by Paul Almond
She shook her head sadly, turned away and leaned back against the rail looking across the deck toward the gulf. “Those were words I longed to hear for so many weeks. But then, when I saw you weren’t ready, I had to prepare myself. I had to go out, work hard, earn my passage. I shall go home, get a job. I’m young, you saved my life, yes, but now, I’ve got to live it.”
With that, she straightened. “I must go. This is hurting me beyond any words that you or I could speak.” She left the rail, walked steadily to the companionway and disappeared down into the fo’c’sle.
I watched her go, and then, like one who has been battered by the worst of storms, or struck by lightning, or left adrift on an open boat, utterly stranded and lost, I turned and climbed over the rail and down into the boat, where Uncle Hollis sat waiting for me.
In my room, I found the letter:
Dear Jack,
I know this will come as a shock, but I am leaving on the schooner in an hour. I have been meaning to sit down and talk to you about it, but it just didn’t happen. In a way, it’s almost better that I write, because I can say things that I’m not sure I could bring myself to utter, looking into your kind brown eyes.
When you rescued me from that schooner, I thought never in my life would I go near another man. I was somehow frozen inside. Deep down, only blackness, and nothing I could ever do would allow me to face normal people again. As you remember, that ice froze my tongue, too.
But little by little, your kindness, your understanding, your warmth, seemed to thaw my frozen heart. And not only thaw it, Jack, but made it leap into flame.
It did take a while, but now I feel almost whole again. I don’t know how exactly I shall face the world back in Truro. But your face and your faith will go along with me.
I know you must have asked yourself, why ever did she get on board that ship? Well, the money. No work for a woman in Truro. So I thought I could handle it. Yes, I’d heard rumours about ship’s cooks, but the captain welcomed me with open arms, and for the first month I was left quite alone. I even began to cook not badly, and everything went well. It was only those last couple of weeks that those nameless things began to happen. And now frankly, Jack, I can tell you, thanks to you I have almost freed myself from frightening dreams.
What a shame you were not ready. I can’t keep on like this, too hurtful for me, so I have only to leave and to wish you well. You will be, I presume, soon going to another parish. I would have so enjoyed going there at your side. But although I did what I could to encourage you to bring me along, I did not succeed.
I looked down, and saw the letter getting wet. Tears? Oh yes, falling on it. I held it up to read on.
And so farewell, dear Jack. I shall always remember you, always love you. And, I believe, nurture that faith in the Lord which you have given me.
God Bless you, Jackie dear.
Lorna.
Chapter Twenty-Two
What was there left to do?
Should I take the next schooner bound for Nova Scotia and try to find her? Out of the question: I had my responsibility to God and my parish. I could not allow myself to shirk that.
Write to her? What good would that do? Her mind had been made up, slowly but surely over the past weeks. I felt so bereft. As I lay back on my bed, I felt I was plummeting down some everlasting chute into eternal blackness.
I just couldn’t see anyone. I stayed in my room, giving Aunt Minnie the excuse that I had a difficult sermon to write, and when the morrow came I took the service without inspiration. Come come, I told myself, here you are, doing God’s good work, let that suffice to inspire you as you read aloud the service and preach your sermon. But no, I was lost.
I made myself go back to work on the boat Monday, but I could hardly face Owen. He knew something was pretty wrong but said nothing, and I certainly didn’t enlighten him. But then I soon realized that the whole village knew of Lorna’s departure. She had been a common sight everywhere, such a striking, willowy, glorious woman with her flashing dark eyes, her black, shiny hair, her red lips and cheeks — oh Lorna, Lorna!
Stop that! I commanded. Every time you think of her, you plunge further into that ridiculous Slough of Despond.
On Monday, after a night of emptiness, knowing I’d never be happy ever again, I made myself go through desultory preparations to leave with Owen. But these were interrupted by Aunt Minnie. “There’s a bunch o’ young scoundrels at the door asking for you.”
“Schoolchildren?” I forced myself to go right down. “Thank you, Aunt Minnie.”
I was greeted by five or six rather excited youngsters. Their ringleader was a thin, blond boy with glasses, probably about eight or nine. I remember Peter as having a grown-up mind, alert and creative, a lad whom I had marked out as my most promising among the smaller students.
“We want to go bird egging,” he said. “Can you come?”
“Me? I don’t know anything about gathering birds’ eggs, Peter,” I said. “I’m really occupied. I’m sorry. What about your parents?”
“Our parents is all off working. So my dad said to ask you. He said, he’s a clergyman, he don’t do nothin’ all week, he’ll come.”
I smiled inwardly. Of course, if you aren’t fishing, or hunting, or knitting nets, you’re doing nothing. Perhaps to be charitable, he meant now that school was over. So what was I to say? “All right, let me get on a proper pair of boots and a coat.”
Off we went. I felt like the Pied Piper with a string of children, heading up into the hills between here and Tabacher where the shag and gulls were nesting. I knew only too well how this community depended upon eggs to supplement their spring nourishment after our long winters. Shag eggs were the largest, but wouldn’t fry up, they could only be used for baking with their lighter yokes. Seagulls produced darker yokes, and with any luck the boys sometimes found duck eggs, their biggest treat, for they were larger and tasted closest to hen’s eggs. No little murre eggs around Mutton Bay: they nest further north.
I confess the happy chatter of the children did something to take my mind off my own despair; they kept throwing questions at me, for they loved learning. And I kept throwing back the answers. I would tease them, and they’d giggle: a good hour’s walk. We came over a crescent and saw, just across the divide, a cliff with seabirds circling, among them a host of gulls called kittiwakes, wingtips dipped in black ink. I loved them, such lovely and hardy birds, small and agile.
“It’s over there,” Peter cried, and we proceeded to clamber over onto a barren shoulder of rock, back by some woods. The children got even more stimulated, though they kept their voices low as they had been taught. “But now, you’ve all got to be careful,” I cautioned. “I don’t want anyone falling.”
“Oh no, we never fall, we know how, we’ve done it before,” they chorused. I watched as some began to climb down the sloping cliff to my right, and others gingerly eased over the edge in front of me to find the most accessible nests. I shook my head, my despair returning, and headed back to the woods to sit. But then I heard a flurry of wings and was knocked flat. I lay stunned. The back of my neck hurt badly, and when I felt my head, it seemed wet: blood? Yes, it had been gashed. What had happened?
The children were screaming and scrambling away. A great, brown bird, an eagle, had swooped low, harassing them, protecting its nest. So that’s what had whacked me! Then to my horror, I saw it dive at Peter. It attacked the little lad, striking a mighty blow with its claws. He fell senseless. The eagle swooped lower, striking at his head and shoulders with its mighty beak. Then it grasped him in its talons and attempted to drag him off the cliff.
Peter was too heavy, but the eagle persevered: closer and closer to the edge they went.
I rolled onto all fours and scrambled to make a dive at Peter’s legs. The eagle took swipes at us. I tried to bat it away. It just rose again, hovered, about to strike. As quickly as possible, I lugged Peter’s body toward the woods, but the eagle dove again. I dropped Peter, grabbed a
dead branch, swung it wildly, and shouted. As it soared off, I yelled to the others, “Into the woods!”
The children had already run to safety, leaving only Peter and me in the open. Stunned and bleeding myself, I got Peter into the shelter of some spruce, where I laid him down to check his cuts. A lot of gashes. What should I do to staunch the bleeding? He was still out cold.
The children clustered around. As I bent over him, I saw that I was bleeding too, because more blood fell on him. I only hoped the eagle had not broken his neck.
The question was: being an hour’s walk from civilization, what should we do?
His bleeding was spurting, meaning that the eagle had severed an artery. I found where to press my thumb and stopped it. My mind raced. I felt my neck to see if I could staunch my own flow. One little girl, Jenny, a bright little thing, came over. “Jenny, feel my wound there, that one, press your fingers, see if you can stop the blood coming.” I was already feeling a bit faint.
She did as she was told, and soon let out a whoop. “I got it. I got it, Mr. John! I stopped it.”
“Good girl Jenny!” But if I started to carry Peter homeward, he’d bleed again, the main danger right now, and so would I. We had to remain quiet. I hoped he would not come to, and thus remain still. “Now listen everyone! Jenny and I will stay here with Peter and you must run off to Aunt Alice Gallichons’, the middah. Tell her what’s happened. Get her here as quickly as you can. We’ll wait.”
The three children looked at each other, very worried, and one of them started to cry.
“Now now, don’t worry. Everything’s fine. We know how to stop the bleeding. All we need is the middah with bandages and she’ll fix everything. So you all must be very clever. You must run as fast as you can for the middah. All right?”
“All right,” they chorused and off they went.
Once bandaged up and safely back in my bedroom at Aunt Minnie’s, I lapsed again into my former gloom, only worse. Aunt Alice had come after what seemed an age, but in reality was not long, and had brought men who contrived a sling to carry Peter back. I was able to limp home.
That night Peter had revived, and although badly hurt, would live. But myself, knowing that a child had been injured while in my charge, I saw my already shaky self-confidence disappear altogether. Our rescuers had been quick to say they laid absolutely no blame at my doorstep. But I knew in my heart that if I had not been so preoccupied, I would have paid more attention to our surroundings and its dangers. The accident need never have happened.
I felt even worse than in the winter when the dogs had killed that other lad, for this time, I was directly to blame. And what is more, I now had no Lorna to lift me out of my doldrums — none of her understanding, her tenderness, her encouragement. How easily I could reveal my despair to her, back then. In fact, never again would Lorna be at my side, encouraging, making meals, brightening my life with her banter and gay laughter.
How desolate all existence seemed, oh yes! I counted on some form of enlightenment, some way to take away this horrible emptiness, this guilt, and the knowledge it had all been my own doing. I had lost with Lorna; I had failed miserably with the lad in my charge; I was utterly worthless, of no use to anyone, and I wanted to end it all.
And the good Lord, I called out to Him, why are you leaving me to this despair? Why are you not rescuing me? Right now is the time for You to appear in person. Or in a vision. Come now, Lord, all along I have been waiting, waiting for You, all along I have been patient. Where are You?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nothing for it but the next day, the eagle’s wound healing, I journeyed east with Owen to St. Paul’s River, calling at various missions on the way — mainly the smaller settlements, for Gene would want us to spend time together at the larger villages. And still my despair continued: every morning I felt as if a ton of lead pressed me onto my bunk: such an effort to get out of it and help around the boat. I did finally confess my problem to Owen, only touching on it briefly. All he said was, “I knew that was it. They all been talking about ’er leavin’.”
Eugene and Anna Bell welcomed me to their temporary home in St. Paul’s River with great delight. They had been expecting us, and after we got settled, they laid on a grand dinner of stewed murres, seagull eggs, and a fine cake that Anna Bell had baked covered in last year’s bakeapple preserve.
I did my best to respond to their high spirits, but I know they saw something was missing in me. On Sunday I assisted Gene at his farewell service. Earlier this winter, he’d been felled by an accident and had to go home to Quebec, but had soon returned to St. Paul’s River. He didn’t really want to discuss the injury, but obviously, his leaving this community for good now touched him deeply. He assured me that I would be returning myself next year, for that was the pattern that had been laid down over the past few years. Knowing more of these things than I did, he assured me he would prepare a letter of commendation to be signed by him and our church warden in Harrington Harbour, Daniel Bobbitt, to be given to the bishop, one of the prerequisites of my becoming ordained as a full priest. He said he would deliver it to the bishop on his return to Quebec, while I went for my summer break to Shigawake.
The weather held good, and we made it back to Mutton Bay in short order, ministering to the main clusters of parishioners on our way. I asked Gene if he would mind staying for two Sundays, in other words about ten days. Our good people here had finished the Host he had sanctified last autumn, and I had not been able to give them Communion since Easter, when I had unfrozen the last of the bread that he had blessed.
Curiously enough, it was not so much the Bible that helped me through these next harrowing days, but rather, a rereading, several times, of Pilgrim’s Progress. No doubt about it, I was certainly entrapped in Doubting Castle by the dreadful Giant Despair, and although I searched myself, I could not find the key that I knew must also lie within myself.
And indeed, this whole journey felt perilously close to Mr. Christian struggling through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, as pitch black to me as to him, and equally filled with phantoms, attendant hobgoblins, satyrs, and dragons of the pit. But I drew some consolation from the parallel. It seemed as though the only way to get through the valley was by perseverance.
So yes, the solution: persevere! Keep going, no matter what. After all, once he had passed the Gate of Hell, he did end up seeing a glimmer of light at the end of the Valley. And that was how I came to believe that perhaps I should change my attack.
I went off to be alone all one day, and the next, into the interior, and in the ensuing silence, I made a resolution: commit myself to some form of penance. Physical employment. Atonement.
Yes, unless I started to share fully in the lives and occupations of my parishioners, how could I really return as their full priest? So on Monday morning, endeavouring as always to lift the monstrous weight off me and block the waves of blackness drowning me, I went to enlist myself as a helper on Hollis Mansbridge’s stagehead. Though I could not ever bring myself to hope for much, it might just cast aside my ever-present loneliness, this longing for my lost love.
Fishing was in full swing. The day began with their going out before dawn to pull in the nets and empty their cod traps. This year the fish were not being caught in any numbers that would guarantee security this winter, so everyone was worried. Every staple needed to support life was only bought by trading dried cod. In autumn, schooners would pick it up for distribution overseas, either in the Caribbean or Europe. Dried cod from the Canadian Labrador was not up to the quality of Paspébiac fish, due, I believe, to differences in the weather. On the Gaspé, Charles Robin had the advantage of good, clear, drying days, whereas here, fog, rain, and dampness made drying the cod more difficult. But our processed cod still traded for meat, salt pork, spare ribs, flour, oatmeal, dried peas, beans and sugar, and sacks of potatoes and turnips.
This work — I’ve never seen the like. When I arrived, I was taken around his operation by Hollis wh
o looked so different in his old smelly fishing gear than in the fine suit he wore to church.
I began going out with the boats before dawn and when I returned to shore, the work got even harder: tossing fish with two-pronged forks onto the stage by the splitting table. Hollis’s youngest son, Bert, would grab a fish with his left hand, thumb in its eye socket, and slice the cod’s throat, give her another slice the length of the belly, then pass it to me. I’d gut it, snap off its head which I’d toss into a barrel, throw its liver into another, and then pass the body on to Clayton, the real expert, who split the fish: in two cuts he’d rid the carcass of its backbone. The resultant flat bodies were then heaped at one side to be salted and kept for a goodly time, after which they were washed, and then taken out by the women to spread flat on the granite rocks and left to dry in whatever sun appeared.
By nightfall, I found it hard to stand upright. My heavy trousers and shirt were laden with sweat and encrusted with salt. But long after dark the work went on, and when I came home, my eyes were red, my hands sore, fingers bleeding.
Those gallant women — I had really no idea how hard they worked until I joined this production line and later became a part of their operation, turning the fish every few hours, covering it at night, uncovering it at sunrise, and when rain came, racing to gather the bodies into neat stacks and covering them, then uncovering them when the rain cleared. Apart from the back-breaking work of bending and turning, the women mixed dough for the bread they baked every couple of days, carried buckets of water from barrel to vegetable plot, weeded the tiny gardens, got meals for the men back from fishing or off the stagehead, carried firewood for the stove, washed the dishes, got scalding water from stove to washtub outside, bent to scrub dirty clothes on washboards. Whew! They even had to make the soap themselves, from ashes and fat, before starting the fishing. And their tiny garden plots, how did they ever build them, I wondered. Well, one bucket of soil at a time over the years.