Perdita

by Hilary Scharper

  “Yes,” she said quickly. “I just talked to Mum. She said—well, she said she had a nice talk with you this morning. But that number you were calling. That isn’t my phone. That’s Stuart Bretford’s phone. You see, I’m always losing mine. I’m—I’m not using that number anymore. I’m so sorry for the confusion.”

  “Never mind about that. I’m so glad you called.”

  “Where are you? There’s a lot of noise. I can barely hear you.”

  I got up and moved away from the crowd now pushing up toward the counter.

  “I’m in the airport. I’m just about to board my flight. I’m flying into London tonight.” She caught her breath. “Listen, I don’t have much time, but can you meet me at the airport?”

  “Of course I’ll come!”

  The airline began to announce the first rows for regular boarding.

  “I’ve got to board, but I’ll try to call you from the air. Will you be at this number?”

  “Yes, I’ll wait for you to call me.” Then she added hurriedly, “But just in case you can’t, where are you flying into?”

  “Heathrow. It’s not too far for you, is it?”

  “Oh, no. It’s not far at all. But, Garth—”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s such a huge, busy airport. You know how crowded it can be. And it’s so easy to get lost…”

  “I’ll find you. I’m absolutely certain I’ll find you.”

  The flight attendant took my ticket, looking at me curiously. I stepped away and quickly moved through the gate.

  “Clare, you know what I’m saying, don’t you?” But I didn’t wait for her answer. “This isn’t another loose end. This time I’m coming to see you.”

  Epilogue

  Do you wonder who we are?

  There were three of them, that first time. We saw them coming down the deep wound that had been cut into us: a woman, a man, and a young girl. The woman sat next to the man at the front, her body heaving as the wagon lurched and pitched along the path. Sometimes she leaned against him, clutching his arm, but when the wheels caught and stuck, she would draw back to let the man step down and guide the horse. Then as the man took his seat, his form would come together with hers, only to part again, for the road was deeply rutted. They were quiet, these three—especially the little girl.

  Marged.

  But at first we did not know her name. She was sitting on the woman’s lap, her eyes staring out into the forest. We were intrigued by her face—pale and smooth—and her quiet, luminous eyes. Her hair was hidden beneath a gray cloak and we wondered at it. We thought that it must be dark: dark like the clouds shading the stars, because they, too, sometimes gaze so brightly at us, just as her eyes seemed to be searching.

  Was it for us?

  And so we threw a branch across the road to catch her hood and pull it back.

  It was then that the man reached forward, and with his hand he broke us, throwing the branch to the ground. We winced, chastened for our foolishness. To be sure, it was there again—the senselessness. The violence. We did not trust them. And yet—the girl. She seemed to be listening intently, as if she could discern our voices in the growing darkness, her eyes gathering light even in the shadow of her hood. They will not escape the storm…

  We laughed and thought that this might be our revenge for the violence. The violence of their hands, relentless as they touch us, again and again as they have touched us.

  They will be surprised by the storm… But the man knew. He could tell from the heavy stillness and the whisper of the leaves as they sped along before him—for as such did he hear us. The man saw our treachery in the soft, winding pathway and in the quiet, heavy day that the morning had promised. This was to be his uneventful journey: his journey to the lonely light tower and the strange beast that they have imprisoned there.

  We have seen the restless creature in the place where he is going. During the nighttime we have seen it, casting a silent, livid beam of light across us, pacing through the darkness to probe the bars of its enclosure. Always it turns, circling its cage with a fearful hope—always it finds the bars still intact.

  Did the man know our fear of his hands?

  It was the girl who spoke to us.

  Marged. We felt her soul leaning toward us, toward the wind and water and trees, just as her body shrank back, a little afraid. She huddled deeper into her cloak, and then, as the wind rose, she felt us push against her, pressing her back.

  How then did she know to bend forward, just so, to catch us and turn our waywardness against us? She made us hold her, cushioning the sharp jolts and dips as the wagon rumbled on. Trust us, we whispered, amazed at her innocence, and then wondered at our own deviousness.

  But again she caught us unawares. “Why, you are like me sometimes,” the girl thought at us, and far away we heard her mother’s hands smoothing her hair. “You are playful and rough all at the same time.” Was the girl speaking to wind? She smiled, the curve of a line so faint that all of us strained to see it.

  And then we remembered—holding her almost against our will—that in some stories there was a child, and that it was she who wept for Prometheus during his travails.

  Perdita.

  It is true that some of us were beguiled by Marged.

  Only wind would not be charmed by her and blew harder, pushing her cloak back and seizing her around the waist. I am no child, wind warned, before releasing her and moving ahead along the path. And then Marged sent out her fear after us, down the wound and after the wind, holding it out in tiny hands that trembled with a shy reserve. Out of her eyes and face, out of her cloak and hair, her fear followed us, becoming a tender, fragile thing, softly feeling our face as a blind creature might, touching our lips to read what our face might tell.

  This astounded us, for her fingers were not unlike those of our inquisitive branch reaching for her hair, and we too—we, too, sometimes have the power to settle a score.

  ***

  Do you still wonder who we are?

  What should be our answer?

  We can only say that it was in the coming of these three that the thought of Perdita came to us. It was there, in the discovery of Marged sitting between the two other forms. It was in the way she wound her arms around our neck, fearful, trusting—that we dared to hope.

  To be sure it was a foolish and wonderful thought.

  Did we do the right thing?

  There are some of us, to this day, who disapprove of what we did. Yet there is not a blade of grass, a bird, or a cloud in these parts who does not know of Perdita. It is the men and the women who live here who do not know her.

  Now it is our turn to wonder, for it is only to one of them that Perdita will return.

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  Reading Group Guide

  1. How did you find the transition between past and present voices within Perdita? Did you find differences in the language and pacing of Garth’s narrative in contrast to Marged’s journal? Were you interested in both the modern and historical periods, or were you more drawn to one?

  2. Clare tells Garth she is attracted to the idea that the “threads” of love are never discarded but always preserved by Perdita. Why does this make Clare an “incorrigible romantic” in Garth’s view? What does it mean to be a romantic person in our contemporary society? Do you consider yourself a “romantic”?

  3. In Greek mythology, Perdita is the child of Hephaestus and Pandora. She is hidden among the Fates and she keeps a “bundle” of four different kinds of love: philia (affection and friendship), eros (passion), agape (unconditional lov
e), and biophilia (the love between humans and nature). If Perdita were to show you “your bundle”—i.e., all the different kinds of love relationships you have experienced in your life—would biophilia be present?

  4. The notion of threads and “loose ends” runs throughout the novel. Which “threads” or aspects of the story came full circle for you, and which were left open? How do you respond to the parts of the story that are left open-ended? Do you think Marged is trying to convey something about the nature of love to Garth, as well as the “risks” of being in love?

  5. Marged’s last entry in her diary has her drifting out into the Bay’s open waters, “way out beyond the buoys and their markings of safe harbor.” She writes that even the lighthouse has disappeared from her sight. Does she make a choice between her two suitors? Is there anything that occurs in the novel to suggest she does make a choice?

  6. When deciding if she can trust Garth, Marged asks him, “What would your trees say about you?” Why does she ask this? What if you were asked the same question? What do you think your trees would say about you?

  7. Who was your favorite character and why? What is your favorite scene in the novel and why?

  8. How did you respond to Marged’s face and her eyes, especially when she first encounters Garth?

  9. What do you think the significance of the great horned owl is? Where does it appear in the novel?

  10. Do you have a special place in Nature where you go to collect your thoughts? How does this relate (if at all) to Marged’s relationship with Georgian Bay?

  Acknowledgments

  The writing of Perdita was made possible by the many who have given so much of their time, energy, and lives to preserving the wild beauty of Georgian Bay, Lake Huron, and the Bruce Peninsula. Among these, I especially acknowledge Ron and Rita Baker, Wilmer Nadjiwon, Rod Steinacher, Ted Cheskey, Ned and Mary Crawford, Louise Weber (in memoriam), and Bob Lesperance. I also gratefully acknowledge the Bruce Peninsula National Park, the Friends of Cabot Head Lighthouse, the Bruce Peninsula Bird Observatory, the Bruce Trail Association, Bruce County Libraries, the Cove Island Lightstation Heritage Association, and all the other “friends” of our precious lighthouse history.

  Heartfelt thanks go to my editor, Deb Werksman of Sourcebooks—especially for her warm and generous encouragement, as well as her skillful editorial direction. Many thanks also go to Susie Benton, Heather Hall, and cover designer Amanda Kain, as well as to mapmakers Paul Barker and Elizabeth Whitehead. Perdita’s “bundle” owes much to Tim Ingold’s entanglements, E.O. Wilson’s biophilia, Eric Hobsbawn’s invention of tradition, and Tom Berry’s communion of subjects.

  I am also deeply grateful to Jane Price, Shangeetha Jeyamanohar, Mary Jo Leddy, John Fraser, Elizabeth MacCallum, Alison Clarke, Laura Shin, and my remarkable literary agent, Beverley Slopen.

  My son’s joyous embrace of life has always been a great inspiration to me. Nolan’s gentle prodding to keep me attentive to the “present” has been equaled only by his disciplined and tenacious commitment to the “classics.” There were many nights when we were both up working into the wee hours of the morning—me writing this novel and Nolan translating a passage from Virgil’s Aeneid. Somehow my difficulties always seemed to pale in comparison!

  My husband, Stephen Scharper, has been an extraordinary companion to and steward of Perdita. Always so magnanimous in bringing his many literary gifts to bear upon the story, he has helped me to navigate the many choppy seas of writing fiction through his magical and infectious delight in the novel. Perhaps most precious of all has been his deep, steadfast belief in me as a writer—it is really with him and through him that Perdita has evolved.

  Lastly—there is Georgian Bay. It’s cold, wild waters; its moody, unpredictable skies—and the wind. Always the wind. How does one acknowledge and thank such a coauthor? As Marged Brice might say, the Bay will know the fullness of my heart.

  About the Author

  Hilary Scharper, who lives in Toronto, spent a decade as an assistant lighthouse keeper on the Bruce Peninsula with her husband. She also is the author of a story collection, Dream Dresses, and God and Caesar at the Rio Grande (University of Minnesota Press), which won the Choice Outstanding Academic Book Award. She received her PhD from Yale and is currently associate professor of cultural anthropology at the University of Toronto.