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CONTENTS
Jim Shepard
Your Fate Hurtles Down at You
Diana Wagman
Three-Legged Dog
T Cooper
The Time Machine
Michael Cunningham
From OLYMPIA, a novel in progress
Lydia Millet
Sir Henry
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ELECTRIC LITERATURE no.1
Andy Hunter Co-publisher, Editor-in-Chief
Scott Lindenbaum Co-publisher, Editor
Bill Smith designsimple.com Designer
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Special Thanks
Nisa Ari, Jonathan Ashley, Larry Benowich, Fran Bermanzohn, Catherine Bohne, Chris Buck, Sara Cipani, Jane Cohan, Stacey D’Erasmo, Sara Glick, Amy Hempel, Jordan Holberg, Becky James, Reese Kwon, Jordan Libit, Brian Lindenbaum, Bruce Lindenbaum, Laura Mehalko, Hugh Merwin, Rick Moody, Cristina Moracho, James Mottern, Jenny Offill, Alan Roseman, Barry Roseman, Gregory Jacobs Roseman, Maya Sharpe, Alison Elizabeth Taylor, Garth Weiser
Electric Literature is published bimonthly by Electric Literature, LLC. 325 Gold St. Suite 303, Brooklyn, NY 11201. Email: electricliterature@gmail.com. Copyright 2009 by Electric Literature. Authors hold the rights to their individual works. All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-0-98-249-80-0-2
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Cover: Glassy by Fred Tomaselli
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Your Fate Hurtles Down at You
Jim Shepard
We call ourselves Die Harschblödeln: the Frozen Idiots. There are four of us who’ve volunteered to spend the coldest winter in recent memory in a little hut perched on a wind-blasted slope of the Weissfluhjoch 9,000 feet above Davos. We’re doing research. The hut, we like to say, is naturally refrigerated from the outside, and a good starting point for all sorts of adventures, nearly all of them lethal.
It’s been seven years since the Federal Government in Berne appointed its commission to develop a study program for avalanche defense measures. Five sites were established in the high Alps, and as Bader likes to say, we drew the short straw. Bader, Bucher, Haefeli, and myself wrap each other in blanket layers and spend hours at a time given over to our tasks. The cold has already caused Haefeli to report kidney complaints.
He’s our unofficial leader. They found him working on a dam-building project in Spain, the commission having concluded correctly that his ground-breaking work on soil mechanics would translate usefully into this new field of endeavor. Bucher’s an engineer who inherited his interest in snow and ice from his father, a meteorologist who in 1909 led the second expedition across Greenland. Bader was Professor Niggli’s star pupil, so he’s our resident crystallographer. And I’m considered the touchingly passionate amateur and porter, having charmed my way into the group through the adroit use of my mother’s journals.
It may be 1939 but this high up we have no heat and only kerosene lanterns for light. Our facilities are not good. Our budget is laughable. We’re engaged in a kind of research for which there are few precedents. But as Bader also likes to say, a spirit of discovery and a saving capacity for brandy in the early afternoon drives us on.
We encounter more than our share of mockery down in Davos, since your average burgher is only somewhat impressed at the notion of the complexities of snow. But together we’re approaching the completion of a monumental work of three years, now: our Snow and its Metamorphism, with its sections on crystallography, snow mechanics, and variations in snow cover. My mother has written that the instant it appears, she must have a copy. I’ve told her I’ll deliver it myself.
Like all pioneers, we’ve endured our share of embarrassment. Bader for a time insisted on a revolver as a way of measuring the hardness of any snowpack, and his method was only discredited after we’d wasted an afternoon hunting for his test rounds in the snow. And on All Hallows’ Eve we shoveled the accumulation from our roof and started an avalanche that all the way down in Davos destroyed the church on the outskirts of town.
I’m hardly the only one excessively invested in our success. Haefeli at the age of eighteen lost his father in what he calls a Scale Five avalanche. As to be distinguished from, say, his Scale One or Two type, which obliterates the odd house each winter but otherwise goes unnoticed.
His Scale Five was an airborne avalanche in Glärnisch that dropped down the steeper slopes above his town with its blast clouds mushrooming out on both sides. His father had sent him to check their rabbit traps on a higher forested slope and had stayed behind to start the cooking pot. The avalanche dropped five thousand vertical feet in under a mile and crossed the valley floor with such velocity that it exploded upward two hundred feet on the opposite hillside, uprooting spruces and alders there with such force that they pinwheeled through the air. The snow cloud afterward obscured the sun. It took ten minutes to settle while Haefeli skied frantically down into the debris. Throughout the next days’ search for survivors, there were still atmospheric effects from the amount of snow concussed into the upper atmosphere.
The rescuers found that even concrete-reinforced buildings had been pile-driven flat. When he finally located one of his neighbor’s three-story stone houses, he mistook it for a terrazzo floor.
Fifty-two homes were gone. Seventeen people were dug out of a meeting-house interior the following spring, huddled together in a circle facing inward. Four hundred yards from the path of the snow, the air blast had blown the cupola off a convent tower.
But I had my own problems, when it came to a good night’s sleep.
When I was a child it was general practice for Swiss schools around the Christmas holidays to have a ‘Sport Week,’ during which we all hiked to mountain huts to ski. My brother Willi and I were nothing but agony for our harried teachers all the way up the mountains and all the way down. He was a devotee of whanging the rope tows once the class had hit an especially steep and slippery part of the hillside. I did creative things with graupel or whatever other sorts of ice pellets I could collect from under roof eaves or along creek beds.
We were both in Secondary School, and sixteen. I’d selected the science stream and was groping my way into physics and chemistry, while he’d chosen the literary life and went about fracturing Latin and Greek. Even then, he’d surprised me: when had he become interested in Latin and Greek? But given the kind of brothers we were, the question never arose.
I claimed to be interested in university; he didn’t. We had a father to whom such things mattered: he called us his happy imbeciles, took pride in our skiing, and liked to say with a kind of amiability during family meals that we could do what we pleased as long as it reflected well on him.
He styled himself an Alpine guide, though the way he dressed when in town, he might as well have been the village mayor. He wore a watch-fob and a homburg. He always spoke as though a stroke of fate had left him in the business of helping Englishmen scale ice cliffs, and claimed to only be content at altitudes over 11,000 feet, but we knew him to be unhappy even there. The only thing that seemed to please him was his weakness for homemade medicines. Willi considered him reproachful but carried on with whatever he wished, secure in our mother’s support. I followed his moods minutely, even as disinterest emanated from him like a vapor. We had one elder sister who found all of this distasteful and whose response was to do her chores but otherwise keep to her room, awaiting romances that arrived every few months via subscription.
His self-absorption left Willi impatient with experts. On our summer trek on the Eiger glacier the year before, we’d been matched for International Brotherhood Week with a hiking group from Chamonix. They spoke no German and we spoke no French. Only our teachers could converse. The French teacher at one point brought the group to a halt by cautioning us that any noise where we stood could topple the ice seracs looming above us.
Willi and I had been on glaciers since we were eight. While everyone watched, he scaled the most dangerous-looking of the seracs and, having established his balance at the top, shouted loud enough to have brought down Eiger’s north face. “What’s French for ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about’?” he called to our teacher as he climbed back down.
We were to base our day around one of the ski huts above Kleine Scheidegg. The village itself, on the high pass, consists of the three hotels for skiers and climbers and the train station and some maintenance buildings serving the Jungfraubahn, but our group managed to lose one of our classmates there anyway—one of those boys from the remote highlands where a cowherd might spend the entire summer in a hut, with his cows and family separated only by a waist-high divider—and by the time he was located we were already an hour behind our schedule. We were led by one of the schoolmistresses who held a ski instructor’s certificate and her assistant, a twenty-year-old engineering student named Jenny. They had as their responsibility fourteen boys and ten girls.
The ski-run to which we were headed was, in summer, a steep climb along the edge of a dark forest broken by the occasional sunlit clearings, before the trees thinned out and ended in meadows where miniature butterflies wavered on willowherbs and Moss campion. Above those meadows sheep and goats found their upland pastures. Above that were only rocks and the occasional ibex. There was an escarpment above the rocks that was ideal for wind-sheltered forts. We’d discovered it on our ninth birthday. Willi said it was one of those places where nothing could be grown or sold: one of those places the world had produced exclusively for someone’s happiness. In winter storms, the wind piled snow onto it, the cornices overhanging the mountain’s flanks below. And the night before our Sport Week outing, there’d been strong westerly winds and heavy accumulation on the eastern slopes. Avalanche warning bulletins had been sent to the hotels an hour after our departure.
We spread ourselves just outside of the bowl of the main slope. Some of us had climbed in chaps for greater waterproofing and were still shedding them and checking our bindings when our schoolmistress led the others down into the bowl. The postmaster’s daughter, Ruth Lindner, on the subject of whom Willi and I both retained fantasies, waited behind with us while we horsed about. She set her hands atop her poles in a counterfeit of patience. She had red hair and pale smooth skin and a habit, when laughing with us, of lowering her eyes to our mouths in a way that we found impossibly stirring.
The skiers who’d set off were already slaloming a hundred yards below. We’d been taught from the cradle that in winter, however much we thought we knew, there were always places where our ignorance and bad luck could destroy us. A heavy new snowmass above and an unstable bowl below: this was the sort of circumstance in which our father would have said: If you’re uncertain, back away.
“Race you,” I said. “Race me?” Willi answered. And he nosed his ski tips out over the bowl-edge. “See if you can stay on your feet,” I teased, above him, and flumphed my uphill ski down into a drift.
There was a deep cutting sound like shears through heavy fabric. The snowfield split all the way across the bowl, and the entire slab, a quarter of a mile across, broke free, taking Willi with it. He was enveloped immediately. Ruth shrieked. I helped her pole herself farther back out of the bowl. The tons of snow going down at a roar caught the skiers below in seconds and carried them all away. One little girl managed to remain upright on a cascading wave but then she too was upended and buried and the cloud of snow dust obscured everything else.
Guides climbing up from the hotels spread the alarm and already had the rescue underway when Ruth and I reached the debris field. The digging went on for thirty-six hours and fifteen of our classmates, including Willi, and the schoolmistress, were uncovered alive. The young assistant Jenny and seven others were dug out as corpses. Two were still missing when the last of their family members stopped digging three weeks later.
My brother had been fifteen feet deep at the very back edge of the run-out. They found him with the sounding rod used for locating the road after the heavier snowfalls. He’d managed to get his arm over his face and had profited from the resulting air pocket. A shattered ski tip near the surface had aided in his location. One of the rescuers who dug him out kept using the old saying Such a terrible child! for the difficulties they were encountering with the shocking density of the snowmass once it had packed in on itself. We called for Willi to not lose heart, not even sure if he was down there. Ruth dug beside me and I was taken aback by the grandeur of her panic and misery. “Help us,” she cried at one point, as if I weren’t digging as furiously as the rest.
He was under the snow for two hours. When his face was finally cleared, it was blue and he was unconscious but the guides revived him with a breathing-tube even as he still lay trapped. And when someone covered his face with a hat to block the snow falling into his mouth and eyes, he shouted for it to be taken away, that he wanted air and light.
He was hurried home on a litter and spent the next two days recovering. I fed him oxtail soup, his favorite. His injuries seemed slight. He asked about Ruth. He answered questions about how he felt but related nothing about the experience. When I questioned him in private he peered at me strangely and looked away. On the third night when we put out the lamp he seemed suddenly upset and asked not to be left alone. I said, “You’re not alone; I’m right here.” He cried out for our mother and began a horrible rattling in his throat, at which he clawed. I flew down our stair-steps to get her. By the time we returned he was dead.