Through the breezeway, Cassie could see a flat expanse of concrete with a few raised, empty planters, pools of street light and sharp, deep shadows. In the distance was a dark patch, maybe a lawn, with a huge pine tree in the centre, lit up with Christmas lights blinking blue. Between the breezeway and a building on the opposite side of the square were three stone monoliths in the centre of a low, circular barrier of white concrete. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.
Skylark turned. “That’s the fountain,” she said. “Well, not right now. They’ve turned off the water because they’re worried about it freezing.” She shook her head. “Brother Paul, he told us last night that the temperature when they turn off the fountain is actually five degrees higher than when they open the emergency shelter beds. And they keep the fountain turned off all winter. They only keep the shelter beds open until the temperature goes up a degree or two.”
Her expression and her voice were laced with disgust.
Skylark’s explanation allowed Cassie to ask the question that had been on her mind their whole walk. “Who’s Brother Paul?”
Skylark’s face lit up. “Brother Paul—I guess you could say he’s …” She stumbled over trying to find a description, her eyes taking on that faraway look again. “He’s the leader, I guess. But that doesn’t really … He doesn’t … You just have to meet him.”
Before Cassie could speak, a battered van pulled up in front of the statue in front of City Hall, belching smoke and backfiring. The van was covered in graffiti, layers of bright spray paint, images and words over words and images.
“Right on time,” Skylark said, leaning forward on the bench.
Two men and a woman, dressed in jeans and T-shirts despite the cold, hopped out of the van. As they opened the back doors and began to pull out a folding table, the empty sidewalks filled with people. There had been no signal save the arrival of the van, but a crowd quickly formed around the back doors.
Cassie recognized some of them from outside McDonald’s that morning. Unlike that pre-dawn crowd, though, everyone waiting around the van was quiet. There was no shouting, no pushing, nothing louder than scattered, hushed conversations. People milled about a little, but they quickly formed into a single line that snaked along the sidewalk to the table. “Come on,” Skylark said, standing up as the two men lifted a huge pot onto the table. “We should get in line.”
“What is this?” Cassie asked as she followed Skylark, who high-fived a few people as they moved through the crowd.
“The Outreach van,” she said as they joined the line. “Soup and bread, sometimes clothes. Condoms if you need them.” Skylark shrugged. “They come every night. And hey, if you’re here at Christmas? I hear they do turkey.” There was a bitterness in Skylark’s voice that Cassie hadn’t heard before.
But she understood it all too well. Christmas was a week and a half away, but it seemed a lifetime. The thought that she might still be out here, sleeping on the streets, begging for change, made her almost hunch over with pain.
But where else would she be?
From the cold of the concrete park, he watched.
He stood in the shadow of the fountain, the Darkness watching out of the dark. He wasn’t hiding; he didn’t need to hide. People would see him, but their glances would slip off him, not really registering him.
He was perfectly camouflaged.
It was all part of the hunt: concealment, observation, tracking.
Watching. Waiting for the perfect specimen.
She was easy to see against the backdrop of the crowd milling around the back of the van. She shone with a strength that was dizzying.
Her inner light separated her from the herd, drew the Darkness to her.
He watched as the girl took her bowl of food, her piece of bread. Her smile, even in the distance, was dazzling.
She led another girl into the breezeway adjoining City Hall, and they both sat down with the group of people already there.
The other people in the breezeway barely registered to him; they were dull, drab things, the little light left within them guttering like pale candles, brighter when they laughed, quickly fading.
The girl, though …
He had been watching her for several nights, following her movements. It hadn’t been difficult: with a light as bright as that, she could be seen for blocks.
He had watched, and he had waited.
He could have taken her any time, but he was pleased that he had waited. The girl was shining more brightly than he had seen before, arcing white as she leaned against the girl beside her, almost blinding as she laughed.
And the girl she was with …
The new girl was like nothing he had ever seen.
There was a rich orange light to her, and it took him a moment to register: This new girl was like a banked fire. She didn’t shine—she burned.
A crow descended, arching black against the curve of a street light, and landed on the concrete edge of the fountain.
It too watched the girls.
The bright white of the first girl
—Skylark, the crow said—
Skylark, and the slow, deep burn of the new girl …
He looked at the crow, but the bird had nothing to say.
The two of them, these two girls.
It was almost too much for him to bear.
“Not yet,” he whispered, and the words were like smoke from his mouth.
He drew his collar up tighter around his throat and turned away.
“Not yet,” he repeated.
It wasn’t just the kill that was important; anyone could kill.
It took a special man to hunt.
When Cassie and Skylark reached the front of the line, the man behind the table was scraping the inside of the huge pot with a metal ladle. “I’ve got enough for one more bowl of soup,” he said, shrugging. He was wearing a knit cap and a hoodie over an old concert T-shirt.
“That’s okay,” Skylark said. “We can share.”
“I’ve got a couple of bagels, though,” the man said as he passed the bowl to Skylark. He smiled like it was something he didn’t do very often; his teeth were worn brown nubs.
“Thank you,” Cassie said quietly as he handed her the bagels.
She followed Skylark through the knots of people slurping soup on the dim sidewalk and into the breezeway.
The space was crowded with people sitting on the ground in small groups, talking as they ate. Their laughter echoed brightly off the concrete and bricks.
It was a sound that Cassie hadn’t heard in … she didn’t actually know. The sound of people talking quietly, just talking. The sound of laughter, honest, heartfelt laughter.
How long had it been?
“Over there,” Skylark said, pointing with the soup bowl at a spot along the wall. “Come on.”
They threaded through the loose crowd. As Skylark greeted people she knew, Cassie kept her eyes down, not quite staring at the ground, but not looking around.
“And here,” Skylark said, setting her knapsack onto the ground by the wall, “we shall stake our claim.” A couple of people sitting nearby smiled and slid over a little, widening the space a bit.
“Sit, sit,” Skylark said, gesturing.
Cassie set her backpack carefully on the ground, then lowered herself beside it, leaning against the brick wall.
Every part of her ached. It was like being crushed and twisted, minute by minute. The weariness was a physical weight—she was buckling under it with every step. Sitting down should have been a relief, but it was almost worse: every joint screamed, every muscle throbbed.
Now that she was sitting, Cassie worried that she might not be able to get up.
And it was only going to get colder.
Skylark folded herself effortlessly from standing to sitting with her legs crossed, facing Cassie, smiling.
Why was she always smiling?
Cassie realized that she didn’t know anything about this girl; she just knew t
hat she was different somehow. Not like most people she had met on the streets. Not like those guys at McDonald’s. Or the ones at the shelter.
Cassie glanced around the crowded breezeway, suddenly alert to everyone surrounding her. She had let herself relax: She couldn’t do that. She needed to keep aware. She needed to keep safe.
“Who are you looking for?” Skylark asked.
“No one,” Cassie said, too quickly.
Skylark didn’t say anything, just passed her the soup and handed her a plastic spoon. A silver ring glinted on her finger, a cat’s head with green stones for the eyes.
Cassie cradled the warmth close to her. The soup was thick and rich, with chunks of vegetables and lots of barley.
She took three hurried spoonfuls, then extended the bowl back to Skylark.
Skylark took a deliberate bite from her bagel and waved the bowl away. “Have some more,” she said, her mouth full.
Cassie forced herself to slow down; she could have emptied the whole bowl without even thinking about it.
“So, are they from a church or—” She looked at the van.
“Sort of,” Skylark said, tearing another chunk off her bagel. “I think a church runs the shelter. They make food in the kitchen, bring it out in the van. Breakfast and dinner. I think most of the people working used to be on the street. Now they get training, a place to sleep.”
Cassie shook her head.
“What?”
“I don’t like shelters.” She took another spoonful, like it might prevent her from saying anything else.
Skylark nodded. “Okay,” she said. “If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to talk about it.”
Cassie felt her relief as a softening in her chest, a loosening of her spine.
“Thank you,” she said, looking down into the soup.
“Our stories are our own,” Skylark said. “Like our names.” She grinned when Cassie passed her the bowl, now more than half-empty. “That’s what Brother Paul says.” Her eyes took on a wide, glistening look when she said his name.
Cassie took a bite from her own bagel. It was warm, and the butter coated her fingers. “So, Brother Paul …”
Skylark looked around the breezeway. “That’s him,” she said finally, pointing to the far corner where a man in a long coat was talking with a small group of people. He didn’t seem like much to Cassie—not tall, not fat, nothing special about him at all—but as he spoke to one woman, her eyes took on the same faraway look that Skylark had shown. And when he touched the woman on the shoulder, she looked like it was all she could do not to burst into tears.
Cassie turned back, about to speak.
“Come on,” Skylark said, bursting to her feet.
“What?”
But Skylark wasn’t the only one in motion. All around the sheltered space, people were standing up, shifting to sit in a large, rough circle in the middle of the breezeway, leaving spaces for the pillars that held up the roof. People smiled and greeted one another as they sat down.
Outside the circle, Brother Paul was crouched, talking to an older woman next to one of the pillars. She bowed her head as he spoke, clutched his hand when he reached to touch her shoulder.
Cassie ended up sitting between Skylark and a young man about her age. His hair was long, and his wispy beard made him look a bit like the pictures of Jesus in the storybooks at Sunday school.
They glanced at each other, but they didn’t say anything.
Cassie was about to ask Skylark what was going on, but a silence fell over the group before she could speak.
“Happy evening, brothers and sisters,” Brother Paul said, stepping into the middle of the circle.
“Happy evening, Brother Paul,” the group answered back.
“We’ve all eaten, I hope,” he said, and there was a scattering of responses. “I’d like you to join me in a short offering of thanks.”
Brother Paul closed his eyes and held his arms at his sides as he spoke. Cassie glanced around the circle as everyone else followed suit, closing their eyes and bowing their heads.
“Mother Earth,” he started, his voice low and echoing in the silence and concrete. “We wish to thank you for the blessings you have graced us with and the people who have come along with them, the sun, the earth, the sky and the sea. We wish to thank you for these blessings and this small place on this earth to call our own. Thank you, Mother. Blessed be.”
“Blessed be,” the people repeated, and Cassie found herself moving her lips.
As the people around her opened their eyes and raised their heads, the air seemed different somehow: Quieter. Gentler. Warmer.
“Thank you, brothers and sisters,” Brother Paul said. His voice had changed too, softened. “Our blessings are truly rich, even as we struggle for a small handful of coins. We join together”—he paused, turning to look around the group—“as a true community, brothers and sisters of the street, brought together to build a better future, not just for ourselves, but for the world around us.”
He rocked slightly on his feet. “It brings me such joy to see all of you together here, after so long alone. To see all of you safe in this company, after lives of such danger.” He took a small step forward. “The Bible talks about salvation, of finding the path through Christ, a heaven that would take all comers. The sick. The lame. The poor. The hunted. But we have found that paradise together. We have built this community, this family, open to all.”
There were mutters of agreement around the circle. It felt like people had been moved to speak, to join their voices.
“I see a few new faces here tonight. First, I’d like to welcome you all.” Cassie glanced at Skylark, but the girl was completely focused on Brother Paul. “Perhaps we should go around the circle and introduce ourselves? There are no strangers here.”
Brother Paul turned slowly, looking around the entire circle. “Maybe we should start with—” He pointed at an older woman almost directly across the circle from Cassie.
The woman—heavy-set, with a fraying toque over a tangle of red hair—started slightly at the sudden attention. “I’m … I’m Sarah,” she said, faltering on her name. “I’m from all over, I guess. I came from Edmonton about a month ago. I wasn’t expecting it to be so chilly here. Chilly chilly beans.”
This drew a small laugh from the crowd and a muted chorus of “Welcome, Sarah.”
As it faded, the man next to Sarah—skeletally thin, with a long, wispy black moustache—spoke. “I’m Simon,” he said. His voice was low and breathy. “I’ve lived here all my life. My disability ran out …” His voice faded away to nothing.
“Welcome, Simon.”
They went around the circle, everyone saying their names, offering glimpses of their stories. Joni, who had lost her job due to PTSD after she was raped. Bill, an alcoholic, who had lost everything when he crashed his car. Stu, who had gone broke when the mill shut down.
Cassie was getting more and more anxious as the introductions got closer to her. What was she going to say? What could she say?
“I’m Ian,” said the boy next to her, clearing his throat nervously. “I’m from down East. My dad … I had to leave home when I told my dad I was gay.” For a moment his voice was thick with sadness. “But I met this guy.” He leaned in affectionately into the boy sitting next to him. “And he makes the world an all-right place.”
As people oohed and sighed at the sentiment and welcomed him, Cassie felt everyone’s eyes shift to her. Everyone was staring, waiting.
“I’m Dorothy,” she said slowly, not making eye contact with anyone. “I grew up on the mainland. My family … I don’t have a family anymore.”
She stared hard down at the pavement. She didn’t hear the welcome. She didn’t even hear what Skylark said, or any of the people on her other side. Her face burned, and she breathed deeply: in two three four, hold two three four, out two three four.
“Thank you, brothers and sisters,” Brother Paul said when everyone had finished s
peaking. “Thank you for joining me. Thank you for helping me make this place our place. Our home.”
From the inside pocket of his coat he drew out a battered black book, its spine raggedly bound with duct tape.
“For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Brother Paul. In another life, I was ordained in the Catholic Church. I gave my life over to God, but he and I … stopped seeing eye to eye. Too much ritual, not enough action. Too much piety, not enough wonder.” He shook his head heavily, dramatically. “Thankfully, I had this.” He lifted the book high in his hand. “The true word. The true teachings.” He looked down at the cover of the book. “The people I worked alongside, my superiors at the Church, they said that I had lost my faith. That I had lost my way. They said—” He cut himself off, turned partway around. “They didn’t understand. They could no longer see the truth that was right in front of them.” He gestured with the book again. “God doesn’t believe in earthly riches. He doesn’t believe in the Church. He believes in people. His children. And we are all his children.” He looked meaningfully around the circle. “God didn’t create money. Man created money, and those men, those men who have it, have been using it as a club to beat down everyone else ever since.”
A scattering of boos and hisses came from the circle, and Brother Paul shook his head, as if he couldn’t understand it himself. “It’s a measure of how far we have fallen, how corrupt our world has become. It’s all about money, all those buildings, all those people in suits, all those churches.” He sneered the word, stretched it out. “They have forgotten that this is our garden.” He spread his arms wide, as if to encompass the square, the block, the world. “And that we are all his children.”
Around the circle, people applauded.
“We may not have money. We may not have a roof over our heads or one of those fancy condos on the waterfront, but this is our home. This is our home. Anyone is welcome. Everyone is welcome. Living together, we are not poor: we are richer than we have ever been.”
This got a cheer that echoed out into the park.
“People, though …” He let his words hang in the air, and his eyes swept around the group. When he spoke again, it was with difficulty, as if what he was saying caused him a deep pain. “People don’t understand what that means. There are people who would see this community destroyed, stamped out, simply because it’s different, because it’s something they do not understand.” His voice had risen, not angrily, but defiantly. Then it fell. “We’re not going to give in to the forces of darkness, of ignorance. This is our place, as God intended. This is our garden. This is our home. We will stand together, and we will protect one another. Alone, we are small, but together …” He smiled as cheers rose around him. “Together we are mighty.”
Black Feathers Page 3