by Paul Butler
“I thought he would return to England. I thought that’s what the pardon was for.”
“Apparently, he only wanted the option,” says Gilbert quietly, retying the bag, then looking in another. “He has become big enough and rich enough now to choose his country. He is known throughout the world as the ‘travelling prince.’”
Gilbert looks up, turns and gazes off at the ship sinking beyond the horizon. “They think he may be headed for Southern France or North Africa. England may not be rich enough.”
Gilbert goes back to the supplies and pulls with his fingers at a cork stopper in a large clay jar. It comes out with a plonk. He sniffs the contents, looks up at George and smiles.
“Brandy!”
Spring has come, it seems, with a simple change in the wind’s direction. An hour has changed the season and it is warm enough for them all to sit out in the night, listening to the crackling of the open fire. Jemma feeds her new baby, the gold of the flames reflected on her skin and the baby’s exposed head. Young George stands and watches his mother and the tiny creature in her arms. His eyes alive with memory, it seems; it’s almost as though he knows that not so long ago this was him. George smiles and watches the three of them as Gilbert continues to fiddle. The sound of the instrument is at one with the licking of the flames, as though fire and melody are weaving their magic in unison.
Sheila comes and sits down next to George. “You and your family are a wonderful addition to this place, George.”
As she speaks, Sheila’s children dance around the fire holding hands. The image of the dark figures and the sound of their cries and laughter as they circle the flames sends a shiver of delight through George.
George smiles. “We feel at home here,” he replies.
“Do you miss England?”
George sighs and thinks.
“What is England? It seems like a dream now. Dream and nightmare tangled together. I think, perhaps...” he stops for a moment, taking in the warmth of the flame. He watches the children dancing again and feels as though he is witnessing something both ancient and new, a scene before the invention of the wheel, before his own land was ever invaded by Romans, Vikings or Normans. Sheila is silent, waiting for him to continue. “I think perhaps I can re-create what I like about England here. I feel as though we can start again.”
Sheila is silent again. He notices her smiling.
“I married Gilbert on board Easton’s ship, you know, fully expecting that I would one day return to Ireland.” She pauses and sighs, the flames cracking. “Easton was a rogue then too, a jealous rogue. He turned us into exiles.”
Sheila looks over at her husband and smiles a little sadly. She has never spoken so openly of Easton before.
“So he’s turned us all into exiles,” George says.
Gilbert stops playing and looks over at them.
“How is my Irish Princess?” he calls. Sheila gestures to him to join them. Gilbert picks up his fiddle and comes over, putting his arm around her shoulder.
“He calls me that to put me in my place,” she tells George, laughing, “because I used to boast about my convent education and noble Irish lineage.”
“Not in the least,” Gilbert objects. “I always meant it. We are all royalty here, hey, George?”
“We are indeed,” George agrees. He looks up at Tom, who stands above him looking down at the fire. “We are all princes here.”
Tom smiles shyly.
The children continue to dance. George shifts over to be with Jemma who whispers in his ear that Tom may be taking an interest in Katherine, Sheila’s eldest. George laughs at first, but then sees Tom’s eyes in the flame and Katherine swaying her skirts with her fingers.
Of course, he thinks. Everything must happen earlier here. There is little time to waste and they have a nation to build. He thinks of Young George and his own new daughter and finds himself hoping Gilbert and Sheila have more children.
He catches Sheila’s eye over the flame. She smiles at him and presses her palm to her belly.
A fresh breeze, at once chilly but carrying the promise of spring, wafts over them all, mingling with the fire, keeping it alive while the horizon to the east shows the first pale rays of the dawn.
Paul Butler is the author of the novel Stoker’s Shadow (Flanker Press 2003), which was short-listed for the 2004 Newfoundland and Labrador Book Awards, and The Surrogate Spirit (Jesperson Publishing 2000). Butler has written for many publications in Canada, including The Beaver, Saltscapes, Canadian Geographic and The Globe and Mail. He has a regular film column with The Social Edge e-zine and has contributed to CBC Radio regional and national. A graduate of Norman Jewison’s Canadian Film Centre in Toronto and a winner in the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts and Letters competition (2003), he is presently developing a number of projects in film and TV ranging from documentary to feature film. He lives in St. John’s with his wife, Maura Hanrahan.