Jane Higgins

Extremophiles on Mars

It’s no use telling him he’s wrong. He’ll wear that accusation like a badge of honour, polishing it daily and displaying it for everyone to see. He’s not going to be fooled by the likes of us.
He is Robert David Steele. Ex-CIA. On June 29th 2017, reputable news outlets in the United States reported that he had taken to the airwaves to proclaim to the nation, apparently in all seriousness, that kidnapped children are being shipped to Mars to work as slaves on a secret Martian colony.

And who are we?

We are the people who want to speak for Mars, our small, dry, red-dirt neighbour, which surely has had enough of nonsense like this.

The human race has been spying on Mars for a while. In 1610 Galileo was the first person to eyeball its tiny disk through a telescope, and in 1666 Giovanni Cassini looked through his own ’scope and saw that this was a world with a scarred, red landscape and a south pole.

For the next three centuries we peered intently at Mars from our earth-bound observatories, backyards and rooftops. We drew it, photographed it, measured and modelled it – all from a distance of, on average, 225 million km. Then, in 1965, we got to go there. Remotely, that is, in the form of the tiny, unmanned spacecraft, Mariner 4: on 14 July, 1965, Mariner 4 performed a fly-by of Mars and beamed back to us the first deep space close-ups of a planet not our own.

Our first planet-fall came in November 1971 with the Soviet Mars 2 Lander, which, to paraphrase the immortal words of Douglas Adams, didn’t so much land on the planet as crash on it. A week later, though, its sister ship, the imaginatively named Mars 3 Lander achieved what’s known as a soft landing, and managed to function from the ground for all of fifteen seconds, long enough to claim to be the first successful arrival on Mars from the inhabitants of planet Earth. Since then there have been dozens of fly-bys, swing-bys (like a fly-by but by a craft on its way somewhere else), orbiters and landers.

Many of our emissaries haven’t made it: about two thirds of the missions we’ve sent to Mars have failed. Space travel is difficult.

But there have been enough successes to keep us going back: NASA landed Viking 1 and Viking 2 on the surface in 1976 and those craft sent back our first colour close-ups of the red Martian dirt. Many other missions followed. Currently there are two small NASA rovers trundling across the Martian landscape: Opportunity arrived in January 2004, and Curiosity in August, 2012. More expeditions are planned: from the USA, Russia, China, United Arab Emirates, India and Europe.

Fair to say, then, that we’ve been studying Mars for a while. But we’ve been dreaming about it for much, much longer.

Our ancient ancestors were unnerved by this wanderer in the night sky. It was red, the colour of embers and of blood, it varied dramatically in brightness over time and it strayed about, taking an erratic path across the heavens. To these early peoples, the seasonal regularity of the night sky was a matter of life and death – they ordered their planting and harvesting by its patterns. But every couple of years, Mars performed a strange dance, coming to a halt in its march across the background stars, going into reverse for a few weeks, then stopping and moving forwards again. We know now that this is because of the way the Earth and Mars orbit the sun, but the ancients didn’t know this and to them such unpredictable behaviour was disturbing.

The Babylonians called this red wanderer Nergal, the god of fire, war and destruction. The Greeks called it Ares, god of war, and the Romans called it Mars, likewise, the god of war. In ancient India it had many names including Raktavarna, meaning the colour of blood, and in ancient Egypt, Mars was Horus the Red, god of the sky and war and hunting. In Chinese, Japanese and Korean cultures, it’s the fire star, and in Chinese lore the rising of the fire star was seen by the ancients as a portent of war, famine and death.

In terms of menace, Mars, you might say, has form.

But ancient star-gazers aren’t the only ones who have looked at the red planet and wondered. Writing in his book Cosmos in 1980, astronomer Carl Sagan suggested that ‘Mars has become a kind of mythic arena into which we have projected our Earthly hopes and fears.’ Even if all we knew about Mars was its litany of ancient names, we would have good reason to agree. But in fact, the more we have discovered about this dusty neighbour of ours, the richer our imaginings have become.

With the advent of the telescope our understanding of Mars was transformed: no longer a deity, a portent, or an unpredictable sign in the heavens, it became a world.

In 1877 the Italian astronomer Giovanni Schiaparelli peered at the planet through his telescope and recorded, among the areas of light and dark that he saw, a series of lines – seemingly quite straight lines – traversing the Martian surface. He thought that perhaps the landscape had been etched by geology or weather into grooves or channels, so it must have seemed quite sensible to him to name them as such. In Italian, canali.

What happened next should come as no surprise. We are an imaginative species, after all. The canali were (mis)translated into English as ‘canals’ and it was a short step from there to the peopling of the Martian landscape with an ancient, dying race that had engineered planet-spanning canals to draw water from the poles to the lowlands in a desperate attempt to survive on the arid surface.

Subsequently, both science and science fiction fired the public imagination about life on Mars. With the Suez Canal opening just eight years before Schiaparelli’s ‘discovery’ it must have been tempting to believe that humanity wasn’t alone in building such engineering marvels. Meanwhile, an American astronomer, Percival Lowell, championed the Martian canals in three books: Mars (1895), Mars and Its Canals (1906) and Mars as an Abode of Life (1908). Soon stories about Mars and its ancient civilisation were multiplying across the literary landscape faster than alien pods in a B movie.

In this way a language misstep – a serendipitous one, to be sure – inspired one of the richest veins of writing in the science fiction canon. Ironically, the canali were themselves a fiction, an optical illusion created by the poor resolution of the telescopes of the time. Look at the Martian surface today and you won’t see them.
But there was a seventy year gap between Lowell seeing ‘evidence’ of a canal-based civilisation and Mariner 4 disappointing everyone with the barren emptiness of the actual Martian surface. That’s plenty of time for us to imagine an inhabited world within hailing distance, astronomically speaking, of our own.

Those who have no patience with science fiction will tell you that it’s populated by square-jawed men armed with ray guns, scantily clad maidens armed with a good set of vocal chords and green tentacled aliens armed with slime who terrorise the aforementioned maidens before succumbing to the ray guns of those rugged heroes. Certainly Martian SF has had its fair share of these stories. Edgar Rice Burroughs – he of Tarzan fame – turned out a lengthy run of them in the first half of last century, with titles such as A Princess of Mars, The Gods of Mars, The Warlord of Mars, Thuvia: Maid of Mars – you get the idea. There were many more in this vein from Mr Burroughs.

But alongside these pulp adventure stories came a multitude of other Martian tales: invasion narratives (Martians invading Earth, Terrans invading Mars), exploration stories, utopias, romances, war stories, quest narratives, even theological fables.

Despite the commonly held notion that SF is only pulp, it’s worth looking a little more deeply into some of these entries in the Martian literary canon. Consider, for example, the most (in)famous fictional response to the ‘Is There Life on Mars?’ question: HG Wells’s masterpiece, The War of the Worlds. Serialised in magazines on both sides of the Atlantic in 1897, just two years after Lowell’s Mars championed the canals, the story was published as a novel in 1898, and amplified in the public imagination by the 1938 radio play narrated and directed by Orson Welles.

That wonderful, chilling opening sets the scene for an imaginative exploration of ideas that were capturing the imaginations, and stoking the fears, of people in the US and the UK at the end of the nineteenth century:

“No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe about their little affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire over matter. … Yet across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.”

The War of the Worlds is an invitation to take an imaginative leap into a world in which colonisation and empire is something done to ‘us’ – specifically British and US readers – rather than something ‘we’ do to other people. It’s also an exploration of an end-stage of evolution in which intellects have triumphed over bodies, and of social Darwinism in which survival of the fittest has grim consequences for those who are ‘not fit’ (until the end, that is, when biology takes its revenge). Written in the midst of the second industrial revolution – also known as the technological revolution – when electricity and communications technology (phone and telegraph) were becoming embedded in everyday life, it’s an examination of the power of superior technology to subjugate those who don’t have it. And of course, it’s a ripping yarn.

This novel is by no means alone in the Martian canon in taking ideas of the moment and weaving them into story. In 1893, as women struggled for suffrage, Alice Ilgenfritz Jones and Ella Merchant wrote Unveiling a Parallel: A Romance, a tale in which Mars is a feminist utopia. In Joseph Fraser’s Melbourne and Mars: My Mysterious Life on Two Planets (1889), Mars is a technological utopia, and in Alexander Bogdanov’s Red Star and Mark Wicks’s To Mars via the Moon, both written in the period of turmoil between the Russian revolutions of 1905 and 1917 – the planet is a socialist utopia.

In the early years of the Cold War, Ray Bradbury’s classic collection of interlinked stories The Martian Chronicles sends Americans to Mars to found and colonise a new world because their homeworld has become riven with conflict and is eventually destroyed by nuclear war. But the culture clash between settlers and indigenous Martians comes at a horrifying cost to both sides. These are not stories of American triumphalism: indeed, in one of the central stories of the collection, Mars is a deeply nostalgic, ‘Mom and apple pie’ version of small town USA which looks like heaven to the colonists, but which rapidly descends into hell.

Most of the Mars narratives written in the first half of the twentieth century posit the existence of Martians – sometimes we meet them, often they are long dead, as in Heinlein’s 1951 collection, The Green Hills of Earth. There they are remembered with nostalgia for the beauty of the spires they built along the Grand Canal with its “ice blue plain of water, unmoved by tide, untouched by breeze and reflecting serenely the sharp bright stars of the Martian sky, and beyond the water the lacy buttresses and flying towers of an architecture too delicate for our rumbling heavy planet.”

Then came the 1960s and Mariner 4. We learned definitively that we were not going to find intelligent life on Mars, not even long dead intelligent life. But story is nothing if not adaptable. Martian narratives simply changed tack with the winds of scientific discovery and turned to explore the ‘What if…’ of space travel, human colonisation and the challenges of terraforming a hostile world.

Mars became, variously, a refuge from a dying earth, a frontier world for adventurers, a stepping stone to the rest of the solar system and even to the stars. Struggles were fought between frontiersmen (they were mainly men) and sclerotic bureaucracies back on Earth, and between scientists in search of knowledge and corporations in search of wealth; Mars was envisaged as a militarised society, an entirely female society, a prison planet, even a retirement world for wealthy Terrans.

Some of these stories are flights of fancy, but some set out genuinely to explore whether we could live there. And if so, could we thrive? Kim Stanley Robinson’s Mars trilogy is perhaps the most famous to take seriously the science and politics of these questions. In such stories Mars becomes a laboratory for a thought experiment: what if we went there? What would happen to a human society in an environment so hostile, so isolated, so very far from home?

It is out of respect for these stories that I take exception to Robert David Steele and reports of his claims that kidnapped children are being sent to Mars. Kidnapped children are not being sent to Mars. No one is being sent to Mars, yet. In fact Mars is astonishingly hostile to human life: it has no liquid water, and only a very weak magnetic field, which means that decidedly unhealthy doses of cosmic radiation fall on the planet’s surface on a daily basis. And, as recently as July 2017, we’ve learned that the chemical composition of the Martian surface is highly toxic to life in almost any form. These conditions suggest that the Martian surface is a place for extremophiles only, that is, for organisms that thrive in conditions of extreme toxicity. So perhaps the Robert David Steeles of this world would feel right at home there, after all.

To be sure, not all the stories that have been written about Mars have been drawn from the best of the human imagination. In their defence however, it’s possible perhaps to say this: these are stories that, for more than a century, have looked up at the red planet and asked ‘What if…?.’ What if there was a feminist utopia there? What if humans tried to terraform the planet? What if we used it as a launching pad to the outer solar system and into deep space? These stories display imaginations at work in the service of curiosity about our world and other worlds and about that strangest of creatures, the human being.

Mr Steele on the other hand, appears not to be in the least curious – not curious enough to find out how hostile Mars is to human life, not curious enough to find out that it would take less than a year to get there, not the twenty years he seems to have suggested. He doesn’t seem to care about any of that because what he appears to want to do is to use Mars to accuse people – presumably ‘the enemy elite’ – of grotesqueries. At one level this is laughable, but at another it’s not, because this is an imagination at work in the service not of curiosity but of revenge. And given the raw power of the human imagination, that is not an encouraging development.

NASA did respond to these claims, saying simply, ‘There are no humans on Mars.’ And that’s true, there aren’t, yet. But when we go there, in person, and we will, we’ll be drawn by our inquisitiveness and our wonder and our sense of adventure and challenge. We’ll go there for that most human of reasons, abiding curiosity about the nature of our cosmos and our place within it.

Jane is a community researcher who writes fiction when she can. Her first novel, The Bridge, won the 2010 Text Prize for Young Adult and Children’s Writing. Its sequel, Havoc, was published in 2015. She is a graduate of the Hagley Writers Institute.

Marisa Cappetta

Thumbprints

From now on I will save
the thumbprints of my dead.
They come away clean and bloodless
when there is no pulse.

On days when grief is a wall
I bump into over and over
unable to perform even basic
tasks like mashing the strained potatoes

or pegging out the laundry in a high wind
I’ll press thumbprints of the departed
into the soap, the butter.
Coat them in oil and press them

against clean windows and tv screens.
Also bathroom mirrors, to be revealed
when I shower. Evidence that my darlings
were pinpricks of annoyance that I loved.

She cares for her mother

The daughter irons mother’s blouses
which are crumpled as a left-sided stroke.

Mother’s tongue is a seam ripper and unpicks
the daughter’s character and flaws.

Daughter takes up the hem of mother’s
forgetfulness and remembers her

healthy as a patchwork quilt
tones blended elegantly as an equation.

One day the sums don’t add up
colours grow rancid, measurements askew.

The last few quilt-blocks of mother lay unfinished
with edges raw and frayed so daughter tidies them away.

Mother strikes again like a needle puncture
and draws blood. Daughter puts a bit of thread

under her tongue and then rolls the tiny damp ball
of cotton over the droplets until they disappear.

Marisa graduated Summa Cum Laude from the Hagley Writer’s Institute. She has published in journals and anthologies in New Zealand and internationally. Her first book ‘How to tour the world on a flying fox’ was published by Steele Roberts 2016.

John Ewen

From Clifton Hill, Sumner

‘On a clear day you can see
South America,’ I say
to the folks from overseas.
They look out and turn away.

‘The man’s a wit or witless’
their eyes signalling as they
search my face for explanation
or perhaps another way

of meaning. None’s forthcoming.
‘It must be a clear day,’
I insist.’ Not in the morning –
the sun gets in the way.

‘Nor when the sea is misty’
(then all colour drains to grey)
‘but two or three times a season
there’ll be that special day,

a day of light and brightness…’
but they’ve already moved away:
‘The man is a real nutcase –
it must be ten thousand k.

plus there’s the curving of the earth…’
so as they decline to stay
again I ponder sadly,
looking down into the bay

that adults get too literal
they’ve all lost their sense of play
but not me and small children –
we see Chile anyway.

John Ewen, now Kapiti Coast based, writes short stories, poetry and plays as well as non-fiction. His work has been published in various anthologies and literary magazines, the UK online literary magazine Five Dials, and broadcast by Radio NZ.

Jenna Heller

Tornado

Behind the bar, she washes mugs while outside the sky churns.

Clouds tumble and wrestle and a long woolly spindle rolls like a wave then turns on point, reaches down and plucks the roof right off a grocery store. Two smaller spindles embrace like lovers clasped together for one urgent night, sucking and pulling at hundred-year-old trees, ripping at glass and paper. All of it takes flight, circling, spinning, a murmuring of debris, swirling in freeform. Then large stones of ice empty from the heavens. The sky a chaotic blur.

People spill off the streets, slip through the doors, seek refuge and hope in the comfort of strangers and walls of timber. Children whimper while their parents stand in fearful silence. Some drink like they’d never drink again – shot after shot followed by beer after beer. To keep warm, they say. Settle the nerves, they add.

And then it all stops. The clouds relax and thin and sun pours from a hole in the sky. The children return to smiles before everyone leaves just as quickly as they arrived, rushing back through the doors like a dam tripped opened.

She stays behind, invents a drink, a swirling tonic to calm the nerves. Calls it a tornado, but no one wants that. Not now. Not today.

Jenna Heller completed the Hagley Writers’ Institute in 2010. Her writing can be found in Takahē, Popshot, *82 Review, and Headland. She is currently completing a final edit on a novel that got its start during her time at Hagley.

Nod Ghosh

Bhagubhai’s Thumb

When Bhagubhai cut his thumb off, my grandmother scurried upstairs and locked herself in her room for fear of being contaminated by his blood.

Ma tut-tutted and dressed the man’s hand in one of Dipok’s clean T-shirts, whilst I stood in the doorway biting a hangnail, praying under my breath.

Turns out Bhagubhai hadn’t cut half or even a quarter of his thumb off whilst adjusting the lawnmower. The emergency department had examined the gash, Ma told us, and then stitched the thing together. I asked whether Bhagubhai had cried, but Ma said grown-ups didn’t cry at such things.

There were other things grown-ups didn’t do that Bhagubhai did do though, things that Ma, Baba, Nani or even Dipok knew nothing about.

Our house had many rooms and corridors. You could lose yourself in its spires and mazes. You could hide for a whole day, and no one would find you. It never occurred to me as a seven-year-old that the reason no one found me on those hot days was because nobody was looking.

Dipok and I roamed free. We crawled through junk-filled rooms where Baba stored chairs, tables and wardrobes he’d bought at auction. Then Dipok would lie with Nani for his afternoon nap, and I would sneak away and tap on the back window.

No one noticed the man-child employed to mow the lawns, clean the car and scrub the toilets, when he crept into the pantry to play house with me.

Bhagubhai brought treasures down from the top shelf. He poured pretend tea from Nani’s long-spouted brass teapot. I watched his gap-toothed smile fold over his goblet’s rim as we drank cupsful of syrupy air. We cut into imaginary sandesh and giggled until we heard Nani on the stairs.

He’d slip away before we were caught.

Sometimes we played hide and seek in the park across the road.

Sometimes we played counting games.

Ikri mikri chaam chikri…

No matter how often he showed me, skirting his fingers over mine like he was playing a musical instrument, I couldn’t capture the moves, or learn the words of his song.

When Bhagubhai injured his thumb, I’d already sensed things were changing.

Baba said the car didn’t shine enough. Nani complained about unclean spirits. Nothing was fast enough, clean enough, short enough or long enough.

They questioned me. I was made to place my palm on Nani’s, to swear to tell the truth.

Did you play together, just the two of you?

Yes.

Where did you play?

What did you play?

Yes.

No.

Yes.

I tried to give the right answers, but the wrong words jumped out of my mouth.

We played Ikri mikri.

Yes.

He touched me with his fingers.

When Nani invoked the names of several gods, I knew it was over.

Sometimes I can’t sleep. I feel Bhagubhai’s fingers dance over my own.

Ikri mikri chaam chikri…

I drift off, and ask him to teach me the words.

But he never does.

Nod Ghosh completed year two at Hagley Writers’ Institute in 2014. Nod’s work features in Landfall, JAAM, Takahē and various international publications. Thanks to Morrin, all tutors and editors. Further details on her website.

Sue Kingham

The Scholar – 1976

Mam’s envelope rustles in my pocket as I walk.

Why does she write to the butcher every week instead of giving me money for meat? Is she checking I remember to say thank you?

There’re three streets between home and the butcher’s shop on the corner of Warwick Road and Wood Terrace. I make my first turn at the monkey puzzle tree; it’s so big I can’t see into the house crouching behind it. My second turn is at the bungalow with the torn net curtain that flops like a slice of pizza. I know what pizza looks like, although I’ve never had one. Mam says they’re too expensive, but we did have fish ‘n’ chips last month ‘cause it was my eighth birthday.

I have to be polite to the butcher, but I don’t like him. His hands are pink and he has pork sausage fingers. When he gives me mince, wrapped in white paper, he smells of blood and his long nose hairs curl into his black moustache.

The message in my pocket makes me feel uncomfortable. I sit on the low brick wall in front of the ‘pizza slice’ house pull out the envelope and hold it up to the sun. Then I slip my little finger under the flap and wiggle it along. It opens. Checking no one’s watching, I take out the note.

same time this week

It’s written in pencil. Mam hasn’t signed it, used punctuation or done any of the things Miss Robinson told us we had to do in a letter. I’ll tell her how to write one properly when I get home.

Sue Kingham writes short stories, poetry, flash fiction and creative non-fiction. Her writing can be found in Flash Frontier and in Takahē. A 2014 graduate of the Hagley Writers’ Institute, when not writing she enjoys the visual arts and reading.

Tracey Peterson

Aloneness Has A Taste

In the way kitchens
and conversations go together
he said do you turn together after sex
or away?

Looking back
this was the beginning
of their absence
and wilderness

They straddled a fine line
while serpents rose
from the dust

Wanting cake
and eating her too
hardly something to immortalise
in a poem

Aloneness has a taste
Not one to savour
Its sound, the hollowness
of her laughter

Tracey graduated from Hagley Writers’ in 2015 with distinction. She has been published by London Grip (2015, 2016, 2017), The Christchurch Press (2015), in “We” Society Poetry Anthology (2015), in Leaving The Red Zone (2016), and was longlisted in the National Flash Fiction Competition 2016.

Raina Kingsley

At the River

another day at the river
dust thrown up
by cars driving on
to a better spot

heat waves dancing
on the scorching stones

they need the sun
after an ice cold spell
in the fast flowing water

laid out on their towels
tingling warmth
turning to burning

for a laugh
she flicks river water
onto his sizzling back

his reaction swift
only half expected

up and striding
toward her
he sweeps her off her feet

“put me down”
obediently he lets her fall

not into the river
but onto the stones
the hot, sharp stones

Raina Kingsley is of Ngai Tahu, Ngati Mamoe, Ngati Kahungunu and Rangitane descent. This year she is a student at the Hagley Writers’ Institute. Her poems are published in Quakes and Community, Leaving the Red Zone, Poetry NZ.

Leslie McKay

Good Friday 2017

Anointed with raindrops
caught in blades of mountain grass
and contemplating Christ
she who at school scorns the Jesus freaks
as she is seduced by revolution
worships in a raincoat Russian red
her tartan umbrella a nod
to the family tree
To grieve for one is to grieve for all
and today is and isn’t about
who’s ego still sucks
Leslie McKay is a poet/writing tutor. In 2016 she won the Caselberg International Poetry Prize. Originally from Bishopdale in Christchurch, she now lives on the West Coast.

Philomena Johnson

Wild Mushroom Picker

 the wild-mushroom picker steps
     into the dew-wet grass, bows
      	as if practising tai-chi
 
 in slow motion, she scoops the grass
     raises a large white mushroom
      	to the goddess of morning

Angel

 	In the right light
the light speckle of wings
 	turns blue from bronze,
hangs in the air
 	like a kāhu
ready to close in;
 	each sweep of slow
quartering flight
 	each disappearance
as she moves sideways
 	into the light
trembles
 	in the placid
waters of the estuary.
Philomena Johnson lives in Christchurch. She completed her studies at The Hagley Writers’ Institute in 2017 and is continuing to work on her first poetry collection. She has previously had poems exhibited in On Islands Eramboo in Sydney.