Speaker 1: He Hello, friends from across the nation and around the world.
My Martin and you are listening to Dad's Bedtime Stories,
a podcast where I normally take listener ideas and turn
them into bedtime stories. But today is a very special
day in Canada. It is Canada Day, at least the
day this is recorded. You might not be listening on
Canada Day, of course, and for some strange reason, I
woke up wanting to do a very Canadian story and
this is what I came up with. It's kind of silly,
but I hope you I hope you enjoy it. If
you like the podcast, don't forget to follow us, rate us,
review us. On whatever platform you're listening on, Hit that
like button if you're on YouTube. I think if everyone
who was listening on YouTube regularly hit that like button
would make a really big difference to other people finding it.
Maybe we can experiment. Why don't you just hit it now?
Did you do it? Thank you now. If you're not
in Canada, you might not know that Canada Day is
the celebration of the Confederation of Canada, the day we
became a country, and we like to celebrate, or at
least my family likes to celebrate by eating Cowortha dairy
ice cream and watching fireworks. And that's exactly what we're
going to do today after I finished this episode. Now
it's time to get as comfy as you can in
that bed, close your eyes, and just imagine yourself possibly
taking on the you know, the character of Martin in
this story. Martin grew up in a small town in Ontario, Canada,
where people enjoyed hunting fish and four wheelers, wood stoves,
frozen lakes, and boil in the life blood out of
trees into a sort of concentrated substance most people know
as Maple's syrup. To most people, Maple's syrup was a
breakfast topping, but to Martin, it was tree blood. Could
you please pass the tree blood? He would say at breakfast.
His mother would close her eyes for one full second
and say, Martin, please stop calling. At that, his father
would usually shrug and say, well, he's not wrong. Martin
was eleven years old, which meant he was old enough
to help with real jobs around the property, but still
young enough to believe, deep in his bones that someday,
somehow he might be come a superhero. He'd been wishing
for powers as long as he could remember. Every birthday,
when the cake came out and the candles were lit,
Martin made the same sort of wish. I wish I
could fly, he whispered. One year, I wish I could
throw big stuff, he whispered. The next, I wish I
could run so fast that people would only see a
plaid blur, he whispered another time. By the time he
was eleven, he had thought about it a lot. He
didn't want boring powers. He didn't want the ability to
like slightly warm up soup with his finger or something
like that. He wanted the classics flight, super strength, super speed,
maybe even laser eyes, though he was worried that that
might cut some sort of forest fire where he lived.
The incident happened during maple syrup season, just after the winter.
Martin was helping his family gather sap from the maple
trees behind their house. At eleven, he was actually sort
of useful. He could carry proper buckets, stack wood, help
check the taps, and most importantly, complain adamantly about how
much work he was doing. The maple syrup boiling station
sat near the sugar shack, and a clearing steam rolled
out of the evaporator and sweet white clouds. Firewood crackled,
sap bubbled. The whole place smelled like spring, smoke and sugar.
Martin loved it. He loved the sound of sap dripping
into buckets. He loved the mud, He loved the steam.
He loved that making maple syrup was basically a normal
Canadian activity where he was. Then the sky changed. At first,
it was only darker, but then it turned into strange.
The clouds got a sort of green glow around the edges.
The buckets on the trees began to rattle. Martin looked
up at the sky. Is the sky supposed to be
that color? He asked? Uh, nope, his father responded. His
mother stepped out of the shack and looked at the treetops.
Everyone inside quickly, but before they could move, lightning crackled
across the forest. It wasn't normal lightning though, for some reason,
and it was green. A jagged bolt tore down from
the clouds and hit a maple tree. The whole tr
rung flashed like a giant glowstick. Another bolt slammed into
the ground near by, spraying mud and steam everywhere. Martin's
mother grabbed for him. When the biggest bolt struck, it
smashed directly into the maple surrup boiling station. The evaporator
exploded with green light. Sap hissed, steam blasted outward, metal screamed,
and the lightning began to chain. A bright green arc
snapped from the boiling station and hit Martin right in
the chest. For one second, the entire clearing disappeared in light.
His parents screamed his name. Then everything went quiet, except
for the rain, wind and of course, the soft dripping
of sap from the trees. Martin was laying on his
back the mud. His mother ran to him and dropped
to her knees. Martin, Martin, can you hear me? His
father slid in beside, checking his arms, his face, his chest,
his pulse. Hugh, Buddy, talk to us. Martin blinked, then
he coughed. Then he sat up and looked at the
absolutely destroyed boiling station. Did the tree blood machine explode?
He asked. His mother gave him a very very strong hug.
His father stared at him in disbelief. You're okay, Martin
touched his face. Why does my forehead feel cold? His
mother leaned back and her eyes widened. His father just stared.
What Martin asked? His mother swallowed your eyebrows. Martin reached
up and felt nothing. His eyebrows were gone. How man.
That night, his parents checked him over again and again.
Somehow Martin was fine. No burns, no pain, no injury,
just a smoky jacket, wild hair, and two missing eyebrows.
By bedtime, the storm had passed. Everyone agreed it had
been terrifying. Everyone agreed that Martin was very lucky. No
one understood that the maple syrup had changed him forever.
The next morning, Martin came downstairs to find that his
mother had made pancakes. His father poured home made maple
syrup into a small glass pitcher and set it on
the table. Martin eyes lit up tree blood maple syrup.
His mother corrected, tree blood. Martin whispered lovingly. He poured
a large man over his pancakes, possibly too much, if
that was a thing. He took a big bite. The
moment the syrup touched his tongue, a strange warmth spread
through his body. He froze, His fork dropped onto the plate,
his muscles tingled, his arms stretched, his shoulders widened, his
feet pushed against the floor and his hood he began
to creak. His mother stared Martin. His father slowly lowered
his coffee mug. In three seconds, an eleven year old
Martin had grown into a fully grown man, but not
just any man, a gigantic, unbelievably muscular future version of himself,
with a long beard, broad shoulders, and the general appearance
of someone who could shop firewood by just sort of
looking at it. His hoodie ripped apart at the seams.
Martin looked down at himself. Then he opened his mouth
and said, in the strongest Canadian accent anyone had ever heard, Oh, buddy,
this ain't right, eh. His mother screamed, his father screamed.
Martin screamed too, but it came out as sweet maple biscuits.
What in the name Owayne Gretzky is going on here?
He ran to the hallway mirror. A huge bearded man
stared back at him. Martin touched his face. The bearded
man touched his face. Martin gasped, I got a beard.
He then his clothes began to shift. The shredded hoodie
twisted and changed. Red and black plaids spread across his chest.
Denim formed over his legs, Heavy boots appeared on his feet,
and a belt snapped into place. Within seconds, Martin was
dressed like the most powerful lumberjack in Canadian history. His
mother pointed at him with a shaking hand. Why do
you look like a lumberjack? And why are you so tall? Oh?
I don't know, ma, Martin said, horrified. I'm all jacked
up like a moose in hockey season. Oh why are
you talking like that? Asked his father. Oh I can't
stop it, eh, Martin cried. The words are just skating
right out of my face. He backed away from the mirror,
stumbled through the kitchen door, and ran outside. I need
some air there. But the moment he stepped onto the grass,
his boots lifted off the ground one foot into the air,
and then three, and then ten. He looked down. His
mother ran outside and screamed, Oh, no, call the fire department.
His father stood in the doorways, still holding the syrup pitcher.
What are they gonna do? I don't know, she shouted.
Brang a ladder. Martin waved his arms wildly. He spun sideways,
dipped toward the roof, bounced back up, and nearly crashed
into a maple tree, but soon something clicked. He leaned forward.
He moved forward, he leaned backward, he moved backward. He stopped.
Soon he was flying left, right, up, down, and in
slow circles over the yard. Oh, I'm getting the hang
of it now, he called. After a few minutes, Martin
landed clumsily in the yard. His heart was pounding with excitement.
This was it, This was the thing he'd wished for
every birthday. He had powers, actual powers. If I'm a superhero,
he said, I gotta try lift in something. Ah. He
bent down and grabbed a rock sticking out of the ground.
His father had always said it was probably part of
the Canadian Shield, which is why he hadn't been able
to move it. Martin pulled, and the rock tore out
of the earth with a deep cracking sound, and was enormous.
He held it over his head like it weighed nothing.
As parents just stared. Martin grinned, well, slap a duke
on a beaver. That's a big old rock. He threw
it as hard as he could. The boulders sailed into
the forest and landed somewhere far away with a crash.
That well, you could feel in the ground. Then came
the geese. At first there were only a few. They
landed in the yard and stared at Martin. But soon
Moore came and more. Soon the yard was full of
Canadian geese, waddling, honking, flapping. Now, no one in Canada
truly liked Canadian geese. People respected them and maybe even
feared them, but they didn't like them, and no one
liked having them on their lawn because they left behind.
Uh well, presence will call them. Martin stared at the
nearest goose. The goose stared back. Then Martin heard a
voice in his mind, not words exactly, more like meaning hungry, angry. Ready.
Martin blinked, you can you can hear me? The goose honked.
Martin pointed at the geese. All right, then, geese, line up,
he said, and every goose immediately waddled into a neat line.
His father dropped the syrup pitcher. Martin tried some more
orders too. First he had them form into a little
sort of goose pyramid. Then he had them fly around
in circles overhead. I come manned the cobra chickens, he
eventually announced. Martin continued to play around with his powers.
They lasted for about an hour, then he began to
sink from the sky. His beard shortened, his muscles deflated,
his plaid shirt for some reason, just sort of disappeared,
and in moments he was an eleven year old boy again,
standing barefoot in the grass. The next morning it happened again. Pancakes,
homemade syrup, warmth than his body, fully grown, bearded superhero
with a plaid shirt, flying around, throwing things, and commanding geese.
That was when Martin understood it was the syrup. The
green lightning hadn't just hit him, it had given him
some sort of connection to the syrup itself. From that
day on, Martin kept a small bottle of syrup tucked
into his sock, just in case. Over the next few months,
Martin trained in secret, well mostly in secret. It was
hard to secretly fly over a field while being followed
by thirty honking geese, but he did his best. He
learned to fly faster and turn without crashing into things.
He practiced lifting heavy stuff too, fallen trees, old tractors,
and one time, even the back end of his father's truck.
He learned to move at super speed becoming a red
plaid blur across the fields of dirt. Most importantly, he
learned to command the geese. One goose was sort of annoying.
Ten geese were very convenient, but a hundred geese working
together or a natural disaster with wings. Martin trained all
through the spring until summer came July One Canada Day,
a day when Canadians celebrated Confederation, argued about the problematic
past of Canada ate ice cream, and watched fireworks. Martin
was sitting at home when he heard the CBC News
report authorities in Minden Hills are investigating after bandits reportedly
broke into the municipal storage facility and stole tonight's Canada
Day fireworks. Martin froze stole the fireworks on Canada Day, Well,
the dogs would probably be happy, but this was going
too far, and he stood up slowly. He reached down
into his sock and pulled out his emergency syrup flask.
Martin held up the flask, took a drink, and power
surged through him. His body grew, his beard appeared, his
clothes shifted into plaid and denim for some reason, and
his boots hit the floor. With a heavy thump. He
stepped outside, looked at the sky and shouted, all right,
ye majestic hissing sky goblins, come to me, and the
geese came. They formed a giant v over the town,
dark against the summer sky. Martin launched into the air
and flew at the front, spread out. He commanded, searched
the county, find me those fireworks before some absolute hozer
ruins Canada day. The geese broke formation and scattered in
every direction. It didn't take long. A single goose came
honking back. After a while, Martin understood every hawk prock
shed bad men. Fireworks. Lead the way, friend, he ordered.
The goose turned and Martin followed. A few minutes later,
he landed in front of an old shed where several
bandits were unloading boxes of fireworks from a cube truck.
The bandits froze. One of them pointed, who are you
supposed to be? Martin folded his arms. I'm giving you
one chance, voice returned the fireworks, apologized to the town,
and maybe we could all go and get some co
worth at dairy ice cream. The bandit stared, then they laughed.
One ran forward and punched Martin in the chest. His
fist hit Martin like it had struck a steel wall.
The band had yelped and grabbed his hand. How what
are you made of maple? Mostly, Martin said. Another bandit charged,
and Martin shifted into high speed. The world slowed. He
grabbed a rope from the truck, zipped around the first
robber twelve times and stopped. The robber blinked, and then
he fell over, wrapped up in the rope. A third
band had swung a crowbar. Martin leaned aside, still moving
too fast to see, and flicked the man gently on
the forehead, not too hard, just enough. The band and
its eyes crossed, and he dropped into a pile of weeds.
Oh sorry, there, But the remaining thieves grabbed fireworks and
tried to run. Martin raised one hand and silently commanded
the geese. The sky darkened as the flock descended. At
first the robbers didn't understand. Then hundreds of geese landed
around them, on the roofs, on the trucks, on the boxes,
on the driveway, at the edge of the trees. Every
goose lowered its head, every goose opened its beak, and
every goose hissed at the same time. The sound was awful. Now,
many of you may not know that geese can hiss,
and boy can they. One of them is sometimes a
little bit scary. Hundreds of them were an a slute nightmare,
so much so that the thieves dropped everything. They ran
straight towards the police cruiser that had arrived on the
road to check out the commotion, and surrendered, just begging
for them to keep them safe from the geese. Martin
loaded the fireworks back into the cube truck with the
help of the police. Then he grabbed the sides and
lifted the entire thing into the air. He flew it
back to the municipal building. The mayor stood outside, looking
kind of worried. Martin landed gently and set the truck down.
Oh I hope you don't mind, air, Mayor, but I
think I found your fireworks. The mayor stared up at him.
Who are you? Martin looked at the crowd, He looked
at the geese circling above. He looked at the may
belief flag waving nearby, and he smiled, you can call
me the Maple Guardian. That night, fireworks exploded over Minden
hills in red, gold, green, and blue. High above town,
Martin floated in the warm summer air with a bowl
of maple ice cream in one hand. Below him, people cheered.
Beside him, geese flew in a perfect v. Martin took
a bite of ice cream and smiled. Happy Canada Day.
And from that night on, whenever danger came to small town, Ontario,
people knew to look at the skies, not for like
a bat signal or a spotlight or anything like that,
but for a giant flying lumberjack wearing plaid and drinking
maple syrup, as well as a terrifying number of geese.
Of course, good night, everyone.
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