by Paul Almond
Finally, I managed to collect myself and sat up straight. I reached my hand over and clutched hers without looking at her. “You must think me such a wretched coward. A spoilt child. Incapable of carrying out anything worthwhile as a clergyman.”
“No, John. I have been through it and understand. You are by no means weak, but brave to admit such helplessness.”
Yes indeed, of all people, she was the one to know what I’d gone through, for she had gone through so much worse. And I knew I could rely on her not to spread the news of these moments of utter weakness to the rest of the village.
“Now, John,” she said in firm tones as she might use to a child, “you sit here for a while. Aunt Minnie and I have a hot bath for you. You take it, and come back up to bed. In the morning, you’ll feel like a new man.” She paused, and stroked my arm, reassuringly. “This brush with the dark forces, it’ll clean your spirit and build your hopes again. Done you good, I’m sure, though maybe it’s hard for you to see that. I knew somehow it might be coming.”
No doubt, some modicum of truth in what she said. How wise she was! She went on, “And now, tomorrow, you’ll take that funeral like any ordinary clergyman. I know these depths of despair better than you might imagine, and I also know that one can emerge, with God’s grace.”
“Lorna, Lorna...” I wanted to thank her, to explain how important she had become to me now. But all I said was, “You may be right. Although, for the life of me, I can’t see any worth in myself.” I sat straighter. “No, no, despair is a sin. With prayers, I’m sure I shall be able to put it all behind me.”
She got up, quietly closed the door, and left me to myself.
But was I so sure? Not really. In fact, was this the beginning of a doubt about the great compassion I had always believed Our Lord to bestow upon His race? No, I told myself, do not let that in: it could run riot with everything I was doing. I must persevere somehow. I tried to sustain myself by remembering from college that first, or was it the second, proof for God we learned in our first year of Theology: that God, in order to be truly loved, had to give us, His people, our free will. That meant we were, of course, free to make mistakes. And free to turn our backs on Him. So now again, my mind churned, oh yes. Would these setbacks become real obstacles to my belief? I hoped not. I just hoped they would not continue to weigh me down too heavily.
Chapter Seven
At last, Christmas morning arrived. I woke bright and early, for I was taking an early service here in Mutton Bay and then going by komatik to Tabacher, where I was taking a later service. This last while, one of my oldest students in his late teens, Clayton Green, Ivan’s son, had been helping me by driving my dogs and instructing me in the proper manner of doing so. I had changed my pattern. To conserve energy, I taught the first half of the week here and the second half there, so on each trip to and from Tabacher I had been receiving lessons. You shout “ak ak” for right and “radda radda” for left. The team assigned to me seemed more pliable, and certainly less ferocious, than the dogs of Fred’s team which had been put down, the invariable rule once animals had tasted human blood. I confess I didn’t feel sorry for them. I had often visited the father of the lad they had killed, as well as Martha Hackey, the widow whose husband had frozen to death. She seemed to have recovered and was bearing up: her children were at home, but relatives had rallied round to make sure she’d weather the winter.
I got to church early because I wanted to make sure all the decorations were in order. My ladies had done a wonderful job of sprucing up the church, even having made a tiny crêche. The smallish Christmas tree stood in one corner, fetched by our lay reader, Mr. Organ, and his team. Fine wreaths of greenery decorated the ends of the pews, some were even tied with red ribbons carefully saved from year to year.
Everyone turned out on a sunny but cold Christmas morning. A mood of optimism and cheerfulness ran through the congregation as they gathered. The seal hunt was still going well. I had begged off any further involvement, saying I just could no longer deal with so many duties.
Finally, the service began with a rousing Christmas hymn: “We Three Kings.” It was going to be, of course, a Communion service: the wine and bread had been consecrated by Gene. I had begun reading the first lesson when my eye caught a tall figure kneeling in the back row. I looked closer, for it seemed as though a new parishioner had appeared from nowhere. In a community such as ours, not only did we know everyone, but also the last detail of everyone else’s business, as well as all comings and goings. But the figure seemed familiar, and then all at once, it struck me: Lorna! She had come to church.
I got such a surprise that I faltered in my reading and it didn’t help that I noticed her smother a smile as she bowed her head to hide what might be seen as any delight at my discomfort.
Since that night when I had revealed myself rather too openly and she had finally begun to speak, her recovery had been rapid. She had become more involved in village affairs, often going out to help the elderly in return for little favours or exchanges of food that relatives would give to her and that she would bring home. Of course, for me, it was wonderful to have a companion I could talk with, over my hurried breakfasts and in the evenings. When Aunt Minnie retired, Lorna and I would stay up, sometimes quite late, discussing matters that were close to my heart: theology and the teachings of Our Lord. It was particularly enjoyable because my favourite, St. Paul, the travelling saint, had begun to intrigue her as much as me. Together we explored his writings. So it was only natural that she should start coming to church, I reflected, as I kept on with the service.
But when she came to the altar rail for Communion, she appeared so very striking, dressed in an outfit she had not previously worn. Such a transformation! Her appearance set my head spinning, I confess, though I sternly brought my thoughts back to the Lord’s Supper, which I was administering.
Aunt Minnie had been lucky enough to have some of her relatives visit from Harrington Harbour. This Christmas season her niece and husband had sledded in from Wolf Bay as soon as the channel between Harrington and the mainland had frozen over. Her son, Will, whose wife had died soon after the birth of their second child, had also brought his children to visit their grandmother. So we had a housefull. Lorna willingly took on the challenge of caring for them all, making meals from our diminishing store of provisions, and doing a marvellous job, as Aunt Minnie kept saying.
After the service we settled into a fine dinner prepared by Lorna and Aunt Minnie with her niece. The grandchildren loved opening their presents from their father. I had given Lorna a pair of sealskin boots gotten after my seal-fishing trip and Aunt Minnie a crocheted shawl from Shigawake that my mother had given me, as a present for any future landlady. Aunt Minnie professed herself delighted, as did Lorna. Aunt Minnie presented me with a heavy sweater she had knitted while I had been out teaching school. Lorna had been working at Captain Joseph Blais’s simple store, much in need of care when the captain returned from sailing after the freeze up, and he had traded her a wonderful, lined canvas coat for me for my winter’s travelling. It fitted perfectly and I felt rather grand wearing it.
It was painfully obvious to me that Will, Aunt Minnie’s son, had eyes only for Lorna, almost to the point of ignoring his own children. Ridiculous though it may sound, I even felt some stirrings of jealousy. It was clear that he wanted, and what is more, needed, a wife. And I suspected that Aunt Minnie had sent word for him to come and meet Lorna this holiday, though nothing was ever said.
A couple of days after Christmas, we were sitting around the table, gossiping by the light of a coal-oil lamp. It gets dark this season before four in the afternoon, so the evenings are long and by no means as cheery as in the summer. Will was leaning across the table, staring most provokingly I thought into Lorna’s face, who was sitting back demurely, glancing from him to me. Was she aware of what was going on? I was trying not to watch and, glancing out the dark window, I saw without warning, I swear it, some kind of old-fashioned
ghost. It disappeared, and then reappeared. But was it a ghost? It was all white with two big black sockets for eyes. Then a second figure appeared — could that be a witch? I was so startled that I almost spilt my tea. The others whirled round and the two apparitions ducked below the windowsill. I looked at my companions in consternation. And then we heard two sharp raps on the door.
What on earth? My anxiety was by no means vanquished by a burst of laughter from Aunt Minnie. An odd sound like a frog croaking formed the words: “Let the mummers in!”
“Took ’em ’nough time to get ’ere,” was all Aunt Minnie said as she rose and bustled to the door, myself and Lorna remaining at the table, looking at each other and wondering what was going on. Will, of course, had risen with his mother and now welcomed an assortment of what I presume were demented human beings. None but the insane would dress themselves like that.
Men were dressed as women, women as men, old clothes mingled with oilskins, sou’westers, white canvas, and all manner of bizarre garments. Several layers of clothing went to make up these homegrown costumes: dresses over outerwear, skirts over pants, bulges in odd parts of bodies contrived by the mischievous to reshape themselves. Fur hats worn backwards, cloth caps, sacks on which features had been stenciled, with holes cut for the eyes. Some wore higher heels to make them look taller, others came in stout slippers. I detected padding in legs and bellies to make the slender fatter, and loose hanging tunics of sheets to hide those already overweight. One had managed a wig of tousled red wool and had made a fake nose out of cork, outlining thin lips outrageously in red berry juice.
Aunt Minnie quickly explained that between Christmas and the Feast of the Epiphany, Twelfth Night, mummering was all the rage. Our first task now was to guess who these mummers were. We tried to get them to talk by various ruses, but borrowed clothes and cleverly placed padding prolonged the uncertainty for a while. Aunt Minnie and her niece brought out the cakes and jams and goodies which she had been preparing the last couple of days for just this occasion. There was much laughter and fun, though the mummers all kept their voices disguised.
Lorna had the idea of going up to one who looked like a man, and trying to tickle him so that she could tell by his laughter. A couple of women had built themselves out with the use of pillows, large and small. One of Will’s lads grabbed a thread from a corner and pulled on it, unravelling the pillow to spill the feathers all over. They covered the room, causing some merriment.
One of the older men, who later turned out to be John Chubbs, produced a fiddle from under his cavernous uniform and sat down on a chair to strike up a jig. Almost at once, the entire company was frolicking around the room, smearing bits of jam on their faces as they tried to eat under their hoods while someone else’s hat fell on the floor, revealing a mass of red hair. “Aggie Green!” we cried, recognizing the teenager. Her father, Thomas Green, took Sunday School for me, and Clayton, her cousin, was my driver. We went on dancing, and I saw Will go over to try to spill out more feathers from the chest of one of the mummers.
“Ouch!” the mummer cried. “You can’t unravel these!”
We all laughed heartily and in spite of myself, I joined in, grabbing hold of one of the mummers and whirling round in the square dance. Cups of tea were handed out, and sweetened juice. Finally everyone flopped on chairs, tired from the dancing.
“C’mon now,” a gruff and still disguised voice called out. “Come, Mr. John, come, Lorna and Will, you gotta join us. We ’ave another house to go to — one that’s serving something stronger than Aunt Minnie’s juice!”
I glanced at Lorna, who leapt up happily and went across to the pegs by the door, where she grabbed a coat.
“Just a minute,” I called out and tore up the narrow staircase to get her some men’s clothes, even though she was taller, but certainly no heavier, than I was. When I came down, she had gotten me an apron, a shawl and a bonnet, and I proceeded to dress myself as a serving woman. Will had found some fishing gear, put on a heavy sou’wester backwards and fitted an oversize pair of sealskin boots. The niece and her husband elected to stay home with Aunt Minnie.
In our crazy disguises, Will, Lorna, and I joined the others to troop out into the snow and over the bridge to the Hockeys, where the rum would “flow like water.” I was a bit hesitant, not knowing quite how to take this occasion when the devil alcohol would rear its ugly head. But of course, this one-and-only season of mummering was all very much part of tradition. Dancing, drinking, making jokes, cutting up, having fun — I might as well get into the swing of it.
Someone rapped smartly on the door with a stick and the cry went out, “Let the mummers in.”
Uncle Willie Reid threw open his door, and we janneys, as mummers are called, all trooped in.
It so happened there was another group already there, for Willie was known for his generosity with a keg of rum and a barrel of homemade beer. Another fiddler, who had stopped his music when we arrived, struck up “St. John’s Reel” and our fiddler joined him. Willie went around filling up the cups with rum or homemade beer. I allowed myself to take some and when I glanced, I saw that Lorna too was enjoying a tot.
What a marvellous evening! Willie’s place was big enough for us all to dance two separate circles, and one young woman had brought over some salt pork from her mother’s, so the food and drink flowed and we danced ourselves merry.
The party seemed to be winding down. The last reel had ended up in a frenzy of spinning, after which a couple of the men found themselves sitting on the floor, having fallen over. The fiddlers and feet beaters stopped and helped themselves liberally to jugs of beer, while the rest of us, knowing by now who each other was, began to collect our wits.
Three or four of the older folk began putting on their coats to leave. Will had poured himself another cup of rum, and I followed him as he crossed to where Lorna was talking to a couple of the ladies. She was still dressed as a man but had taken off the sheet over her face so that she could breathe more easily while dancing. She was flushed and I must say looked extremely pretty.
“So, Will,” I said, “I think it’s my bedtime. I’m heading back to your mother’s.” I glanced at Lorna. “Perhaps you’re ready to go, too?”
“Oh no.” Will took her by the arm. “She’s staying, there’s still a lot of life in the old fiddler yet. We’re gonna dance a couple more, eh Lorna?”
Lorna shook her head. “I’m sorry, Will, I do think it’s my bedtime. You forget I get up early to prepare everything. I’ll come with you now, Mr. John.”
Will frowned. “No, no, no, Lorna stay a bit. You gotta stay a bit.” He pulled her to him and put an arm around her waist. I cringed inwardly but tried to show nothing. She gently disengaged his arm and then, quickly dodging his other attempt to grab her, hurried across the room to get her coat. I followed her and out the door we went.
She shook her head as we went down the steps and headed up the path. “My head feels light,” she said. “Time we left for sure.”
I saw her tottering and hurried close, whereupon she seized hold of my waist to steady herself. “Hang on to me, Mr. John. I don’t feel so well.”
Fortunately, I had stopped at two good swigs of rum myself and so felt confident on my feet, but she was distinctly tipsy, through no fault of her own, I was quite sure. No matter what man she was dancing with, and I danced with her too, each tried to pour more rum into her in spite of her protestations.
So the two of us, clutching each other, struggled home over the icy bridge — I would almost say staggered, but that would apply more to her than to me. At the end of the bridge she had to stop and lean against the rail. But she didn’t let go of my waist.
We stood together and then her head fell against mine, so that her hair, which by now had fallen loose, surrounded me. I breathed in its essence in the night air. We looked out into the moonlight falling on the hills of Mutton Bay.
The sounds of a fiddle from another house drifted across the white spaces. A few dog
s barked. Otherwise, all was silent. Although cold, it was not bitterly so. I found it impossible not to wonder at the still beauty of the night. We remained silent, close, for I still kept hold of her, afraid she might fall.
She turned to me, and looked into my eyes with unspoken, innocent longing. Our faces were only inches apart. “Time we got back,” I said firmly, and moved her off from the bridge across the snow-covered rocks toward Aunt Minnie’s.
“I’ve gotten to know you pretty well, Mr. John.”
“Oh dear,” was all I could reply.
“No, Mr. John, you’re such a good and fine man. Even if you had not rescued me, I know that my feelings for you would have —” and she slipped and almost fell.
I grabbed hold of her and although she was a couple of inches taller, briskly manoeuvred her the rest of the way, up the three stairs to Aunt Minnie’s, and inside. We divested ourselves of our heavy coats and she flopped on a chair, shaking her head.
“I don’t think I can navigate those stairs,” she said in a small voice.
“That’s no trouble. I shall help you.”
She looked up at me with such big dark eyes, almost as a child might look up at her father. Or was that possibly a different kind of affection?
I helped her climb, step by step, quietly so as not to wake Aunt Minnie and the children. We gained the upper landing and she leaned against the wall. “My head is spinning.”
If I let her go, I knew she’d fall, so with my arm still around her waist and her arm over my shoulder I moved her forward, turned left, and opened her bedroom door. I couldn’t just push her into the room, so indeed I went in with her and walked her over to her bed.
She flopped on it and sat there, and then shook her head and passed her hand over her brow.