The Year of Broken Glass

by Joe Denham

  “He arrived on Lasqueti yesterday. It’s the first time we’ve met.”

  “So what? He’s a friend of this Miriam lady, right? Did she leave you his number before she left in case something went wrong or something?”

  Fairwin’s wrinkled face brightens when I ask this and he seems to be lost in his memory for a moment. “I suppose you could say that,” he says, grinning. “Miriam dropped her phone from the cliff below my house the day before she left. I found it last week in the alder bottom while looking for oyster mushrooms. It was all smashed up, but I brought it up to the house anyhow. I thought I’d throw it in the garbage next time I went to False Bay. When I heard about the eruptions in Hawaii, like I said earlier today, I thought maybe it was too much coincidence to be just that, so I had this guy I know on Lasqueti recover the phone’s memory. I recognized Arnault’s name as the man Miriam said had told her the myth, so I called him.”

  “And here we are.”

  “And here we are. Rummy,” he says, and lays down the remainder of his hand in one go, a straight flush of diamonds, seven to king, three aces and three fives. I fold my cards on the table without acknowledging his latest in a string of wins.

  “You don’t actually believe any of this shit do you?” I ask. “I mean, I’m here because there’s obviously a bunch of quacks who believe in this stuff and I’m convinced it’s possible that some, if not all of them, are dangerous. And I want my husband back. But it’s a little much, don’t you think?”

  “There was a time, Anna, when people thought the world was flat.”

  “That’s right, and they also thought it was the centre of the entire universe. But it’s not. We know that. And we’ve known the story of Atlantis is just a story for a long time too, Fairwin’. So what gives? All of a sudden Hawaii’s the tip of a sunken continent and my husband’s found a fish float that sets off major earthquakes whenever it doesn’t like the way things are going?”

  “Possible. It’s possible.”

  “I suppose. In the same way it’s possible that hell can be reached by passing through seven gates at the end of Toad Road in York, Pennsylvania. Come on. This is fanatical cult stuff, Fairwin’. I wouldn’t think an old misanthrope like yourself would go for it.”

  “I’m not a misanthrope, Anna. I’m a recluse.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is I’m not absolutely suspicious of every other person’s motives. And I don’t assume superiority because I know better or more than others.”

  “That’s not my point, Fairwin’. My point is these people have got my family all wrapped up in something that shouldn’t have anything to do with us.”

  “As far as they’re concerned, it has got everything to do with you. Or at least with Ferris and Willow.”

  “And what if we’re getting caught in the crossfire of some battle between two factions of this cult, this Children of Mu thing?” I lift my pack of sinillators from my pocket and take one out.

  “You can’t smoke that in here, Anna,” Fairwin’ reminds me.

  “Honestly,” I say, as I light the smoke. “Do you think I give a shit? Vericombe gets my son. I get to have the odd smoke. Seems fair enough to me.”

  “No one forced you onto this boat, Anna. You and Willow could be home alone right now if that’s the way you wanted it.”

  I consider this for a moment. Have I made the wrong choice, getting on this boat? What if Ferris shows up at home while we’re off in Hawaii looking for him? The magnitude of it, the ludicrous idea that we could just go find Miriam and Ferris. But what if he is in trouble or danger and we don’t go searching for him? And once again, what if there really are dangerous people coming after him, and Willow, too?

  “There’s a big difference between what I want and the choices I’ve got,” I say. “I may be here Fairwin’, but it doesn’t mean I don’t think this whole thing is fucking insane. These people want to believe in some stupid myth about ocean life dying off because of some curse put on a fisherman and his glass ball tens of thousands of years ago? It sounds to me like a particularly hare-brained attempt to not acknowledge responsibility where responsibility lies. I’d have an easier time being on a boat with the global warming detractors. At least they’re dealing in real world matters. Sort of.”

  My second-hand smoke is hanging as a thick cloud between us, obscuring my view of Fairwin’ as he leans back beyond the glare of the one shaded bulb burning above us. “There are matters in this world beyond politics Anna,” he says, the condescending fucker. I’d like to stab his weathered eyes out with my burning cherry, but instead I stand up.

  “You know what I think? I think you’re as unsure about this whole thing as I am. I think you’re scared,” I say.

  “I saw that glass float fall Anna. It didn’t have a scratch on it. I’m convinced there’s something going on here. It may not be all that Arnault believes, or exactly as he believes it, but it’s not to be brushed aside because we can’t comprehend it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life Anna, it’s that things are often much more, or much less, than they seem. Either way we’re just along for the ride and all we can do is hope things don’t get too bumpy along the way.”

  Cliché statements like that don’t deserve a response, not in my eyes. So I scoff instead, get up from the table, cross the galley and exit out the cabin’s side door.

  It’s cold out on deck. There’s no moon visible through the light cloud cover that blew in as the sun was setting. I lean my head over the railing and watch the steel hull skim through the water. We must be travelling at twenty knots or more. The breeze built by the momentum, refreshing earlier in the day, lifts and ducks under my clothes at the neck and waistline and sends shivers down my arms. It gives me goosebumps. I walk to the stern to take shelter and light another smoke. I know Willow’s sleeping soundly. I’ve done a good job, at least, of convincing him that this is okay. That this is what we should be doing and that everything is going to be fine. I’m not so sure though, and I wish more than ever that Ferris had never found that float. Or at least that he’d not been so desperate to get the money from selling it, or to get away from me, that he chose to embark on this whole thing.

  It’s times like these more than any others that I need him. He used to have this ability to keep me centred when the whole centre of the world seemed to be spinning out of control. And I imagine he still does. That he could still do so if he were here, if I would let him. If I would trust him enough. But I know I haven’t trusted him since he bought the boat. I knew it was a bad idea; too risky for our position in the world. The irony of course is that Ferris’s ability to take risks is one of the things that first drew me to him. He was so ballsy and bold, he’d stick his neck out and try anything, undeterred by the perceivable obstacles, when he felt that things were right or worthy. He has good intuitive instincts, something I suppose he gained from growing up on Lasqueti, out in the world with the wind and the sea.

  It does something, the wind and the sea, as it is for me now. It blows away all the crap so one can find clarity. I can see myself from a distance in my mind, tucked away in my office, avoiding Ferris. I can hear him pleading with me to stop hiding. Stop blaming him. To come out and help him sell his fish privately for good money, to make the fishing business work. And I can see myself instead slouching further and further over my own work, digging my heels in deeper and deeper, drawing a perimeter line around myself I refused to let him cross.

  Life hasn’t felt as precarious as it does now since before I met Ferris, when I was young and alone in the world, and it strikes me just how easy it’s been to take for granted what his presence in my life provides. The stability of knowing he’s always there. For better or for worse. He’s asked me a dozen times or more through the years to exchange that vow with him. But I always assumed it already spoken, somewhere beyond words. I always assumed so many things. Simple to see, now that nothing can be assumed any longer, not even that Ferris is alive. Sim
ple to see how easy it is, in the midst of it all, to take the one you love for granted, as if they’ll always be there. And even more, to feel smothered by them because of this sense of permanence. And for a prevailing resentment to build up, a sort of sustained claustrophobic panic that obscures the reality of what and who that person is. Your family. Your home. Your one and only place in the world.

  Now I’m wishing I’d said yes to Ferris. To his need to buy that fishing boat and all that it’s brought us. To his need to stop fighting the world and instead build something he believes in within it. Because I can see now that’s what he’s wanted to do. To build a life that will be lasting for us, us and our son, something solid and stable, something with the prospect of longevity regardless of how the world changes or crumbles around us.

  We’ve just rounded the southern tip of Vancouver Island and we’re heading up Juan de Fuca Strait. I can see the odd bright light on the shore where Victoria once burnt its electric fire deep into the night. They’re starting to rebuild already, crews working through the night under the light of glaring generator-powered halogens.

  When he bought the boat, Ferris thought it would be our ticket out. A source of making a living somewhere further north, away from the city. Cortes Island, Malcolm Island or Echo Bay. Possibly even Haida Gwaii. Maybe Ferris was right. Is right. There’s no stopping it. Them. Which is the same thing, I think, though some people like to speak as though it were otherwise. As if we’re all just being driven by the momentous thrust of technology. The technology we design and build and implement. The machines we drive into and across and over the earth.

  When I find you Francis Wichbaun I’m going to start saying yes. To leaving together. To building together. To being together. I’m going to leave the fight to those who have nowhere better to go to. Because I do. With you. For better or for worse. The next line’s unthinkable, so I leave it unsaid, for now, with the million other things still unspoken. I flick my butt into the wake and watch it blink out when it hits the water. Then I head back in, calmed, to offer Fairwin’ an apology. Ready to accept my decision to be here on this boat with these men on this journey. Ready to take on whatever comes next with as much courage as I can muster. With the kind of courage Ferris would have if he were here. The kind I know he has now, wherever he is out on this crazy sea.

  The Variables

  WITHOUT THE GLASS float or money, they motored out of Hilo Bay, both uplifted, despite all that had transpired, by the Princess Belle being still tied to the dock awaiting them. Uncertain what approach to take, they cruised northwest up the island shorelines, past Maui, for three hundred miles. They felt there was safety amongst the number of boats out on the water—many still shuttling people away from the calamity caused by the eruptions and the lahars—and both feared returning to land for the possibility of being found. Still, for two days they watched the skies instinctually, their ears keen to the possible wump wump wump of approaching helicopter blades, until their trepidation eased and they joined in line with the armada of boats waiting in Nawiliwili Harbour on the island of Kauai to refuel. With tanks topped up they set a course to magnetic north, hoisting the sails to take the trade winds abeam, and settled in again to the rhythm of the sea.

  It’s counterintuitive, under normal circumstances, to feel a sense of relief when watching from a boat’s deck as the last sight of land slips from view, but Miriam and Francis shared a loosening sigh when they lost sight of the Hawaiian Islands over the southern horizon, putting the fear and failure of that place behind, leaving them to themselves—the now-familiar world of living and sailing together on the Belle—and the long journey home.

  •

  Their night in the cave below Rainbow Falls works like a harrow in both their minds. Miriam had known she desired him, but that night she’d experienced what she hadn’t expected: love. The kind she’d had with Yule when she was young. A love so entirely clear it was like the cadence of the moon’s tides moving through their bodies in the dark of the nowhere and everywhere they were together, a place their union took them outside, beside, space and time, a portal to something perfect and pristine both beyond and within this world otherwise altered. It’s upon this otherworldy ground that any and every true marriage—consecrated or not before any god or church or state or otherwise—is founded. And it is upon it also that these marriages flourish or founder.

  It’s what has kept Francis and Anna together, ultimately, and it is also what has torn them apart—because it is ground too sacred to keep to for us despoilers, us little rogue beings. We want it like a drunk wants a drink, or a junkie a fix, always after the bliss of that first kiss, indescribably sweet, the taste we carry hauntingly on our tongues. Some addicts will spend their life’s last cent, will submit the last of their body’s ability to survive, to re-attain what they experienced when the heroin first shot like the cool breath of god across their brain, a cheap synthetic facsimile of the floodwaters true lovers swim together. Similarly, some lovers will fuck each other to the other side of love to swim or drown again, for even the slightest taste of that elixir, then try to wring it from each other in fits of rage and violence until one or the other or both lie breathless by the other’s hand. It’s completely beyond the realm of the rational.

  For Francis, the waiting has required more faith than he has had the capacity for. His first few years with Anna were woven together by the occasional ascension back to that ground, and so it was easy to keep the rope that bound them together taut. Of course they fought, and fought more and more as their love slipped into routine, unsuccessfully scaling the heights of the walls their day-to-day lives built between them. But then there would occur a re-infusion, a reconnection, a re-journeying to that place Miriam and Francis have now shared. And so they would start afresh, falling back with time into a mundane, profane familiarity closing in on them, claustrophobic, until they would begin to turn acrimonious toward each other, fucking almost aggressively to fight the feared, inevitable spiritual and sexual ennui, until they would somehow push past it, back to that place of rejuvenation and replenishment.

  But since Willow’s birth, they have not been back there. Anna has understood this, due much to her mother’s counsel through the years, as a not-uncommon state for those in early to mid-parenthood, and so she has held to her memory of what she and Francis once shared, and to her love for the child they do share, and though their love’s estrangement has lasted much longer than she’d expected—on account of Francis’s straying into his other life with Jin Su—Anna has not thought more than fleetingly of stepping from their marriage.

  Without any sibling or close parent as confidant, for many years it was Anna who acted as both best friend and counsel in times of trouble for Francis. But when the afterglow of Willow’s birth and infant year diminished, and he bought the boat despite her cautioning and reservations, she became more and more his adversary, until he lost sight of what she’d once been to him, of what they’d once shared, of the love they’d achieved. He began to doubt in his mind that it was ever anything other than the desire-induced hallucinations of the young, naive and mutually solipsistic.

  But what occurred with Miriam in the cave has reawakened him just as it has reawakened her. To love’s potential, to its true essence. And to the love each still has for the one with whom they first attained it. Which has cast them both into a state of divergent clarity and confusion, him longing for Anna and her for Yule as they both simultaneously desire each other. They sailed north of Hawaii for eight days without either of them properly noticing time’s passage. Countless occasions they set the autopilot and radar alarm and ducked below deck to Miriam’s bunk, or made love in the hot sun on the smooth teak capping the cabin roof. They fucked each other raw trying to get back there, to that precipice, and it wasn’t until the wind died five days ago that they sobered up and it set in for each that what they’d found in the cave had somehow been given by some force beyond their control—just as the wind was, and now was not, filling th
e Belle’s sails—and it was not again to be found together, no matter the desires they submitted to or efforts they made together to make it so.

  •

  The horse latitudes. The calms of Cancer. The variables. On the ninth day from Hawaii they passed into that zone again, multifariously named, where the cold recirculating winds of the Hadley and Ferrel cells converge in the tropopause and sink, creating two hundred miles or so of variably light to calm winds; a place of pause amidst the massive machine of the world’s ever-churning winds. For anyone sailing on the conveyor-belt coursing of the trades it comes as a sudden jolt to the system, as though some god has flicked a massive reset switch or cut the wire that sends the winds their ever-present power. Everything changed for Francis and Miriam the day they crossed over, though it wasn’t the wind’s recession exclusively that put a tether on their mutual obsession, but rather two things that happened concurrently.

  The night the wind subsided Francis was at the wheel while Miriam slept in her stateroom below. Exhausted as he was from the upheaval and turmoil of the past month coupled with their insatiable lovemaking as of late, Francis had fallen asleep in the cockpit again inside a cloud-covered night so black keeping watch was staring into an immediate, oppressive abyss. He woke up to the sound of the sails flapping in the diminishing wind, the boat bobbing on the waves, making no headway. So he lowered the sails and started the diesel, which woke up Miriam for a moment as it sputtered and rumbled, warming to its duty, then sung her with its vibration back into sleep.

  For a few hours Francis motored northward, kept awake by the thrumming diesel, until it sputtered and choked and abruptly died. This time Miriam was deep into her dreams, and she did not wake. Francis went below and pulled up the floorboards to access the engine room. He found water in the primary fuel filter when he drained it off, and it was black with dirt and grime when he removed it from its housing. He replaced it, then unscrewed the secondary filter from the block. It too was full of water, so he replaced it and crossed his fingers.