The Hero

by Paul Almond

  Eric frowned, then looked at her and brightened. “I still have a bit of a nest egg, you know.”

  “Oh, the travel costs would not be important. As I told you when we got married, the Mater did promise us a honeymoon. I recently suggested a trip around the world — and she agreed!”

  Eric looked up, startled. “She did?”

  “She can be oddly generous at times. I don’t know what possessed her. She never increased my allowance when I left. Leo lives in the lap of luxury at home, but for some reason they both think Hilda and I should get by on our own. Which of course, we do.”

  “A trip around the world,” Eric repeated. And then he said, “Might it include a stop in the Holy Land?”

  “Indeed it might.”

  C H A P T E R S E V E N T E E N

  Ten days after the ordination, Eric and Rene watched their liner’s slow progress out of Sydney Harbour. At the rail, Eric shielded his eyes as he looked for the last time at their former apartment, the Georgian house atop Woolloomooloo Hill.

  He lifted his arm in farewell and turned to Rene. “Wave goodbye.” She followed suit. “Sad at leaving?”

  She shook her head. “In fact, I’m pleased at last to have time to relax. These last two months since we decided to leave, I’ve done nothing but make arrangements, see to the continuation of the school, arrange for Hilda to come. Not a second to myself.”

  “I know, my dearest Joy.” Eric had taken to calling her by this nickname.

  “And neither have you, Eric. You’ve been a wonderful, help.”

  “But what about the school you built and all that?”

  “The pupils, yes, I was sad to say good-bye. But a lot were dropping out. Awful to watch everything weaken and die with this coming slump. What does it say in the Bible? To everything there is a season. I loved my time here down under, but now,” she turned and brightened, “on to something new.”

  “Well, I enjoyed helping you. And with everything else, you were just super to put on that little reception after I was priested for Canada by the Archbishop.”

  Rene smiled. “Didn’t he enjoy himself! I don’t think he’s had as much to drink in a long time!”

  Eric laughed. But he kept his eyes fixed on Woolloomooloo Hill as, with the ship picking up speed, it receded from their view.

  Countries came and went. They stopped in Ceylon for a couple of days: a wonderful time, sightseeing in rickshaws. Rene noticed how the strain of Eric’s exams, his Ministry and his teaching of little scallywags, all drained away. He looked and clearly felt like a new man. Ready for anything. And then, they reached his one much-anticipated destination: the Holy Land.

  The American Colony Hotel,

  Jerusalem, Palestine.

  February, 1930.

  Dear Hilda,

  We have finally arrived in British Mandated Palestine. We landed at Jaffa and got a bus to Jerusalem where we’re installed in the American Colony Hotel, with generous spread-out rooms, just up from Damascus Gate. Its lovely buff-coloured stone has rounded arches like an Arab dwelling, around a charming courtyard.

  On the whole, the trip has been wonderful. Eric was pleased with the accommodation on board. Unlike his coming to Australia, when he slept in a six-berth interior cabin, we are on the first-class deck with a lovely large window. I have been mixing with the others perhaps more than Eric, who prefers to lie out and read, but of course, he takes his vigorous constitutional during the morning, which I do with him, and also we love playing quoits and shuffleboard.

  I’m not sure I should relate this, but I do feel like telling someone. Make sure it goes no further!

  Eric threw the entire steamer trunk of my better dresses, my trousseau, and some fine linens, overboard!

  Well, I’m sure it was all my fault. At first I was furious, of course. Then I got worried — not the action of a rational man, I thought. But you see, once I’d called it up out of the hold, I had spent the day going over which dress I should wear for the Gala Dance before we arrived in Ceylon. Eric wanted to read, and I kept asking him about different outfits, trying them on, looking at myself in the mirror — things I normally never do. You know me, I usually throw on anything at hand and get going. So the whole atmosphere of First Class had infected me. Those dreadful women spend all their time commenting on what everyone is wearing, so each woman becomes an object of intense scrutiny.

  That night when I was asleep, I suppose Eric had decided enough is enough. He wheeled the trunk out of our cabin onto the deck and then, as he told me later, enlisted the help of one of the cabin boys to throw the whole thing overboard. The next morning, after I got up, I realised there was no trunk.

  Eric was washing and I asked him, “Did you see where my trunk went?”

  He turned, razor in hand, face half-lathered, and replied, “I think David Jones is delighted. It’s safe in his locker.”

  Davey Jones’ Locker is what they call the bottom of the ocean.

  I’m sure I must have looked in complete astonishment. I was absolutely staggered, my dear Hilda. “But why?” I asked.

  Eric simply returned to his shaving, and then said, “Man is hampered by his possessions.”

  Well, I tell you! That did take me aback. As I mentioned I was furious. But in the ensuing days, I gradually came to realize that he might have been right. I had become too involved in petty details, such ridiculous things as how I looked, which as you know is not my wont. I think Eric preferred the old me. Well, he got it. No more preening in front of mirrors! First-class women or no first class. And after that, you know what? I enjoyed the voyage even more!

  You can make of that what you will, dear Hilda.

  I’m hoping you enjoy teaching the students and running the school. You’re a brick to have come so quickly to take over. I look forward to hearing word, but I fear that I’ll have to wait until we reach Canada. We’re going to spend almost a month here in the Holy Land, for this has become, for Eric, the raison d’être of our trip. The closer we got, the more excited he became.

  There is so much to see! So many things date from very far back, some places, I am told, to the time of Christ Himself. We are going to be walking in His footsteps, Eric says. Might you take a trip here, too? Though I know you’re not particularly religious, in that sense of the word. And neither am I. But I look forward to a wonderful time seeing the Holy Land through Eric’s eyes. In fact, now that I’m thinking of it, I shall keep a diary. If it’s not too personal, I shall send it one day.

  Your devoted sister, Rene

  Bethany

  Today, we walked to Bethany, beyond the Mount of Olives, as our Lord did many times to visit his friends Martha and Mary, and their brother Lazarus. We began at the Catholic church of St. Peters Gallicantu (cock crow) and it was not long before we were taken down into the bowels of the church to see the dungeons, where the guide claimed our Lord had been held that Thursday night while undergoing his trials.

  Eric stood stricken, looking into that darkened hole. No doors. Prisoners were lowered — or thrown down — through that. I began to be afraid that perhaps this whole experience would be too much for him; I am always on the lookout. But no, he was just absolutely drained — I believe putting himself back into those awful times before the crucifixion. He stayed that way for a long time, until the guide became bored and tried to hurry us a long. Eric snapped at him, rare for him, and then we went outside and lo! We stood on the very steps, large, grey paving stones, leading down toward the Kidron Valley, on which the actual feet of Our Lord walked that dreadful night.

  Eric knelt and kissed one. I was a bit embarrassed, but not he! For the first time in our lives, we were walking where Jesus himself had actually walked, two thousand years ago. Not hard to understand what it meant for Eric.

  Down we went and crossed the Kidron Valley, with its Church of the Assumption of Saint Mary, His mother, facing us just across the little bridge. Amazing, this one lane carries so much traffic: Arabs riding on their little donkeys, b
icycles, mule carts, an occasional car — chaos!

  We walked up the long slanting road that climbs the Mount of Olives and at the top we stopped and sat in a grove of olive trees, so very old and twisted. Sheep grazed here, attended by a scrawny Arab urchin in a tunic, nothing else, though I found it quite cold. Snow had fallen during the night but had mostly melted, except for up here. It’s mid-winter of course; I’d forgotten, having lived below the equator for so long.

  From his old haversack, Eric got out our packed lunch, but I warned him, “He’ll come after us...”

  “Exactly!” Eric called to the boy, who didn’t turn. He called louder. Then he got up, went over and tapped the little lad on his shoulder. It came to me, then, that he was deaf and dumb. Eric held out our lunch pack. The boy drew back, afraid. Eric opened it. The lad looked, saw the food, and then snatched it. Now what would we eat? I wondered. I have never in my entire life seen anyone wolf down food as did that little lad.

  Eric smiled and came back to sit, contented. Not for a moment did he regret losing his luncheon picnic.

  “The actual Garden of Gethsemane is further down, or so they claim,” Eric went on, his mind on the footsteps of Our Lord, unaware of how much he himself was walking in them with his actions. “They can’t really know, or guess, where exactly they seized Him. But this is as good a place as any to rest and reflect on that event.”

  As he was sitting, the little lad came up to him and put his hands together and bowed a little ceremonial thanks. Eric nodded, pleased. Then the boy went back to his sheep.

  I got out my Baedeker and read while Eric sat thinking. I love that guidebook.

  After a time, we got up, walked over the brow of the hill and on down the old Roman road eastwards towards Bethany, a small cluster of mud and cement huts. Heavens, the people are poor here. No wonder children are forever begging after money or sweets. But I shan’t write about this here. What I’m hoping is that later in Canada, my diary will remind us more of the wonderful things we’ve seen, and how Eric is benefiting from this before he gets a parish.

  When we came to the little hovel which the guide fatuously claimed was the genuine original house of Martha and Mary, we were both a bit stunned. What a mess this village is! Imagine! Bethany. But more and more I’m realizing that my British background is interfering with what I grasp must be a very different way of life — perhaps not all that dirty either, which Eric maintains in our evening talks. These disreputable Arabs only appear that way through our own failings.

  The guide took us down to what he claimed was the tomb of Lazarus.

  “Good a place as any to read about that event.” Eric took out his ever-present Bible and read how Our Lord brought Mary’s brother back from the dead. But hearing it gives one no sense of what it’s really like. I find I’m learning that all the time. Amazing the poverty and simplicity of these people and these mud huts where the Lord of all the world stayed to dine.

  Eric hoped to press on towards Jericho for the Monastery on the Mount of Temptation, carved right into those steep high cliffs down the old Roman Road. I felt in the mood for a hike myself; it might have relieved what I realized was my sense of responsibility — and even nervousness — about Eric. But the guide told us it would be too far, there and back, for one afternoon, so we left it to another day when we’ll hire a car.

  The Sea of Galilee

  What a packed couple of days! Full of ups and downs. Yesterday, we did hire a car and drove down to the Jordan Valley and later to Jericho. Eric wanted to see the site where St. John did his baptizing, so our Arab driver brought us to a place among the reeds where we got out and walked forward — to stop in dismay. What a shock! That muddy creek before us — surely not the legendary River Jordan? Eric had been thinking of his St. Lawrence River, which even at its most narrow near the city of Montreal, took an engineering feat to throw a bridge across the vast width. “Not even as big as our salmon rivers in Gaspe,” he mumbled.

  Afterwards, we did get the most magnificent view at a ruined Crusader castle called Belvoir. Belvoir means “beautiful view” and it certainly was that. But as we climbed into the ruins and looked out, we were both again astonished. The view was marvellous — that whole valley held in its lap the Sea of Galilee. But the sea itself! Again, Eric remarked, smaller than the Quebec lakes he knew. Indeed, that did build my excitement at our heading for his Canadian wilderness. But at the moment, it was hard to see how this lake could generate those great storms one reads about in the Bible.

  As we drove down towards the lake, we saw a woman with a huge bundle of sticks on her head, and Eric grew excited again and quoted, “I see women as trees, walking” — something like that, from where Jesus healed a blind man. It made sense to him for the first time. He’s learning so much.

  We got to the shore and stayed at the Galei Kinneret, an excellent hotel by the standards hereabouts. And then this morning, off we went with our hamper of food round the Sea of Galilee. Although we drove slowly, in only half an hour we reached the north end of the ‘sea’ to the ruins of Capernaum, now controlled by the Franciscans. Wandering around the tumbled down old synagogue where Jesus once taught, Eric told me about His healing the centurion. This village was apparently home to Peter, and also the apostles Andrew, James and John. I had read in Baedeker that close by stood the village of Cana, where Our Lord turned water into wine – his first miracle.

  We must drink to that! Eric said, as though it were part of a ritual he had planned. We sat in the sun on upturned Roman pillars while he broke out our bottle. This winter day turned out to be warm and not many visitors because the site was closed to locals, forced to leave their soliciting at the gates. After a couple of glassfuls, I was a bit alarmed to see Eric break out laughing, almost hysterically. I cautioned him against drinking too much in this heat with nothing on his stomach.

  “Do you know,” he said through his giggles, “Mother wouldn’t let a drop of alcohol in the house? Earle had to keep gin under his bed. That ‘religious’ Women’s Christian Temperance Union used to meet just up from our house — all against drink.” He broke out laughing again. “Imagine! — Our Lord turns water into wine, and darn good wine it was too, the Bible says, and yet the women get all fussed over a drop of alcohol.”

  He got up, shook his head, and we wandered back to the car where our guide, having fallen asleep, woke up and drove us back along the shore till we stopped, as Eric had planned, at one of the rolling grassy slopes. Up we walked and sat to picnic overlooking this “Sea of Galilee”. Eric got out his Bible and read the Beatitudes, that collection of sayings. He asked me to imagine the hundreds sitting there, youngsters playing, babies nursing, old men and their families sprawled around, even right up to the feet of where He stood. Lots of the very poor, the sick, the maimed, some with evil spirits as they called crazy people. But each one forgetting their sicknesses, the murmur having gone round, “He’s coming soon.” Eric talked excitedly, almost possessed.

  I’m gradually discovering that these intense emotions don’t necessarily bring on that dreadful condition caused by Eric’s years in horrible battles. I must teach myself to stop worrying. Who could not be affected, as we both are, by walking in His footsteps? Hearing His sounds: donkeys braying, roosters calling in the dawn, porters shouting in Arabic: “Watch ahead” — and smelling His scents, the flowers, mule dung, wet wool of sheep, all as He did — the Man who brought a new teaching of love one another into the Jewish tradition of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Eric helped me see the enormity of what Jesus preached about the meek being blessed. How radical that must have been at that time. Probably still is today.

  We have both been discovering that this land where Jesus walked on foot is a lot smaller than either of us ever dreamed. In the afternoon we motored to the foot of the Mount of Transfiguration. Our driver refused to go up, but Eric insisted, flashing a bit of extra money at him. We went up the really bumpy track to the top, but saw nothing much there of significance.
We got out to sit peacefully on the ground while Eric told me a bit more of how Our Lord showed Himself in shining white to his followers, and Eric even flipped pages to read me about the Ascension, which he said could have happened here, too. It’s rather small for a mountain, more of a hill I thought, but clouds could have enveloped it, so perhaps He did choose to ascend to His Father on this very spot.

  I had intended my journal to be written daily. But so much has been happening, I’m afraid I’ve only managed to do it in pieces. Evenings after dinner, we spend in the lounge around a good fire, Eric waxing again about what we had discovered during the day and what we might discover the next. And, because this is a private journal, I can write that our nights have been thrilling: Eric seems possessed of a spiritual and physical energy in lovemaking that leaves me breathless, night after night.

  PART FOUR: 1930

  C H A P T E R E I G H T E E N

  On Thursday early in April, a group of well-dressed figures waited in Windsor Station, Montreal for the train from New York. In clerical garb, Canon John Alford stood beside his taller, heavy-set son, Gerald, now a well-known lawyer. Eric’s diminutive sister Jean and her dapper husband Bert had brought their car to collect the arrivals and chauffeur them back to the apartment on Sherbrooke Street. Their talk, muted, anticipatory, awaited the return of the prodigal son and the dancer about whom, so often and so glowingly, Eric had written to his sister, his brother and, as they had heard, his parents at the Old Homestead.

  Before long the train with great clouds of steam screeched into this palatial station built by the Canadian Pacific Railroad in downtown Montreal. The New York passengers streamed through the wrought-iron gates and finally when it seemed as though they might not even be on the train, Eric and Rene arrived with a porter pushing his cart with their few bags.