Downhill Chance

by Donna Morrissey

  "And Joe?" cut in Luke.

  "Joey. He wouldn't listen, he wouldn't. He followed Job and so I followed him—I wouldn't let him go, I wouldn't; no sir, they blamed me for drowning my boy, but I never; it was the wind that capsized that boat, and I was no more than a youngster in that wind. And that's what them men were on that mountainside, on that front line, helpless as youngsters. Not even the ones who weren't wounded could walk; that's how helpless and sickened they was." The old vet's body began to quiver. "I tell you, b'yes, it's a hard thing to see a man too emptied to walk. And that's what they were by the time we got to them. Days they were, clinging to that rock with no food, water or blankets—nothing but guns they couldn't shoot. In full view on all sides to the Jerries, they were; and every move brought a sheet of bullets cutting over their heads. Aye, half-alive, they were—and those that wouldn't wounded was too emptied to walk—we had to carry them; aye, full-grown men without a scratch, and we had to carry them, they was so emptied." His voice trailed off and his head slumped and it looked as if he were passing out, so far did he sway to the side, but then he jolted upright, as if sensing Luke about to reach out and prod him.

  "They bombed us, they did," he slurred. "Our own men—bombed the monastery on top of the mountain whilst we were still there, lying on our guts, carrying men down the side. Near killed us they did, their own men. Near blasted us along with the Jerries and that damned church of a place. Oh, it's a awful thing, b'yes, to feel the earth shaking and quivering beneath you, an awful thing—"

  "Joey," whispered Luke.

  "Ahh, it's too much, too much—"

  "Tell me," said Luke softly. "The Allies were bombing—you got caught—"

  "Aye, we was supposed to be out of there—but they come early, they did, and we was caught—we was never suppose to be there, not me and Joey—"

  "What did you do?"

  "What'd we do? We cowered," he snarled, "like bloody animals in a bloody landslide. And we lost sight of him, Job. Aye, it took some doing, but I finally got Joey away from him. We couldn't see—smoke, dust—couldn't see nothing. And shooting coming from all sides. On our bellies we crawled, me and my boy, bit by bit, and if it wasn't for the youngsters, I would've got him down, I would've, and he'd be sitting with us tonight, aye, he'd be sitting with us tonight."

  "What youngsters?" asked Luke.

  The old vet's eyes flashed open, then lowered. "I'll not say more," he said, his hand shaking as he reached for the shine jug. "I'll not say more." Lifting the jug, he squinched his eyes shut and took a long, hard swallow, sputtering and choking and nearly falling to the wayside if not for Roddy's hand staying him once more.

  And when finally he opened his eyes again it was to see Luke's aflame with the same fire burning within his own as he repeated: "What youngsters?"

  He might've wished then that he had fallen to the wayside and been sucked into the black hole of the drunken sleep; but, as was with Grammy Prude's prophecy, fate resides within time as life within the seed that impregnates it.

  "It's not what I come here for to tell things," he moaned piteously. "We've all done things—it's not why I come here—"

  "Give over, old man—what youngsters?"

  "Not ours," he cried as Luke came before him, kneeling. "Italians. Hiding in the mountain—in caves they were—and the bombing drove them out." A crazy laugh spurted out of him. "I thought they was ghosts—covered with dirt and coming through the fog. But they was no ghosts. They was youngsters—five, six of them—quiet as anything and scared. I knows it was wrong, but I tried to get Joey away—to protect him. But no, no, he wouldn't leave them—he couldn't. I knows that. He was soft, too soft. It was Job's thinking that got him; I could hear it clear as if he was thinking out loud—how to save hisself—for resurrection—the bloody young fool! But he was only a boy, only a boy and he was as scared as the youngsters and he drove them back in the cave and crawled in after them. And I fell behind a rock, I did. I could've left, but I never; I couldn't leave my boy, and I'm glad I stayed, for I seen his madness, I did; I seen Job Gale's madness, the old bastard, the old bastard—may he rot in hell—"

  "Stop it!" Clair's voice screamed through the night. Wrapped in a shawl, she appeared on the bank, her fist raised towards the vet, and her face greyish white. "It was to save the children!" she cried out. "Why do you call him mad? Tell me, why do you call him mad?"

  The old vet had risen along with Luke at the sound of Clair's voice, and now with her standing before him and shrieking, he raised both hands, stumbling and near falling backwards, roaring as if she were the devil himself, "Get her away, get her way—for he's in her, Job Gale is—I seen it, I seen it—'Twas he that murdered them, murdered all of them."

  "How?" cried Clair, stumbling along with the vet, and falling to one knee. "How did Joey die? How did he die?" she shouted, grasping hold of his pant leg and staring up at him.

  "God willed it, is how, God willed it—to teach him. No man bargains with God. It was the devil that got him in the end, the devil—oh, the devil liked Job Gale, he did, and he tracked him—up here, see in the mind," he sneered down at Clair, tapping his skull with a shaking finger. "Oh yes, he must've liked him right fine, he did, to have followed him all the way here—because he knowed the vermin crawling around Job Gale's spine; he wouldn't going to allow for no cross awaiting his return—not with Joey blowed to hell behind him." Staggering forward, he threw off her hands, staring wildly down at her, the fire flashing off his zippers, making darker the holes his eyes had sunken into as he hissed, "Oh yes, I knows a man's mind, I do, I knows a man's mind—"

  "Leave over, old man," Luke roared, and shoving past Roddy as he tried to stop him, he grabbed hold of the old vet's coat collar and heaved him back onto the beach rocks, falling besides him. "You tell it now, you tell it—how'd Joey die?" he snarled with such savagery that it brought forth a cry from Hannah, and in fear, she ran to her mother, grasping her from behind as her father repeated over and over again, "Tell it! Tell it!"

  "It killed them," said the old vet, "every last one of them—"

  "What killed them?" roared Luke.

  "The grenade. Job's grenade. He throwed it in the cave."

  "Why'd he throw a grenade in the cave?"

  "Joey started shooting, he did; from the cave. I don't know what for—fear, perhaps, for he was mad with fear—and Job!" The old vet spat as if he had the rot of Satan on his tongue. "He throwed a grenade, he did—I seen him, fool that he was, and I tried to call out, but Joey was shooting agin and a bullet skinned the side of my head, and I seen Job with his grenade—I was going to shoot him—but I was too late—too late, for I seen it sailing through the air—into the cave—and I stood up screaming for Joey to get out, but it was too late. He killed them, Job did; he killed the youngsters and my boy. And he knowed, Job did. Soon as he seen me rise up from behind the rocks, he knowed, and 'tis music to my ears, it is, when I sleeps at night and hears his screaming—"

  Hannah heard no more, for her mother had laid her head on her lap and was sobbing brokenly. Her father turned, his own face streaked with tears as he reached for Clair. Only then did he see Hannah, and a small groan escaped him as he pulled himself to his feet, then her mother and then Hannah. Nora and Beth had appeared on the bank, along with Lynn and the other youngsters who had gathered out of the dark, staring hard at the commotion taking place, and Roddy was ushering them home, whilst Marty kept soothing the old vet to say no more, no more, as Luke was leading Clair and Hannah up over the bank and towards their door. They spilled inside and Hannah watched in silence as her mother collapsed into her rocker, chewing on her fists to cease her sobbing, and her father on a chair besides her, pulling Hannah onto his lap, jiggling his foot, rocking her as he would the baby.

  "How much did she hear, Luke?" cried Clair, her eyes falling onto Hannah.

  "Not much, I don't think," he said, rocking her harder. "And you're not to pay attention, Hannah, you're not to pay attention, for it's a sickness t
hat makes the old vet say things like he did. A sickening of his mind by the shine that he drinks. And you never mind what Lynn or anybody says about your grandfather Job after this. It's what your uncle Joey wrote that says the most, and he said Grandfather Job saved his life so many times he was starting to bow every time he seen him coming towards him. That's what you remembers about Grandfather Job, all right, my lovey?"

  "Take her to bed, Luke," said Clair, her gaze falling onto her daughter. And putting her arms around her, she kissed her on the cheek, her lips cold, dry, scarcely moving. "You won't have bad dreams, will you?" she whispered as Hannah kissed her in return.

  "No, Mommy."

  "That's good," she said quietly. "Aunt Missy used to have bad dreams."

  "Clair," said Luke, "Nory, Beth, they'll be sitting over there—waiting for us."

  She looked to him with eyes too fatigued. "I can't talk, Luke. I can't even feel. I don't know how you can either—it was your brother that Daddy—"

  "Shh," said Luke, and she bit off her words as another flood of tears swamped her eyes. "I already told you, lovey. Joey walked them foreign soils with courage, and he fought as brave as any of them. It matters nothing to me whose bullets tore at him—it was an act of war. He died with courage, that's what brings me peace. And it was Job Gale that helped him find that courage. Nothing said tonight changes that. Now I'm putting Hannah and you to bed and I'm going to go have a word with Nory and Beth. Pray Jesus the old woman slept through it. Come morning I'll take you for a boat ride. It'll give you some time. Perhaps—" He hesitated. "Clair, I told you once we ought to go to Cat Arm—" He broke off as she looked to him.

  "Perhaps," she murmured. "Perhaps."

  Chapter Sixteen

  AS IN TIMES OF LOSS, her aunts made salads instead of the usual cooked Sunday dinner, and everyone gathered at Prude's to eat, their forks clicking on their plates as they commented quietly about the southerlies dying down, and for sure the wind would be up eastern before the day was done, bringing with it the fog, no doubt, and drizzle. And as if awaiting the boat bearing the coffin, Roddy kept looking out the window towards Cat Arm, saying what everyone must've been wondering—was Clair and Luke on their way back yet, and for sure, they must be by now, getting late as it was, and no, Prude, it's not a wind, but a breeze coming off the water, and Luke would be home before the wind hit.

  As in most times of adult needs, Hannah and the younger ones went unnoticed, freed really, to roam farther afield, to brave more with one another, to curse, knowing they were paid less heed. Thus scant attention was paid to Hannah's moping around their stoops, or sitting long-faced on the bank, staring out towards Cat Arm. And even when upon traipsing into her aunt Nora's and opting to sit and rock Brother for a spell, the most she received was a caution not to drop him.

  It was nearing evening when the telegram came. Luke and Clair still hadn't returned, and Hannah was lugging the baby around the patch behind Nora as she unpinned her pudding bags off the line.

  "More bad news, I'm sorry to say," sighed Willamena, coming out on her stoop, holding aloft the orange-trimmed piece of paper.

  "What is it now?" cried Nora.

  "It's for Clair, maid, and I can't say I haven't been expecting this—but young Missy's disappeared."

  "Oh my Lord," exclaimed Nora.

  "What's it say?" shouted Beth, poking her head out around her door.

  "Missy's disappeared," said Nora.

  "Last seen standing on the wharf yesterday evening," read Willamena.

  "Oh my Lord, they don't think—" Her words trailed off as she dropped the pudding bag and ran out onto the bank.

  Hannah stood there for a minute, digesting this latest. Surely they didn't think Missy jumped into the water—and drowned!

  No—I bet I knows where she is, she wanted to yell, running after her aunt, but Brother was beginning to wriggle in her arms, pressing the medallion hard against her chest, and with a sudden remembrance of Missy's warnings to say nothing ever, ever, about the shack and the stranger, she slowed her step, biting down on her tongue. Immediately she was struck by another thought: Missy would never spend all night and day at the shack. She'd be home before the fishers went out, so's they wouldn't talk. Unless she hadn't come home from the night before. Why hadn't she, then? She'd never leave the uncle on his own this long—especially if he was sick—no, she'd never do that. Where was she, then?

  Nora's voice cut through her thoughts, singing out, "Calve, Calve," as she ran down on the beach towards where Roddy was helping Calve put his motor back together, "for God's sakes, get ready and go get Clair—we just got a message her sister is lost."

  "My, my, oh my," cried Prude, hurrying onto the bank, "the wind, the wind is coming in; ye can't go to Cat Arm with the wind coming in."

  "We'll take Nate's motorboat," said Calve, and he hurried with Roddy towards the boat tied on to the stagehead.

  "Here, you get back here, Roddy, you get back," called out Prude, "we needs someone left behind; he might come back, the old vet might come back."

  "Never mind that, Mother," said Nora, taking her mother's arm as the men were climbing aboard. "We can take care of him if he comes back."

  "She's drowned; the poor thing's drowned," cried Prude, and a trickle of fear crept coldly into Hannah's stomach.

  "For God's sake, Mother, don't go going on like that in front of Clair," warned Nora. "That's all she needs to hear—young Missy's gone off and drowned herself. Come on in the house; bring in Brother, Hannah—it's time for his feeding."

  Hannah traipsed behind her, the cold in her belly creeping up her spine as she thought of her aunt lying in the water somewhere, crying—and yes, that was it! She'd be crying, not dead, for she could no more imagine Missy dead than she could imagine summer without sunshine. In the cavern most likely, having slipped on the kelp and broken her leg on her way home that morning—and suffering, she would be, like her uncle Calve the time he was stung so bad by hornets and he had crawled, swollen and crying, out of the woods, near dead. And now something had happened to Missy.

  Turning the baby over to Nora, she walked with a quickness in her step towards home.

  "Where you going?" Nora called after her.

  "To find Lynn," she called back. But her path veered from Lynn's house. Absently grasping the medallion beneath her shirt, she found comfort in its round fit into her hand, and the warmth that it held against the cold sweat of her palm lent a strengthening to her step as she darted across the path, checking to make sure no one was watching, before ducking inside her house. The morning's languor had lifted, making room for work that had to be done, delighting her heart at the prospect of easing some of the grief befalling her mother by rescuing Missy from her sufferings within the cavern, for it were no longer a possibility now, that her aunt sat alone with a broken leg, awaiting rescue, but a thing of reason. And what she would do once she found her there, she never gave thought. Enough to figure the journey that would take her to her aunt.

  Digging into the closet, she pulled out her warmest fall jacket, for despite the blue of the summer's sky outside, and the warmth of the breeze, she knew the cold accompanying the easterlies, and judging by the ridge of dark creasing the distant skyline, she wouldn't be long into her walk before they hit. Snatching a pair of mittens out of a cardboard box her mother had stored beneath a shelf for winter, she stuffed them into the pocket of her red-plaid coat, feeling rather proud of her thoughtfulness. Her father always said there was no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing. Peering out the door to ensure no one was about, she darted out onto the bank and, leaping down over, qualled down and ran up along the shore.

  A couple of minutes and she was around the curve of shoreline and out of sight of the houses, but still she kept running, leapfrogging over a couple of brooks, running across the beach and hugging the treeline whenever the beach became too narrow. The thought that she'd never been this far up the shore by herself crossed her mind, bringing with it a tinge of un
ease, but she pushed back silliness, for even with the wind almost at her back now, and a fogbank soon to follow, no doubt, it was still early evening, with the sun sparkling upon the water, and it was difficult to conjure up darkness on a shoreline softened with babbling brooks and sparkling seawater.

  According to talk it was a two-hour trek up to the Basin, and with Copy-Cat Cove being an half-hour to this side, that would shorten the walk to an hour and a half—and she was already well on her way. Everything would be fine, and she was almost glad, she was, for this chance to undo some of her mother's sadness, for her mother would be proud that she had found Missy and helped her to safety. And Missy would be proud too that she hadn't told anyone of her secret place, or the stranger. Remembering the stranger, she felt a tingle of excitement as the medallion slid coolly across her chest, for it added to her adventure, this foreign object around her neck, and how nice to have something else occupying her mind aside from fairies and stuff.

  Thinking about fairies caused her to glance quickly at the woods crowding the hills, but no, they didn't hold the same curiosity somehow, the fairies didn't, not after meeting the stranger with the scarred face who looked more odd than any fairy she could imagine—except for size. Fairies were no bigger than your little finger, except for banshees who were supposed to be the size of women.

  Pick a healthy stride, her father had said more than once as she trekked behind him down at Chouse, and lean into it like you might a good wind; that way you covers a fair distance without getting winded from all them baby steps and meandering about. And keep to the small rocks, not the big ones, when you're walking on the beach, so's you won't roll on one and twist your ankle.