Transmigration

  To my most beloved homines sapientes,

  Deborah, Gershom, Yehuda, and Miriam

  Chapter One

  Simon could hardly keep himself from yawning. He was waiting by the cash in Noah’s Pet Shop for his brother Ian to return from the back. He was tired of apologizing as people brushed by, and of grinning at the cashier who thought he was trying to shoplift. Without knowing it he was staring at a case of vinyl dog bones, his hands in his pockets, a blank look on his face.

  After weeks of begging and pleading with his parents, Ian was finally getting a hamster. He was scouting out the choices for the fourth time that week, because he wanted to find a hamster without any flaws. Despite their many trips to the shop, the perfect hamster had eluded him so far.

  Simon fidgeted. He had tons of homework to do that evening. He’d been assigned a book report a month before and it was finally due that Friday. He hadn’t even started reading the novel. There was a math test too, the very next day, and while math was one of his better subjects, his attention had been slackening these last few weeks. It was the same with biology: he had a project due on evolution and so far he hadn’t lifted a finger. So why was he wasting time in that shop? His best bet was to track Ian down and drag him away, by force if necessary, even if he had to traipse to the back where music was blaring from a half-dozen speakers. He was preparing himself for the gruelling ordeal when he heard a familiar voice call out, “Well, look who’s here.”

  Simon wheeled and practically groaned. Confronting him were Winston and Peter, the coolest kids in his grade eleven homeroom. Peter’s dad was a hotshot lawyer, and Winston’s owned half of Chinatown. Handsome, athletic, popular, and rich, the pair had more than their share of good luck. So why did hipsters like them love to pick on Simon? It was funny, in a sick sort of way. The moment they caught sight of him, they would drop everything (unless they were playing online poker) and follow him all over the place, like dogs in hot pursuit of a chicken.

  “You can’t say hello?” Peter demanded. Even though he was born in Vancouver, he had a slight South African accent.

  “He’s pretending he doesn’t know us,” Winston said, his smile mocking and faintly cruel. With his sleek frame and sinewy limbs, he resembled a fighter in a Kung Fu film. And he was extremely quick on his feet, maybe because he took Ritalin daily. “He’s ashamed to be seen with us. We’re not cool enough for a guy like him.”

  “I was thinking about something.”

  “About those dog bones, right?” Peter jeered with a malicious smile.

  “What?”

  “You seem to be eyeing those bones real closely. I guess your dog has exacting tastes.”

  “I’m waiting for my brother.”

  “A brother? Really? Is he from the shallow end of the gene pool too?” Peter was smirking. He was having fun.

  “If you say so.”

  “Carpenter, there’s no point riding you if you won’t fight back.” Like Peter, Winston was smiling widely. Simon practically groaned. These guys were getting started and wouldn’t leave him alone — unless he managed to distract them somehow.

  “You’d better hurry. The snakes are getting ready to eat.”

  “What do you mean?” Peter’s smirk faded slightly.

  “You’re here to watch the snakes, right? The staff is getting ready to feed them.”

  “How do you know? The snakes are at the back.”

  “Because the mice are panicked,” Simon said. “They sense what’s coming and are squeaking in fear.”

  “Are you saying you can hear them?” Winston asked scornfully.

  “You can’t?” Simon was surprised. It amazed him how dull people’s senses could be. The mice were so panicked that their squeaking was awful — and that was with the music blasting.

  “Of course we hear them,” Peter lied. “And that means the show’s about to begin. I guess we’ll catch you later, eh? Come on, Win. Let’s leave genius here to study his dog bones.”

  As the pair moved off, Simon called to them, “If you see my brother, can you tell him I’m waiting?”

  “What am I? A messenger service? Go tell him yourself!” Peter yelled back.

  “Go to hell, Carpenter!” Winston added.

  They passed down an aisle. Winston announced, in a very loud voice, that Simon was the weirdest kid in school, “Grade A weird,” he practically shouted. “One day we’ll read he’s some psycho killer.”

  If their purpose was to worry Simon, they’d achieved their goal. He knew he was weird in everyone’s eyes. His very family thought he was strange, his mom, dad, and even Ian. “The eccentric,” they called him, in a friendly way. His parents would often throw him this look when they learned that he’d neglected to study or became distracted when driving the car. If he really was “eccentric,” as his family believed, then Winston was right and he was possibly psycho.

  But there he was, worrying again. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t dwell on this stuff and go back to acting like the kid he’d been four years ago. Until his thirteenth birthday he’d been normal enough and people like Winston would never …

  Winston. If that oaf came back and found him standing by the dog bones, he would make Simon’s life hell, there and in school. Simon had to grab his brother and leave. Now, while the going was good. Why did he keep stalling?

  As if he didn’t know.

  To begin with, the store’s lighting was horrible. The fluorescent bulbs were like fire on his eyes and their drone-like hum was driving him crazy. The towering shelves were boxing him in, as were the pets in their stainless-steel cages — what person in his right mind would keep an animal trapped?

  But the worst part was the music. There were speakers hanging all over the place. The further you went the more the music lunged at you. Simon loathed it more than he could say. The mix of high- and low-pitched notes felt like vicious pinpricks against his skull, and the faster they sounded the more pain they inflicted, until his head was on the verge of exploding. And as soon as one song finished another would begin, and the agony would start all over again.

  “It depends on the music,” his dad once said, when Simon had complained about a radio blaring. “Some music is awful, sure. Like that hop hip stuff …”

  “Hip hop,” Ian had corrected him.

  “But there’s jazz, baroque, classical, and folk. There’s something for everyone, that’s what I’m saying.”

  He was wrong. All music made Simon want to puke. Not metaphorically (as his dad would say), but actually puke. He wondered why people sought this torture out, carrying iPods around to fill their heads with poison. And why would stores pump this garbage out day and night, indifferent to the misery they caused? Music should be outlawed, he thought. Just like people couldn’t carry guns, it should be illegal to play music in public.

  This wasn’t helping any. He still had tons of homework to do and Ian was drooling over the hamsters. Enough was enough. Simon would use brute force and yank him away. Otherwise he’d stay until the staff kicked him out, admiring one ball of fur after the next. And, again, if Winston found him there …

  Simon gritted his teeth and rushed down an aisle. He hurried past the avian section, with its finches, budgies, and a sad looking parrot; then came the aquaria, with its fish swimming blindly in circles, goldfish, angel fish, guppies, and loaches; then there were the puppies, the ferrets, cats, gerbils, mice, and …

  He stopped.

  Behind the music — which sounded like people being beaten to death — some poor soul was screaming. The voice was odd, not like any he’d heard. Its timbre was rough and the pitch was different, less controlled … not quite human. It sounded like a bird was peeping, a squirrel was maybe clearing its throat, and air was leaving a balloon. For
all its strangeness and frailty, however, there was no mistaking the rage it projected. It contained a furious, violent note.

  “… Who de hell d’you think you are, jailin’ me like dis! Let me outta here! And turn dat crappy music off! If you don’t let me out, I’ll break out on my own. And when I’m free, you lura oafs, I’ll cut your stinkin’ throats!”

  Simon’s blood turned cold. The sound was coming from up ahead, near a stack of cages that contained all sorts of rabbits. Was someone trapped inside? No, how could that be? Who could fit inside a cage so small?

  “Did you hear me? I said I’ll cut your throats!”

  Even as he trembled slightly, Simon did feel sorry for this stranger. He glanced up and down the shelves, desperate to help the poor guy out. Slowly a realization dawned: no one else noticed the shouting. The staff and customers weren’t batting an eye, as if it were normal for someone to be shrieking like that.

  Hang on a sec! What was that?

  To his right was a rectangular cage, three feet long and two feet wide. It had a clear plastic lid with metal mesh on top. Inside, beside a wooden hut, a Mini Rex rabbit twitched its nose. It was grey, white, and innocent looking. Its ears were downy and pink on the inside, it had a blood-red stain on its right front paw, and its eyes were two pure ebony marbles. It looked like any common rabbit but … those shouts and curses? They were coming from it. Simon crouched, just to be sure. Yep. A rabbit, a rabbit, was muttering threats. He stared at it dumbstruck.

  “What the hell’r you lookin’ at? You ain’t seen a rabbit before, you fat, ugly lura?”

  “What? Wait. Are you talking to me?” The hair on Simon’s neck was bristling.

  “Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you! Hey! Dis is somethin’! Can you actually hear me? I mean, no joke, I’m gettin’ through to you?”

  “Is this some type of trick?” Simon glanced around nervously, thinking Winston was behind this “talking” creature. He was good with tech stuff and had maybe hidden a device in the cage. That was it. Winston was talking into a nearby mike and capturing Simon’s response on film. He would screen it in school and Simon would look like a fool.

  “It ain’t no trick!” the voice continued. The rabbit had its paws against the lid, in what seemed to be a show of desperation. “But you ain’t answered me! How come you can hear me? Who de hell are you?”

  “So you’re not Winston?”

  “Who de hell’s Winston? Look, dis is amazin’. I don’t know who you are, but I can tell one thing: you don’t know who you are either, not if you’re receivin’ me. But never mind. Dat’s okay. The point is, I need help. You gotta open dis cage and let me go. Better yet, take me home. I swear to youse on all dat’s holy, you help me out and I’ll pay you back …”

  “Simon!” Much to Simon’s relief, Ian appeared. “I’m ready to go. I finally found the perfect hamster. The clerk, his name’s Tim, said he’ll put him aside. We can pick him up tomorrow, or the next day, even. What’s wrong? Your face is really pale.”

  “Nothing,” Simon said, eyeing the rabbit still. “What do you make of this rabbit? Does he seem normal?”

  “The rabbit? Yeah, he’s normal enough. Although he’s nothing like Magnus.”

  “Magnus?”

  “My hamster. That salesman, Tim, said Magnus is special. You should see the way he ate some apple …”

  “Hey!” the rabbit interrupted, “did you hear what I said? Help me and I’ll pay you back.”

  “Did you hear that?” Simon asked.

  “What? The music? Or that parrot squawking?”

  “Yeah, the parrot,” Simon said. He tried to smile but it looked like a grimace.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Look, we should go. We’ve been here half an hour already and I have a massive test tomorrow.” He turned and led Ian away.

  “Hey! You can’t leave!” the rabbit screamed. “All I’m asking is you open dis cage!”

  “Let’s go!” Simon insisted, picking up his pace.

  “Come back! Help me! I’ll kick your head in if you don’t!”

  Simon bolted toward the exit. With every step the rabbit’s cursing grew fainter, until it vanished altogether as Simon passed into the late spring air. He was sweating heavily and his legs were shaking. Luckily, Ian was too happy to notice. He was talking about Magnus and how he was the world’s smartest hamster. To shut him up, Simon offered to race. Ian liked racing, especially when Simon let him win.

  “You were probably dreaming,” he told himself as he and Ian started running down the sidewalk.

  But it was no dream. Either that rabbit had spoken or, like Winston said, he was totally nuts.

  Chapter Two

  The brothers raced for several blocks until they reached their street in the heart of South Cambie. Slowing to a walk, Ian declared himself the victor. Simon merely nodded. Winning meant a lot to Ian, whereas he didn’t care. And it was beautiful out. The wind was causing the trees to rustle. The late spring air, the sinking sun, and his exhilarating run had allowed Simon to forget about Winston and Peter — and that “talking” rabbit. It would rain soon, his instincts told him, and there was nothing better than a cleansing cloudburst. Chicks were nesting in a nearby tree. His nose told him Ms. Fields was cooking stew and that Jimmy, her son, badly needed to shower. He could smell something else. It was over in some bushes.

  “Careful,” he told Ian who was walking ahead, “there’s a raccoon in that hedge to your left.”

  “I don’t see him,” Ian said.

  “He’s eating garbage.”

  “I don’t see it,” Ian repeated. Thinking Simon was trying to scare him, he took a run at the hedge. A grey shape exploded from inside and loped across the road, a bone in its mouth.

  “I told you. And Henry’s back.”

  Between the Carpenter house and the next door neighbour’s was an unpaved alley steeped in shadow. It was overgrown with weeds and ferns, blocked to traffic, and generally unused. A bum named Henry would sleep there in a makeshift shelter, usually after drinking himself stupid. He was harmless and residents let him be.

  “Hey, Henry!” Ian called. “I’m getting a hamster!”

  “He’s out cold,” Simon said, flinching at the smell of whisky.

  “Why does he drink?” Ian asked, stooping over the middle-aged man. He passed a hand over his eyes but got no reaction.

  “Because he feels out of place, I guess. The whisky makes him think he belongs.”

  “That’s projection, isn’t it?”

  “Projection?”

  “You feel out of place. I heard you say as much to dad. So you’re projecting your feelings onto Henry, see?”

  “So you think I’m going to end up like this?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Let’s plan to bring Magnus home tomorrow?”

  As Ian described his hamster’s good looks, Simon mulled his statement over. Yes, he did feel out of place. When he compared himself to Winston, say, he felt like an outdated piece of equipment. If Winston was the newest 4G cellphone, Simon was the ancient rotary model, clumsy, immobile, and no longer in use. Everything about him …

  His train of thought was interrupted. Inside his skull a switch was being thrown — at least, that’s what it felt like. As he and Ian walked away from Henry, their backs fully turned on his sprawled figure, for a fleeting instant Simon could see them moving away, could see Ian waving his arms and his own frame bobbing as he ambled forward. As if he were seeing things through Henry’s eyes. He blinked in surprise and his view returned to normal.

  What the…?

  “You’re not listening,” Ian said.

  “No.”

  “In that case, forget it. Magnus deserves better than that.”

  Ian ran to their porch and passed inside. Feeling bad that he’d upset his brother — Ian got angry when people didn’t listen — Simon paused and studied their home.

  It was a two-storey house with a black slate roof, four bay windows, and Greci
an pillars flanking the door. It was an ordinary residence, not too big and not too small, with just enough space (now that the attic had been altered) for all four Carpenters and their live-in nanny. The furnishings were nice — his parents earned good money — but Simon didn’t care much for the designer couches, granite counters, and stainless-steel fridge. In his opinion their home’s best feature was the fact that happy people had lived there always, for the sixty odd years that it had been standing. He’d mentioned this to the family once, only to trigger a question from Ian: how could he know the former tenants had been happy and no murderers or madmen had been hidden among them? “You can feel it in the walls,” Simon had said, matter-of-factly.

  There was one exception and that person was Simon; only he was more frustrated than sad. And he hadn’t always been frustrated either. When he’d been younger, things had been great. In grade three he’d been a number-one speller; in grade four he’d won a school-wide contest; in grade seven he’d been dubbed “junior tech whiz” in Vancouver, beating out some stiff competition. Again and again his dad had predicted that Simon would become an engineer like him.

  But then, in grade eight, there had been the “incident.” It had been a rainy day in March. Simon had been delivering papers on a nearby street. One house was guarded by a Doberman pinscher that was tied to the porch by a ten-foot rope. The dog was a mean one, to judge by its barking, never mind that its owner swore that Thor was kind and even-tempered. If that were so, why had it lunged at Simon, barking and slathering spit all over? And when the rope had slipped and freed the brute, why had it made a beeline for Simon, growling and baring its three-inch fangs?

  There were two versions of what happened next. According to the accepted one, the fiend had jumped at Simon and he’d struck his head on a stone. The proof was the paw marks on Simon’s pants and jacket.

  The second version — which people didn’t know — was that a “switch” in Simon’s brain had engaged and he’d felt he was inside the dog. Both Simon and Thor had been deeply shocked and that’s when the dog had taken a run at his body, as if to deliver Simon back to himself, banging him against the stone in the process. In the seconds that had followed, Thor had stared into his eyes, in an effort to help, not to do him harm.