Why was a lighted cigarette sitting in that room?
Were there ghosts on Ireland’s Eye? Was someone watching us, some creature, or some half-crazed person who had stayed behind, alone for fifty years on this island in the ocean? Was there any reasonable explanation?
How could a cigarette light itself? I thought for a few minutes, my mind racing, fear making me confused. How can a cigarette light itself?
Then it dawned on me that there actually were ways. What if the boy had had a magnifying glass sitting somewhere between the window and the cigarette? A day with an intense sun could light it, couldn’t it? Then I realized why I had thought of the magnifying glass in the first place—because I had seen one! And it had been sitting near the window too, curiously left propped up on its side. That must be it! I started feeling better.
But I was clutching at straws and I knew it. Imagine how long it would have to have been there. Thirty years or more! A cigarette had been sitting there for fifty years and it was only now that it had caught fire! That couldn’t be the answer. A wave of terror came over me again.
I kept trudging beside my parents, almost ready to cry, my face burning with fear. I remembered what I had heard Grandpa saying to me when I was in trouble at the entrance to Ireland’s Eye. Stay calm. Think. Was there any other explanation?
The fact that we planned a trip to Ireland’s Eye must mean that others come here too. Maybe someone was here recently and left a cigarette on the dresser, and the magnifying glass or some other natural process caused it to light itself. There are so many cloudy days in Newfoundland that there might only be one sunny day for months on end. Surely someone has been here sometime this whole summer! I kept thinking about that magnifying glass sitting on its side. Sure it would be a fluke, and a big one, but it’s a possibility isn’t it?
I wasn’t convinced. But I vowed to stop thinking about it. Mom says there are too many “negative vibes” in the world anyway and that if people thought positively, life would be more positive. For once I decided to take her advice.
“I’ll race you!” I cried out and tore off across the swamp towards the schoolhouse. Mom and Dad hesitated, looking at each other, surprised. Then they ran after me, laughing. I think Mom laughed the loudest.
The swamp was the only large flat piece of land in the town. It sat behind the buildings and was surrounded by trees that went up the far slope of the hill and blocked any view of the other side of the island. It was about the size of two football fields, but no one could have played any kind of ball on this swampy land. People must have invented their own games on the steep rocky hills in town. Maybe in the winter the marsh froze. Now there’s a thought—what a hockey rink! But what if they played on the bay and the whole town watched from their windows?
At the other end of the swamp land we climbed a steep embankment up to the schoolhouse. There wasn’t much room here so we walked around to the other side. The big front door, with a rusty old bell above it, was boarded shut. We moved to the broken windows, but they were too high to look through.
“Here, Dylan,” said Dad, “I’ll give you a boost.”
I put a foot, soaking wet from our swamp march, into his clasped hands and then felt myself going up along the wooden wall. Slowly the classroom, single and huge, came into view. There were toppled desks, a blackboard at the front, a broken globe lying on the floor, and a little cloakroom at the back. But what really got me was what I saw through the long windows on the other side of the room. They seemed to go nearly from the ceiling to the floor and out through them you could see the swamp land and then the trees on the hills in the distance. They filled the whole space. In my school at home all you saw through the small windows of most classes was a wall, though through one or two you could see a McDonald’s and some other stores. I looked out at the trees and the blue sky and imagined sitting here in class seeing that outside!
“Dad! Boost me all the way up.”
Another shove and I was in, landing on top of a desk. I slipped and fell into it and found myself sitting there as if I were in class.
“Be careful!” I could hear Mom shouting.
But I wasn’t listening, for I was suddenly back in time, long before Mom was even born. At the front of the class the teacher seemed to be wearing a costume, her dress flowing down to the floor, and the children all leaned forward working at something on their desks. There were small boys and girls and teenagers who looked almost like adults. They were flesh and blood just like me, some looking neat and tidy and others dirty, with their hair messed. I could have given them clothes like mine and taken them back to Toronto with me and no one would ever have known that they were really people who had lived long ago, people perhaps my grandfather’s age or even older.
I sat at the back and raised my head, looking out through those windows. The sun was gleaming in, leaving squares of sunlight on our backs, and we could hear the birds singing and the water lapping against the shore. Men were shouting as they put their boats into the harbour and mothers were calling out to each other as they worked in their back yards. I wondered what we would all do for fun when the bell rang. Then I remembered that I was the only one not paying attention to my work.
“DYLAN!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you going deaf in your advanced years?” asked Dad.
“What did you call me?” asked Mom.
“Nothing.”
“Good answer. Not a truthful one, mind you.”
“Mrs. Nothing and I would like to know what you see in there? Would that be possible?”
“It’s really neat,” I said, walking carefully towards the front of the class, for some reason picking up desks as I went.
“And…”
“Well, it’s like a real classroom. It’s like they were using it just a few weeks ago or something.”
“Are there any maps or papers around?”
“There’s a globe, but it’s busted. Oh…” I had looked up and noticed for the first time a large roll-down map nailed to a wall and hanging over an old blackboard near the front of the class. It was so dusty that it looked almost the colour of the wall.
“There’s a bigger one too.”
“Look at Newfoundland. Is it the same colour as the rest of Canada?”
I walked over and rubbed off some of the dust.
“Uh…no.”
“It was made before 1949, then.”
Before 1949, I thought, as I walked back into the centre of the room and started running my hands along the initials carved into the desks. Before Barilko scored, before Mom and Dad existed, when Grandpa was young, before Newfoundland was even a part of Canada.
I remembered the story that Grandpa always told about Bill Barilko. After he scored that goal, Billy the Kid went on a fishing trip to northern Ontario, all the way up to Hudson Bay, and the plane crashed and he was killed. The last thing he ever did on the ice was score the winning goal in the Stanley Cup final against the Montreal Canadiens in overtime at Maple Leaf Gardens! But that wasn’t the whole story. They were unable to find the plane for many years and a legend grew that the Leafs would never again win the Cup until the dashing young defenceman’s body was found. From 1951 to 1961 they didn’t even come close. It was said that the ghost of Barilko haunted the Gardens. Then, in the spring of 1962, the Leafs became champions again.… Two months later his bones were found deep in the northern bush.
“Dylan, what else do you see?”
“Uh…uh…not much.” I moved slowly into the cloakroom and peered carefully around the corner. Perhaps there would be a boy’s coat or an old pair of boots inside. But it was empty. I decided to walk back to the window where Mom and Dad were waiting. As I came down an aisle I noticed that one desk, the only one that had been sitting perfectly upright when I came in, had what appeared to be a series of letters carved into it. As I approached I noticed t
hat it was more than just initials; when I came right up to it I realized that my own name was staring back at me, carved deeply into the desktop!
It looked fresh, as though someone had cut it in that very day. I ran my fingers along it and as I did a loud noise came from the front of the room. I whirled around in time to see the big map snapping up. Dust flew off it, creating a thick fog. I stood there, shaking, waiting to see if anyone or anything appeared once the dust settled. But there was nothing except the blackboard and specks glowing like gold in the rays of sun as the dust moved towards me.
“What was that?” asked Mom.
“Nothing,” I said quickly.
As I climbed down from the school window into Dad’s arms my mind was full of questions. How could that map suddenly roll up on its own? Was someone watching me all the time I was in the school? Who? What? Why was my name carved on the one desk that was standing? Why did it look like it had been done recently?
As we started walking away, Mom was a few strides ahead. I hung back with my father.
“Dad?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Was Dylan a common name around here a long time ago?” ‘
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“The name Dylan? I doubt it. It’s been popular since the sixties.”
I didn’t ask why. I didn’t care, frankly. I just wished he had said that it was popular all over Newfoundland for as long as anyone can remember, that just about every kid who had sat in that school would have been named Dylan…and that there was a good reason why my name was freshly carved in a desk.
I must have just imagined it.
“Let’s go up to the church!” cried Mom, far ahead of us by now and unaware that my mood had changed again.
Dad knew differently. He turned his head sideways and looked into my eyes, which were directed at the ground….
“Something you want to talk about?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Look, I know it can be a little spooky here, but it’s a ghost town, remember? I thought that’s why you wanted to come. There’s often a little danger in any good adventure.”
He was probably right. What drew me to the island was what was scaring me now. It was mysterious and dangerous out here, but I’d wanted that, hadn’t I? And there were probably good explanations for all of these scary things. I just hadn’t figured them out yet.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Dad. “Let’s get some grub first, kick back a little. Then we’ll go up and explore the church. How’s that sound, buddy?”
He must really be worried about me. He hasn’t called me “buddy” in years. But I didn’t say anything. He shouted for Mom and she stopped and came back from the spot she had gotten to, about halfway up the rocks towards the church. She looked a little surprised at the change of plans, suspicious in fact, her eyes searching Dad’s face. But he was a great poker player. He didn’t betray any of my fears. He just made another crack about grub and kicking back and got her to laugh. He put his arm around her and we descended to our tent and made our meal.
I did my best not to seem freaked out. But I found myself pacing around, looking over at the mayor’s house and the school, sometimes actually believing that I saw more faces in the windows. I even started walking while I was eating, until Dad very smoothly drew me down to a spot near the fire and started talking about a nice pass I had made to Rhett Norton the last game we’d played. “Relax,” he whispered to me as he stood to go down to the water to clean his plate. He had turned his head so Mom couldn’t see his mouth move.
I tried to. I took my plate, followed him, and squatted down beside him. Dad and I were in the same boat, so to speak. We both wanted to stay here and we both knew that in order to do that we had to hide my fears from Mom. But if I told him what I’d seen in the kid’s room and the schoolhouse, he might get me out of here as fast as Mom. So I had to keep it from him too. It looked like I was going to have to gut this one out and solve these weird problems for myself.
Dad leaned over and whispered to me again, “Uh, you don’t have to wash your serviette, Dylan. They’re, uh, made of paper.” I looked down and saw that mine, held firmly between my two tight fists in the water, was torn to bits and floating away in soggy little pieces. “Smile at your mom when you stand,” he said. I did. She smiled back.
“Look,” he continued, still under his breath and facing the ocean, “we’re going to the church next. How scary can that be? There’s nothing here to be frightened about, believe me. You’ve just let yourself get worked up. You’ll be okay.”
Nothing to be frightened of? I sure hoped he was right. I looked up and saw the church looming on the hill.
We didn’t go to church back home. Mom and Dad gave up religion in university and brought me up to take a scientific approach to things. They encouraged me to have what they called spirituality in my life, but I’d never really figured out what that was. Every religion but Christianity was discussed in our house.
But Dad was probably right again. How scary can a church be? Even if you don’t believe, there’s something comforting in being in a place where people go to pray. So up the hill we went towards it, Mom starting out fast and scampering way ahead of us, Dad second, turning around to see me from time to time as I brought up the rear.
All of the town, other than the landing area and the swamp land, was steep. But the steepness varied. In places it flattened out a little, while in others you felt like you were scaling Mount Everest. The church sat on the rocks at the highest point in the town and getting to it required the skill of a mountain goat. My fear soon lessened as I concentrated on finding the right ridges in the rocks to set my feet on. How in the world did they ever get to church in the old days? Perhaps they flew up here.
The view at the entrance to the church was at least as good as at the mayor’s house. Tired from our climb, we sat on the front steps and looked out over Ireland’s Eye. I imagined the minister or the priest or whatever he was, standing here watching people make their way up the hill towards him, with the bell tolling above. The whole town would look like an anthill, with ants swarming towards him. And anyone who wasn’t coming to church could easily be spotted.
Suddenly the bell sounded.
“Wind,” said Mom, looking my way.
“Wind,” repeated Dad, nodding at me as if I was supposed to nod back.
But the church wasn’t scary at all, just as Dad had predicted. Inside its walls my fear faded even more. It almost seemed to float away. I think Mom and Dad were comforted by the church, too, though they didn’t let on. We walked through the entrance and closed the door and everything was silent. Had it not been for the peeling walls, the broken stained glass and the absence of pews, we might have been in a church back home. Straight in front of us at the other end of the building was a large cross, looking like a plus sign standing tall in the wreckage. On my way towards it I stumbled over something metallic. It was a plaque honouring church members who had died in wars going back a hundred years.
If I had lived here, I would have just let those wars be. Let people in the rest of the world hurt each other if they had to, over disagreements that would come and go. They fought because of things like money or oil or prejudice, over who they thought God was or where a border should be marked, killing each other to make everything right. But here in Ireland’s Eye that all seemed so far away.
To the left of the cross was the place where the minister preached and it looked like it had hardly changed. You walked up a set of stairs and stood inside a circular cubicle that came up to your waist. Your notes rested in front of you. Climbing the stairs, I imagined the minister doing the same, looking down at his people and out through the window at the beautiful harbour. I imagined him praying for men who had gone away to fight in wars on battlefields the townsp
eople would never see, in the world that lay beyond the entrance to Ireland’s Eye.
Standing where the minister stood gave me a feeling of power. I looked down at my parents and smiled. As I did I stepped forward a little and my knee brushed against something. Leaning down, I was surprised to find a huge black bible. I lifted it up, set it on the rest in front of me and blew off the dust. “Ireland’s Eye Church, 1901,” read the inscription on the front page. I opened it, searching for a sentence I might boom out in the church to startle my parents and make me feel like a real preacher. I noticed some passages were underlined. I rejected a few and then found one.
“Blessed are those who mourn,” I read, my voice echoing in the church as I tried to sound ominous, “for they shall be comforted.”
“Dylan, I don’t think you should be doing that,” said Mom. There wasn’t even a hint of a smile on her face. I closed the Bible with a thud and dust went flying up. Then I very gingerly returned it to its spot, as if the lesson for the day was over. I have to admit, I was feeling a little smart-alecky. I suppose you get that way when you go from petrified to normal to petrified and back again every few minutes or so.
“Let’s climb the bell tower,” Mom said, giving me a bit of a look, as if she wondered what the heck was going on between my ears. Exercise was one of her ways of solving problems. At home, she’d run when she was feeling stressed out, as she put it. And here in the church she had spotted an entrance with a busted-in door, off to my right down below the pulpit. She could see that it led upward and the only thing above us was the bell tower. We entered and edged slowly up the winding stairs, each step creaking. By the time we reached the top we were all puffing a little but the view was magnificent, unquestionably the best in Ireland’s Eye. Luckily, Dad had brought his binoculars. He scanned the whole harbour and the gap out into the Atlantic.
“Still stormy out there,” he said. “I can’t understand it. Kind of gives you the willies.”
Mom took a turn with the binoculars for a while and then they were handed to me. I looked at the gap, the mayor’s place, peered into the schoolhouse, the swamp, and then down at our boats. I kept seeing things. In the mayor’s house I thought I saw shadows moving, and near the kayaks in the long grass someone seemed to be lying flat on the ground as if hiding, looking up towards us in the church. But the weirdest thing was something I couldn’t confirm—on my second scan of the schoolhouse, I leaned out of the tower to see as much of the front of the classroom as I could and thought I saw the edge of the big map, the one that had rolled up so loudly when I was near it. It looked to me like it was rolled down again!
The Mystery of Ireland's Eye Page 7