by Paul Almond
“Maybe Clay and I should go looking?”
She shook her head. “The Lavallées next house, they’ve gone, the b’ye and ’is older brother.”
Nothing for it but to wait.
The fifth or sixth time the old father went to the door, he shouted, “I see ’im, I see ’im!” Everyone, children included, rushed out, though it was freezing, and peered into the dusk. Yes, a dog team with a komatik.
Dorothy, his wife, called, “That’s ’is team, I recognize it.”
Everyone bustled inside while Dorothy put the kettle on and stoked the fire. The children were jumping up and down with excitement. Clay donned his overcoat, sealskin boots, and mitts, ready to help when the team arrived.
The dogs dutifully pulled the komatik up outside the house, yapping and barking, and we rushed out. The man had been haphazardly lashed to the komatik. We undid the wrapping and Clay and I helped him into the house. He looked badly frozen, in fact, half dead. He could not stand on his own.
We got him onto his bed and left his wife to undress him and check out the severity of his frostbite. While Dorothy was in there, the old man found some seal meat for the ravenous dogs and he and Clay went to tend to them.
When Dorothy emerged from the bedroom, she grabbed an axe, gave it to Clay, and asked him if he would snowshoe down to the sea and fill a bucket with saltwater. Clay, of course, did as he was asked.
Then Dorothy sat with drawn face and told us her husband had apparently been out long enough to run out of food, and was on his way home “when the blizzard came on heavy-like.” He had stopped in the cover of some woods and dug a snow cave under the branches of a large spruce. For two days he had lain there, not eating. On the third day when the storm lessened, the starving dogs broke into the komatik box and tore its caribou covering to pieces, ravenous for something to eat. He knew he’d be next. With what little strength he had left and liberal use of the whip, he marshalled the dogs, strapped himself onto the komatik, and lost consciousness, trusting the team to bring him home.
When Clay returned with the saltwater, Dorothy set it on the stove. “Best thing in the world for frostbite,” she said. “His legs is no good. They’re swelling up somethin’ terble. I’m going to bathe ’em in hot saltwater. I ’eard it from my mother. It worked three year ago with Frances next door.”
I myself wished that a doctor had been available but then, on this whole coast, there was not one. Every family, especially those isolated as this, had to be their own middahs.
Later as we were sitting down to a supper of hardtack and some of the cod I had brought in from our supplies, the two French Lavallée lads who had gone searching turned up. When the father opened the door, I saw their worn-out look. “We see not’ing. Pas de signe. De snow, she cover ’is track.”
The lads were, of course, delighted to find that the dogs had brought him back safe. Dorothy invited them in to thaw themselves out and join us in moistened hardtack and fish. After the meal I led this little Catholic group in a prayer of thanksgiving for the safe return of its breadwinner.
With no beds here for us, Clay and I slept on the floor close to the stove, which soon went out. I found myself waking up, shivering, but I was so pleased that this first encounter had not ended in tragedy. Later, I heard that the husband had eventually been able to walk more or less normally.
The next morning Clay and I set off again toward St. Augustine. We made good time across the open ice between the mainland and the islands. At one point, rather than go out around a long cape that blocked the direct route, we decided to take a well-marked trail over it. Going down the far side, we applied the chain drag, which is a chain-rope loop thrown over the nose of the komatik. But still, we began sliding sideways, and finally the sled got away from us. We struck a buried tree trunk and I took a most delightful header into a deep drift of snow.
The dogs were brought up short and waited while Clay disentangled himself from some bushes and trudged up through the drifts to help me get to my feet again. Neither of us were the worse for wear and I found myself laughing. “Narrow escape!” I clapped him on the shoulder and we righted the komatik, thankful that we had lashed down the cargo well enough, and off we went again.
Because the days were still short, there was no possibility of getting to St. Augustine before dark. We both decided it would be safer to spend the night in a copse of stunted trees. I must say I admired Clay, watching him construct a kind of windbreak from chunks of snow with the snow shovel he had brought. Then we lit a fire, heated our tea, wrapped ourselves in blankets and a caribou covering, and fell asleep.
At dawn we were up again and before nightfall had sledded a good long way up the St. Augustine River toward the village of St. Augustine. Clay had been here before and pointed out the Indian reservation on the opposite bank. His cousins lived here so he knew who the lay reader was and after an inquiry got us to Mr. Martin’s house. We were, of course, welcomed, and then, what a delight to discover that his two sons, Albert and John, had returned from hunting with a feast of caribou. Clay went off to stay with relatives here, while I sat down with the Martins to enjoy a sumptuous repast. I must say, having eaten very little for the past thirty-six hours, nothing ever tasted as good as that feed of caribou.
The next day being Saturday, I planned to make pastoral visits and then hold services on Sunday, for St. Augustine was lacking a priest to administer the sacraments. Before retiring, our host asked me if tomorrow I might visit a couple after Christmas whose baby had been stillborn. Apparently the wife was suffering from an attack of guilt. I’d be happy to do that, I replied, but then he added that it might be serious: she could not get out of bed, and they feared for her well-being. That night, lying on the bed they kindly offered me, I couldn’t get to sleep for worry. How would I handle this new challenge? Finally, having sorted through every lesson from my university courses and finding none that helped, I drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter Nine
Clay took the day off to be with his relatives and I travelled round the small settlement on this side of the river on my snowshoes, or rackets. I knew the Roman Catholic priest ministered to the natives on the other side as well as taking care of any of his parishioners here. After a surprise lunch of partridge, or ptarmigan, at the Driscolls’, another lay reader’s home, I set off for the inner edge of the village where the depressed woman was to be found.
I found the simple home and the husband ushered me in, a finger to his lips. The couple seemed in a rather sorry state. After I had taken off my winter outfit, we went to sit by the stove where the husband poured me a cup of tea. His wife lay in their bedroom to one side.
“Aggie just lays there all day, Mr. John. She’s no good for nawthin’. I don’t know what to do with ’er. She moans about bein’ a sinful woman. And there’s no better woman alive than my wife.” I could see tears starting to form in his eyes. “It weren’t ’er fault. Our first baby, born dead. We’ve been wantin’ children now for four year. But she works so hard, she’s never been able to keep one. We both thought this was it.” He shook his head, and put his head upon his hands.
I sipped my tea as I thought about the situation. Here again, I was at a complete loss. When I was growing up, such things were occasionally talked about among the children, but certainly, during my last years of school at New Carlisle Academy and those three years at Bishop’s University, I had never come across anything to guide me in this morbid situation. But then as I looked at the man, I realized I’d better get started. Here I was, supposedly a man of God, just sitting and wondering what to do next. I forced any negative thoughts from my mind and rose. “Fred, I’ll see Agnes now.”
He nodded and gestured to the door, too sad even to move.
At the door to the woman’s room, I turned back. I begged the Lord for something to spring to mind. Fred made as if to rise, and I gestured for him to remain seated. “I had better do this alone.” Good Lord, help me, I prayed, but no help came.
I introduced myself. “I’m stationed at Mutton Bay; this is my first winter trip down along the coast. I came to visit you,” I said gently, “to bring the love of God and the good tidings of Our Lord.”
She closed her eyes and turned her head away, mumbling “not worthy.” No glad tidings would reach her now, I saw that. No good sitting and spouting the Bible. Useless. What on earth could I have been thinking?
And then it came in a flash. Try what I had done with the mad woman. If it worked once before, why not again?
I said, rather sharply, “Your case is not unknown, Agnes. In fact, it’s well documented. And the cure is equally well known.”
She turned back to me, frowning, and opened her eyes. She looked full at me, which is just what I hoped.
“But for the cure to work, you must get out of bed and stand.”
I hoped this would work. I knew it would be no good asking her to kneel: it would sound too pious, too empty. “Come along.” I reached out to help her up. “Your return to happiness is at hand.”
She stayed looking and then as I moved my hands closer, she reached up and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. Then, those bits I had read during one term about some obscure medieval practices came back. Facing her, I lifted my right hand above her head, and proclaimed in a loud voice, “In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, I command you, Satan, leave this good woman forever!”
Then I struck her on the forehead with the flat of my palm, and she gave a moan and fell back on the bed, lifeless.
The door flew open and Fred stood beside me, staring in horror. I could see he was about to strangle me so I turned and stated, in a matter-of-fact voice, “Let us finish our tea, Fred. Agnes will recover soon. And you’ll see the miracle.” I thought that if I said it in a firm enough voice, he might believe me, although I myself had no great faith it would work. I then stepped smartly forward, almost pushing him from the room, and closed the door behind us.
As we went to the table, he looked at me with a kind of awe. “What did you do?”
I whispered quietly, “I told the Devil to leave her, as you probably heard.”
“And you think it was the Devil?”
“You told me yourself that she was behaving in a manner quite unlike her. So who else?”
I had no idea how long I would have to sit, but I was determined to wait until she recovered; I didn’t want to leave them in this state of uncertainty. And before I finished my second cup of tea and another hardtack biscuit, which I moistened by dunking in my mug, I heard a voice from the bedroom. “Fred. Fred, come quick.”
He rose and hurried into the room, closing the door.
I stayed seated, fingers crossed, wondering: whatever would be the result? Should I beat a hasty retreat in fear of my life? Or would he be rejoicing with me that goodness had won out?
Well sir, goodness had indeed won, for she came to the doorway in her nightdress. “I feel, Mr. John, I feel so...”
“....much better?” I nodded, and rose. “I told you, the name of the Lord Jesus will work miracles, whenever it is called upon.” Then we said a few prayers of thanksgiving and I went out into the freezing afternoon.
On Sunday, I had a remarkably good turnout for my two services here in St. Augustine. Mr. Martin and his committee had gathered the town. Both celebrations went well and I was pleased with myself, having had an unusual number of communicants — forty-seven, by my count.
Then, when I was saying goodbye to the parishioners, one rather shabby fisherman lingered behind. When the others had left, he drew me aside and in a low voice told me a startling story.
After he finished, I assured him that I would do what I could, and thanked him. I went back to the Martins, and after a cup of tea and private prayers, I lay in bed, tossing and turning. Every instinct told me to just get on with my journey. But what he said had shocked me. Apparently in a little known community of three or four homes, about six hours’ sledding distant, he’d heard — and even witnessed himself — some strange goings-on. I admonished myself, I am here to do God’s will: how dare I think of bypassing this pastoral challenge? Nothing for it, but I would have to make a visit.
The next day broke with heavy overcast, mirroring my own gloom, but no snow seemed in the offing, so Clay and I set off. He had not slept much the night before, he confessed, having hit it off with one of his cousins, a pretty girl whom one day, if the years were kind, he would marry. They had sat up most of the night talking about it and their future together. She was only sixteen — rather young, I remarked, and alerted him that some rather difficult times might lie ahead, but he did not seem unduly worried, being caught up in daydreaming about her.
We had a hard time finding the cluster of homes because, as it turned out, they were hidden behind an outcropping of grey granite, the top of which had been swept clean of snow by the incessant winds that blew hereabouts. However, that was the landmark indicated by the fisherman, so I guided the dog team around the curved inlet and at the end, we saw the houses.
I cannot say that I was afraid, exactly, but certainly apprehensive. How indeed should I handle this? I said a quiet petition to the Lord, hoping that He would give me strength and wisdom to do the right thing in an extremely difficult situation well outside of my own experience.
Their dilapidated houses gave me the feeling this was a group of rather unlucky fishermen. Who knew what they had to do to survive? I wished I had brought more food but I rejoiced that I had acquired a goodly amount of dried codfish in St. Augustine in anticipation that some parishioners might be in dire need. I headed for the house nearest the sea, for that was the one where the fisherman said its inhabitants needed attention. I called our dog team to a halt, left Clay to deal with them, and knocked at the door.
It opened a crack. The unshaven face looked at me askance.
Thinking fast, I did not introduce myself as a gentleman of the cloth, I simply gave my name and said, “We’re not from here; we’re a bit lost. Might I trouble you for just a quick cup of hot tea? So’s we can moisten our hardtack... and then we’ll be gone.”
He didn’t budge. “My wife is... not well.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that. Can we bring her somewhere? Our dog team...”
He shook his head. “She’ll be fine. Well, come in. I got a kittle hot.”
Grudgingly, he opened the door. I waved to Clay, who had looped the dogs’ traces around a post near the door. Once inside, we tried to ignore the sight of his wife who sat in a rocker next to the stove, head drooping and drool coming out of her mouth. The listless hand clutched a tankard, mostly empty; the whole place smelled of homemade brew.
From behind a shut door I heard a child crying. “Shut up!” the man yelled as he was putting a spoonful of tea in the kettle. The crying continued and he called again, “Keep quiet or ya know what you’ll be gettin’!”
The crying stopped at once.
I saw the whole situation in a flash. The fisherman had been right; these children were in dire straits. But what should I do about that?
I turned and looked at Clayton. He too seemed stunned by what he had absorbed of the situation.
I took off my coat and when the man turned from the stove he saw my clerical garb, and froze. I had worn it especially this morning for just such an occasion, though I normally dress like everyone else. So now I introduced myself and told him I was on a pastoral trip, visiting all our parish members.
“Well, we got nothing here, Deacon. We don’t go to services neither. If you knock two houses up, them’s more likely to put you up for the night. They’ll ’ave your cup of tea too, likely.”
“Oh, it’s not lodging I’m looking for. I just...” I wonde
red what I could say. There were no police, nor magistrates, nor town council that I could report him too. I supposed that’s why that fisherman had approached me after the service. None but the clergy hereabouts to deal with such happenings.
One of the toddler twins then began rattling the handle and banging and kicking at the door. The man moved swiftly across, threw it open so that it knocked that child on the floor, and turned to the other child. Through the open door, I could see that the girl had her waste in her hand and was smearing it on the rug to wipe it off.
“You little son-of-a —” He slapped the tyke on the side of the head, knocking her to the floor, and she let out squeals of dismay. Then he slammed the door, locked it from this side, and came over to me. “Now I’m asking you kindly to leave. As you can see, my wife is in no state to receive visitors. Ever since she ’ad them twins, she’s not been ’erself. We never expected twins no-how. Too much for anyone to deal with, if you ask me.”
Throughout, his wife had not moved. But as he spoke, her tankard clattered to the floor, allowing the few last dregs of beer to spill over the hearth.
I turned to go to the door, gesturing to Clay, who frowned at me. And then I was possessed by a sudden rage. Was I not a man of the cloth? Did I not have a duty to perform? Of course I did.
But what duty?
It was then that I spun on my heel, unable to control my expression of wrath. “Good sir, that treatment of your child is unforgivable. But I do understand the torment. And that of your wife. It has just become too much for both of you.”
At that, he frowned, but softened.
“I think I may have a solution to all your troubles,” I went on.
I stood there, trying to appear calm, doing my best, in fact, to adopt the friendly attitude Our Lord would have shown. But I saw myself, feet apart, standing rigid, looking probably very self-righteous. Was this proper for a man of God? No sir! But I had no control over myself.