The Diviners

by Margaret Laurence

  “My name, as I mentioned previously, is Hector. Now come in, come on in.”

  The office is small but exceedingly tidy. Cherry and blue linoleum tiles on the floor. An impressive desk which takes up most of the floor space. A swivel chair for Hector, and two slender plastic-upholstered armchairs for clients.

  “Now, then,” Hector proceeds, “I was very sorry to hear about Christie, an old-timer like him. Of course, I never knew him all that well, myself–”

  “No one knew him all that well, Hector. He lived nearly all his life in this town, and everyone knew him to see him, and they all called him Christie, but nobody knew him, to speak of, or even to speak to, much, if it comes to that.”

  Hector stops on his way to the cupboard.

  “Why in the world would that be, now, Morag?”

  “Oh well, he was the town scavenger in the days when it was still called that, and was looked down on. He was also supposed to be some kind of maverick, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Well, like I say, I didn’t know that much about him,” Hector hedges. “Only hearsay, like. Could I offer you a little sherry, Morag? Or a rye? Although I know the ladies usually prefer the sherry, it being sweeter, like.”

  Morag smiles, unaccountably moved by his flashiness, his public-relations act, and by some kind of genuine solicitude which lurks under the glittery plastic and the veneer of himself.

  “Not this lady,” she says. “You can pour me a stiff rye. Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”

  “Well, it isn’t, really,” Hector says, in apparent remorse. “It’s really for business. Although I don’t usually admit it. But then, most people who come in here are in pretty terrible shape, of course, bereaved and that, kind of knocked-out, you might say, by their dear one’s departure from this vale of tears. So they need a little steadying, those of them who aren’t teetotallers, and believe you me, we get plenty of them. Maybe you think I’m not sounding too serious, but in my business you either have a laugh to yourself sometimes or you’d be climbing the walls, I’m telling you straight. The departed are hard enough to look in the fisheye, to tell you the truth, but the bereaved are usually just that much harder, because they are either all busted-up or else holding themselves together with chewing gum, like, so brittle and held-in that you think they’ll crack like a dropped tumbler if you breathe at them. I shouldn’t be talking this way, I guess, but you being a writer, it seems natural to talk, although in my profession you learn it’s discretion discretion all the way, and in other words you acquire the ability to keep your trap shut. You just seem better in hand of yourself than some, Morag.”

  This guy will learn to keep his trap shut when he’s pushing up daisies. Who buries the undertaker? Whoever will undertake it. One of C. Logan’s old-time jests. Something good about Hector, though.

  “I’m not better in hand of myself,” Morag says. “I just show it differently, that’s all. Has Niall Cameron been dead long?”

  “Some years now,” Hector says. “You knew him?”

  “Yes. I knew him, and I went to school with one of his daughters. He was a good man.”

  “Yeh, so I gather,” Hector says uneasily, “although he drank himself to death. I mean, like, sure he was a good man. But he didn’t want to go on living, did he?”

  Morag laughs, and the sound is more startling and bitter in these surroundings than she has intended.

  “I guess he did and he didn’t, both,” she says. “It’s a common enough trait, hereabouts.”

  To be or not to be–that sure as death is the question. The two-way battle in the mindfield, the minefield of the mind. Niall. Lachlan. Lazarus. Piquette. Prin. Christie. Jules? Morag?

  “Mrs. Cameron and Rachel, they moved out to the Coast a few months back,” Hector says. “Mrs. Cameron used to say she’d known you well when you were knee-high to a grasshopper. She never said it when Rachel was around, though, so I kind of wondered. It was after your second book came into the town library.”

  Parsons’ Bakery–Morag going in for jelly doughnuts for Prin. Mrs. Cameron and Mrs. McVitie. Poor little thing–don’t they ever cut her hair wash her hair shorten her dress poor poor little thing. Morag behind the counter at Simlow’s–the dressmaker suit so suitable for someone about thirty years younger than Mrs. Cameron and Stacey running running from the store in unhealable embarrassment.

  “Yeh. Well, you’re right. It wasn’t quite the way she said. Hector, I suppose they don’t call it the Nuisance Grounds any longer, out there?”

  Hector, swivelling gently on the large mobile chair behind the desk, gives her an odd glance.

  “You mean–the Municipal Disposal Area?”

  “Yeh. That’s what I mean. The Municipal Disposal Area. Alias the Nuisance Grounds. That’s where Christie really should be buried.”

  “Good Lord,” Hector says, “you’ve got to be joking. You know, don’t you, that–”

  “Yes. I know. Don’t worry. It’s all right. I know you can’t just bury people anywhere, like that. It’s just that–when Prin died, Christie said he’d like to have buried her in the Nuisance Grounds. He didn’t have much use for some things, although it’s hard to explain. And he’d buried someone there, once, himself. In the Nuisance Grounds.”

  “What?”

  Morag smiles. It is really Christie she wants to talk to, about this. But he has moved not only beyond speech but beyond hearing.

  “Don’t upset yourself. It was a very long time ago. I don’t think he ever meant to tell me–he just found himself telling it. It was, I now see, an aborted child, wrapped up in a newspaper and tied around with a string, and left out with the garbage. Kind of a dumb thing to do, when you think of it, but I suppose the family wasn’t thinking too well just then. The string must’ve come undone. He didn’t say what family. He only said the girl had been made to suffer enough. I never knew who she was, or what happened to her. And she never knew that her unfinished child was given a burial.”

  She does not mention that there was another unfinished child buried there, years later.

  Hector is looking at her as though he were trying to see beyond her, as perhaps he is.

  “I never knew any of that.”

  “Nor did anyone, except Christie and myself and–never mind. It doesn’t matter any more.”

  “I thought,” Hector says, “that you’d likely want him cremated. I mean, it’s kind of the modern way–”

  “No,” Morag says, carefully and firmly. “I want him to be buried in the Manawaka cemetery, beside his wife. There is a small stone in that place for Prin. I want another one. Grey granite. With both their names. Don’t tell me it means next to nothing. I know. But that is what will be done.”

  “All right. Yes, I can sure see to that, all right.”

  “One more thing, Hector–do you happen to know a piper?”

  “Good christ,” Hector breathes. “A what?”

  “A piper. I don’t want any service or talk. Just a piper, at the cemetery.”

  “The things I get myself into,” Hector says. “Maybe you should consider a short service here, first? And then just the last few words, there.”

  The Burial of the Dead. For I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers were.

  “All right. Hector. But not here–no offense to you. In the United Church, if the minister will speak the words over Christie, who never went to church in his life.”

  “Oh, he will.” Hector is relieved. “So that settles that, eh?”

  “No. I still want the piper.”

  Hector, thinking she had herself in hand more than most. Now, undoubtedly, thinking he had a madwoman on his hands. He sighs, but rises to the occasion.

  “Well, old Scotty Grant usually brings his pipes out in the spring, and walks up and down across his back garden, but I don’t know–anyhow, I’ll try.”

  Morag rises.

  “Hector, thanks.”

  “For nothing,” Hector says. “Any time.”

&
nbsp; Then, simultaneously seeing the grotesque quality of this last statement, they both laugh.

  Morag rummages through the Hill Street house. Finally finds the only things of Christie’s which she wants to keep. Four books. Two heavy volumes–The Poems of Ossian–In the original Gaelic with a Literal Translation into English and a Dissertation on the Authenticity of the Poems by the Rev. Archibald Clark, Minister of the Parish of Kilmallie, Together with the English Translation by Macpherson, in 2 Vols., 1870. And two small books. The60th Canadian Field Artillery Battery Book, 1919. And The Clans and Tartans of Scotland. In this last book she looks up in the Gaelic Glossary the word for black. It says dubh, dhubh, dhuibh, duibhe, dubha, but omits to say under what circumstances each of these should be used. Morag Dhu. Ambiguity is everywhere.

  The morning of Christie Logan’s funeral is fair and cloudless, the sky a light newly washed blue after the recent rains. At the church, there is no music, no oration, simply the bone-bare parts of the order of service, the old words. At the Manawaka cemetery, up on the hill, the wind blows hot and dusty, carrying the sickly over-sweet perfume of peonies but also the clean dry pungency of the tall low-boughed spruces that sentinel the place like dark angels of light. Far below, the shallow amber water of the Wachakwa River flows rattling over the stones.

  “Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God to take unto himself the soul of our brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground–”

  The words are murmured with a kindly awkwardness by the young unknown minister whose brother Christie Logan manifestly was not, although this by no means the minister’s fault. Perhaps he even wonders who Christie was, and perhaps, if Morag could bring herself to express the years, he might even like to know. But it is not possible, not now, not here.

  Then the minister and the pallbearers (all unknown, persuaded by Hector to serve) depart. Only Morag and Hector Jonas remain, and one other.

  Scotty Grant is not as old as Morag has imagined him. He is in fact a good-looking man in his early sixties, with the red-tanned neck and arms of someone who has spent most of his life as a farmer, battling the land which he has now sold, or, hopefully but not likely, turned over to his sons. He wears a blue open-necked workshirt and unpressed grey trousers. Just as well–kilts in this context would make it into a farce. Maybe it is going to be that, anyway. Would Christie have laughed?

  “You sure you want me to do this?” Scotty asks, uncertainly.

  Morag glares at him, angry because as yet unable to grieve. But she must not take it out on him.

  “Yes. Mr. Grant–please.”

  He swings the pipes up, and there is the low mutter of the drones. Then he begins, pacing the hillside as he plays. And Morag sees, with the strength of conviction, that this is Christie’s true burial.

  And Piper Gunn, he was a great tall man, with the voice of drums and the heart of a child, and the gall of a thousand, and the strength of conviction.

  The piper plays “The Flowers of the Forest,” the long-ago pibroch, the lament for the dead, over Christie Logan’s grave. And only now is Morag released into her mourning.

  TEN

  The willows along the river had been changed by alchemy of autumn from greensilver to greengold. The maples were turning to a million shades of russet, crimson, scarlet, pale red. The air was beginning to have a sharpness about it, the first suggestion of frost. In the evenings, Morag lighted the woodstove. Soon it would have to be the furnace.

  She had been working through the day, the words not having to be dredged up out of the caves of the mind, but rushing out in a spate so that her hand could not keep up with them. Odd feeling. Someone else dictating the words. Untrue, of course, but that was how it felt, the characters speaking. Where was the character, and who? Never mind. Not Morag’s concern. Possession or self-hypnosis–it made no difference. Just let it keep on coming.

  By dusk, Morag had a cramp in her right hand. Writer’s cramp–joke. But it happened. Must quit. Go outside and walk off the tension.

  Walking down to the river across the meadow of unmown grass, Morag realized what it was that was different about this day. It had been at the back of her mind since early morning, but she had not really seen it until now. There were no swallows. Yesterday the air had been filled with their swiftness. Now there were none. How did they know when to leave and why did they migrate all at once, every one of them? No stragglers, no members of the clan who had an imperfect sense of time and season. Here yesterday, gone today. There might be a reason, but she would just as soon not know.

  Back at the house, Morag leafed through several newly arrived books which she had ordered, books on weeds and wildflowers. One told all about the plants hereabouts, which could be used as sustenance, boiled or raw, if ever one were to find oneself lost in the bush. Or, if not actually lost, at least how you could cook certain plants in somewhat fancier fashion at home.

  Wait. What about the Poison plants? Morag turned to the section hastily. Oh heavenly days. Never attempt wild mushrooms unless you really know what you are doing–this seemed the only policy. The Destroying Angel. Dramatic Old-Testament name. Wonderful name. Terrible mushroom. And how about Water Hemlock? No known antidote. It looked to Morag’s unknowledgeable eyes much like Queen Anne’s Lace. Same family–Wild Parsley. Well, no one would go around eating Queen Anne’s Lace, would they? Nonetheless, suppose you mistook the Deadly Water Hemlock for some innocently edible plant? Symptoms very nasty. “Vomiting, colic, staggering and unconsciousness, and finally frightful convulsions which end in death.” Ever so cheery.

  Morag:

  (summoning ghost) Catharine, I’ll bet the Water Hemlock wouldn’t have alarmed you. You knew what was what. No way you were going to boil up a tasty mess of Hemlock under the impression it was Lamb’s Quarters. But didn’t you ever worry that one of your kids would come home chomping on some lethal plant? How could you stand the strain?

  Catharine Parr Traill:

  Ignorance, my dear, breeds fear and anxiety. I took great care to inform and enlighten my little ones, at the youngest possible age, of the hazards to be avoided in our beautiful woods and forests. Even the tiniest child can soon be taught the identification of plants. Thus my mind was easy, and could be freed for the important matters at hand. You, if I may say so, oftentimes see imaginary dangers.

  M. Gunn:

  You’re darned right I see imaginary dangers, but do you know why? To focus the mind away from the real ones, is why. Leave me to worry peacefully over the Deadly Water Hemlock, sweet Catharine, because it probably doesn’t even grow around here. Let me fret over ravening wolves and poison-fanged vipers, as there is a marked scarcity of these, hereabouts. They’re my inner demons, that’s what they are. One thing I’m going to stop doing, though, Catharine. I’m going to stop feeling guilty that I’ll never be as hardworking or knowledgeable or all-round terrific as you were. And I’ll never be as willing to let the sweat of hard labour gather on my brow as A-Okay and Maudie, either. Even Pique, ye gods, working as a cashier in the bloody supermarket all day, and then going home and feeding those squawking chickens and washing dishes and weeding the vegetable gardens, etcetera. I’m not built like you, Saint C., or these kids, either. I stand somewhere in between. And yet in my way I’ve worked damn hard, and I haven’t done all I would’ve liked to do, but I haven’t folded up like a paper fan, either. I’ll never till those blasted fields, but this place is some kind of a garden, nonetheless, even though it may be only a wildflower garden. It’s needed, and not only by me. I’m about to quit worrying about not being either an old or a new pioneer. So farewell, sweet saint–henceforth, I summon you not. At least, I hope that’ll be so, for your sake as well as mine.

  C. P. Traill:

  (voice distant now and fading rapidly) “In cases of emergency, it is folly to fold one’s hand and sit down to bewail in abject terror: it is better to be up and doing.”

  M. Gunn:

  I’ll remember.

  W
hen Pique, Dan and the Smiths came over that evening, Morag was still poring over the books, this time the weed and wildflower one.

  “You look engrossed, Ma,” Pique said. “What you got there? Hardcore porn? Hey, a weed book?”

  “The same,” Morag said. “You know something? According to a book I read not long ago, the Eskimos have twenty-five words for snow and only one for flower, and yet there are zillions of wildflowers that grow up there in the small amount of summer they get. Knowing the different varieties of snow is essential to survival, but knowing the different varieties of flowers isn’t. With us, knowing the weeds isn’t essential to survival, either, at least not any more and not yet. But there they are all the same. Amazing, isn’t it?”

  A-Okay smiled awkwardly, but Maudie responded kindly.

  “I think it’s marvellous, to find out all about them, Morag.”

  “Oh, she doesn’t,” Pique said, laughing. “I’ll bet she couldn’t identify more than half a dozen. She just likes the names. Isn’t that so, Ma?”

  This girl knows me.

  “Yeh,” Morag admitted. “I guess so. But listen to some of the names.”

  Tom was more interested than the others. He came and looked at the book while Morag read aloud. Dan and Pique got out their guitars and began tuning them. A-Okay sauntered outside to have a look at Morag’s dock-ladder, which he had offered to mend. Maudie got out her eternal and admirable knitting, murmuring that she must finish Alf’s sweater before the cold weather.

  “Hey, listen to these, Tom–”

  Curly Pondweed

  Silver Hairgrass

  Old Witch Grass

  Prostrate Pigweed

  Night-flowering Catchfly

  Queen-of-the-Meadow

  Spiked Loosestrife

  Hounds Tongue

  Creeping Charlie

  Heal-all or Self-heal

  Black Nightshade

  Sneezeweed