that I have been debating about.”

“I hope it works out for you.”

As Giovanni walked away from his desk, he felt lighter. A smile came to his lips. He’d call Brindle when he left the building, suggest lunch. If the offer to work together still stood, he’d give it a try. And maybe a work life partnership wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

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The People of Unseen–Brindle

Posted on February 11, 2023 by cathyhird

With my novel, Unseen, coming out this weekend, I am starting to share some backstories of the Gifted characters. We start with the group’s leader, Brindle.

Brindle, year 2016 C.E.

The band of pain across Brindle’s forehead tightened. Rolling over, nausea hit, making them retch. How much tequila did I drink? Too much was the obvious answer. Feeling like this was going to make it hard to focus on the statistics midterm this morning. Fortunately, they’d had practice dealing with hangovers, had a routine that started with ginger ale.

Slowly sitting up, they realized that their roommate was up and gone. That was unusual. She usually slept late. A glance at their watch and a different kind of sickness rose in their gut. Ten after ten. The midterm was at nine. It was over. They’d missed it. Slept right through it. Had been so drunk the night before that they’d forgotten to set the alarm. I don’t do things like that!

Taking a can from the small fridge in the dorm room, Brindle sat down at their desk trying to remember what the midterm was worth. Maybe the prof would let them make it up. But that would mean admitting to binge drinking. Turning the can in a slow circle Brindle realized that the time had come. They needed to admit the problem.

The drinking had started during frosh week, which was not that strange as there was lots of drinking in the dorm, at events. But for Brindle it had been different. Coming from a rural community and a farm, they were finding Toronto life overwhelming. And dorm life was just about impossible. So crowded. So many people with so many worries. The pressure got to them just about every day. Early in the term, they’d taken the subway to High Park for long walks alone. But at this point in October, it was raining almost every day. There was no escape from the people.

As the worst of the nausea settled, Brindle dressed, ran a brush through their long red hair. One of the frosh week events had included a tour of Student Services. That felt like the right place to face the problem. They headed across campus. At the door to the office, Brindle hesitated, feeling an overwhelming urge to run. But running from a challenge did not fit with the person who could face any problem on the farm from an angry steer to a tractor break down. Brindle turned the handle and stepped inside.

Two women were behind the desk, one sitting, one standing. “I need to see a counsellor,” Brindle said.

“Do you have an appointment?” asked the seated woman.

When Brindle shook their head, the woman who was standing put a hand on the other’s shoulder. “I have some time before my next appointment. Come with me.”

In the office, Brindle sunk into the offered chair, started to wonder what they would say.

“My name is Gilda. Yours?”

“Brindle.”

“What brought you to our office today?”

“The people.”

“Particular people?”

“Just all the people. And all their worries. It might not be so bad if I had a single room, but my roommate worries about her makeup, worries about her choice of program, worries about her boyfriend who went to University of Ottawa.” Brindle went on to the worries of the people they usually ate with, the people they sat next to in class, the professors. They poured out the pressure that the anxiety of people around them created.

Gilda listened, hands folded. When they stopped, she asked, “Can you tell what am I worried about?”

Brindle glanced up. “That I won’t believe you. I suppose you are going to tell me that it is all normal, and I’m going to be fine. I don’t feel fine.”

“You are Gifted. An empath who senses worry,” said Gilda. “There are ways, however, to block other people’s anxiety from affecting you. And yes, you are normal, but a different kind of normal. Have you noticed that all you listed were worries?”

“And anxiety.”

Gilda nodded. “They are connected.”

“It’s no gift to know what everybody is worried about. Do you know how many people there are in this city?”

“Millions. Which is why I will teach you to keep yourself grounded, to protect your mind, your self.”

“How do you know this?”

“I also am Gifted, also an empath. My Gift lets me sense happiness. It lets me know when I’ve done my job here well. But it can be very distracting.”

“Trade you.”

Gilda smiled sadly. “That is not possible. Your Gift is your own as much as your other skills. But I can work with you, teach you meditation techniques that keep you centred. And introduce you to a few other people like us with Gifts.”

‘You aren’t going to send me to AA?”

For you, AA would be horrible. A room full of anxious people.”

Brindle studied the older woman’s face. She clearly believed what she was saying. “So, knowing what other people are worried about is an extra kind of sense?”

“It helps to think of it as a skill. You may find ways to make it useful. But in the meantime, I can teach you to turn it off, at least dull it’s strength so you can focus, so you can keep yourself whole.” Gilda folded her hands. “I suspect that when you drink, you lessen your natural control, open yourself more to the empathic pathways. It takes a lot more alcohol to dull them, to drown out the worries.”

“What about the midterm I missed?”

“I’ll talk to your professor.” Gilda glanced at her schedule. “Can you come back at four this afternoon for the first session?”

“I have class until four thirty.”

“Four forty then?” Brindle ran their tongue across their teeth. The taste was terrible. Whether they believed Gilda or not, something had to shift or they’d be headed back to the farm. “Sure. I’ll come back.”

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Establishing the Round Table

Posted on November 9, 2022 by cathyhird

I’ve been dreaming full story lines lately. Most of them are entertaining enough at the time, but not worth recording. But King Arthur’s ringing voice the other night convinced me to try to capture the idea.

The leaders of his army stood in a circle around Arthur. It meant that he could not see each of the knights at the same time, but they could see each other. That was the point.

“We have worked hard together and won a space of freedom and peace.” Arthur turned slowly as he spoke so that he met the eyes of each of the fifteen knights in the circle. “But the invaders will come again. To be ready, we must unite the disparate and often fractious realms of this land.”

A smile come to Arthur’s face as he met the eyes of Lancelot. He held the smile as he turned to dark-haired Gawain, standing next with arms crossed and feet spread wide.

“Gawain, my companion. Your courage and your constancy are renowned.” Arthur heard a slight ripple of a woman’s laughter behind him. The knight Ginavere was right. Stubbornness might be a better word, but this was a day to inspire not criticize. “Gawain, I send you to your father King Lot. Share with him what is in your heart, what you believe about our endeavours here in Camelot. Speak of the good you believe in. You are the best one to reach him, to draw him close to us. I trust you with this.” Gawain unfolded his arms and nodded once.

Next to Gawain was his brother Agravain, his twin in size and shape, but with a face more like a craggy rock face. “Agravain, you are respected in rugged Northumberland. Therefore, I send you north. Ships have been sighted in those waters. Assure the king we will stand at his side to defend his land. Work with him to establish a line of communication that will quickly get us a message should the Norseman come to land in his realm.”

“Aye, Sire,” Agravain said.

“Gaheris,” said the king, “you have ears that all find sympathetic. I send you south and east to Lundein. Saxons landed north and south of them. Fighting was bitter in their lands. Listen to their worries. Listen for news of illness and hunger. Bring us word of what they need. The lords of their city are too proud to ask me for help.” Gaheris bowed his head.

“Patient, gentle Gareth, you I send to Glastonbury. You will stay at the monastery on the shore of the lake, request the time and attention of the lady there. Listen to what she says and what she does not say. If a request is made, come to me immediately. If not, linger for the winter and absorb what you can. Tell stories of Camelot as well, nuggets that will act like seeds, binding us closer together.”

Arthur turned around again, meeting the eyes of each. “The stories you tell of comradeship and loyalty, of victory in the face of bitter defeat will bear fruit. Speak well.” He then turned to the knight beside Gareth, Kay, his foster brother. “Go home, Kay. Bear my thanks to those who helped to raise me. Assess the farms. Talk to the farmers. Much of our food comes from home. We accomplish nothing if we starve.”

The next four knights he sent north west. Then he took one step forward toward the one woman among his closest companions. “Ginavere, the lightness of your humour can ease tension or increase it. Be careful of your laughter.”

“Yes Lord, though it is a subtle weapon and a sharp one.”

“Therefore, use it on your enemies not your friends. I send to Tintagel. Queen Ygraine will receive you, welcome you I do believe. Learn what she has learned. Assure her Cornwall will not fall while I am king.”

“Must I wear skirts, Sire?” A sour expression came to her face.

Arthur smiled broadly. “Bring a dress or two. Ygraine will invite you to sit with her ladies, and they will speak more freely if you look like them.”

“Even in a dress, I do not look the same.”

“Take this as an opportunity to practice then. You may be more useful as a spy in future if you can blend in. But you are going as my knight. Arrive as you are this day. Practice with her knights. Do not get into any unnecessary fights, only those you must to prove you belong as one of my companions.”

Ginavere put her fist to her chest and bowed her head. She always feels like a Roman to me, Arthur thought, though the only stories of women warriors came from farther back and east.

Two more knights were sent to areas of Cornwall and another directly south, each with specific instructions as well as the general command to bring to the hope of the king to all and draw all to Camelot.

Arthur met the eyes of Percival and Galahad, then turned slowly around the circle again. “You will knit together our land. I trust you.” A warm smile came to his face as his gaze returned to Lancelot. “I will miss your company at meals and your advice at my elbow, even your correction, but I ask you to travel across the water to your home. Assess the situation in Brittany. Can they give us aid, or do they require ours?” Arthur longed to step forward and embrace his friend, but there would be time before his departure, and this was not a moment to set anyone apart. Otherwise, what was the point of the circle.

“Now to you Percival and Galahad, the youngest of us here. Your youth might lead some to question your presence in this elite company. But on this day, I name you the most important. We have fought this war so long it is in our blood. In our very nature. But war is not our purpose. And so, I name you Life and Love.   “It is your job to remind us why we do battle. Percival, you must teach us again and again that we do not fight to kill, though this is a consequence of battle. We fight to make space for living. And Galahad, you must understand our enemies. Someday we must live side by side. You will visit the isolated villages of the invaders who have remained. Learn of them. Teach us love.” Arthur stepped forward. “You were named last as you hold the places of honour. The work of the others is essential to protecting this land, but it is your work that will keep us from becoming men who only feel alive on the battlefield.” Arthur turned again, more slowly, meeting the eyes of each. “Look at each other. These are your companions. Do not fail me. Do not fail each other. Do not fail the people we are called to serve.”

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