The Seary Line

by Nicole Lundrigan

  “Yes, now. We better get fed better than that.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Mr. Moore pulled the slide from the Magic Lantern, shook his head. “We could go back to the first ones again?”

  In the white light, Amos clearly saw Nettie Rose. Her face was turned and pressed into the thick arm of Gus, tam fallen back on her shoulder. He felt sick, sweaty, bolted upright, wooden pew sighing with relief. Through clenched teeth, he said, “C’mon, Stella. Let’s get out of here.”

  “The once? What about Dad?”

  “Someone’ll see him home. You needn’t worry.”

  Outside, the snow was falling heavily now, fat flakes driven. Amos thought the air had changed, the perfume of joviality had waned, pungent haste its replacement. But the air was still bright, even though it was nighttime. And when Amos looked straight up at the snowflakes, he imagined for a moment that he was moving through them. Moving away from Bended Knee. He could almost hear them brushing past him, like a thousand whispers. For an instant, he thought about their journey, the speed at which they could travel.

  “You ready for tomorrow. Everything packed?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Amos replied, as he put a lit cigarette to his mouth, pinched it in his teeth. “My grand wardrobe. ’Twas a tough time poking it all in.”

  Amos struck a match on a hinge of the church door, inhaled deeply. Walking up the road, he locked his arm through Stella’s. “What do you say, we goes over to the Devil’s Hole? Haven’t been there since I was a kid.”

  “I don’t like that, Amos,” Stella said. “Calling it the Devil’s Hole. Why can’t everyone just call it God’s Mouth? Like ’twas meant to be.”

  Late one night, shortly before either of them was born, a colossal explosion woke the entire community. People came bounding out of their homes, some barefoot, hair ruffled, nightshirts and long gowns flailing in the wind. They rushed down over the bluffs to the beach, crept along the stones until they found the source of the noise. As they peered up at the rock face, the women held hands with their neighbours, while the men simply swayed in place. There in the rock was a perfect hole, a dark cave that had never been there before. While they were sleeping, a five-foot diameter chunk of rock had popped out from the face of a cliff, plunked down to the rocks below, seated there like a miniature table.

  Stories abounded as to the force behind the creation. Each claim rooted in the events of the previous day. For one, the beloved Reverend Coates had been laid to rest, tucked inside a pine casket underneath a mound of gravelly dirt. The entire community was there, every face dampened with drizzle and tears. In life, the Reverend spoke often to his congregation of God’s music. God is everywhere, he said, playing for us, singing to us. Only we don’t know how to listen proper. But the crowd was listening now. When blustery gales passed over the gap, a whistle spun out into the night air. Someone said it sounded like angel song. About half agreed. And so, that group took to calling the cave God’s mouth. Its formation was a divine act, a gift sent down by the Reverend as a permanent reminder of His holy presence.

  Many others claimed dark forces were behind it. The whistling was evil, tempting and hypnotic. What had happened that very evening? The man who owned the general store, grandfather of young Alistair Fuller, had been killed. Nefarious circumstances. How else could he have been poked with a jagged-bladed hunting knife? When Elizabeth Crowley came upon the scene, she found him dead, head jammed into a half-filled flour sack, fabric bunched around his neck. His blood had tumbled out of the wound in his stomach, but was contained by a circle of flour sprinkled neatly on the floor, congealed into a thick reddish paste. Oddly enough, his few dollars were still there, his list outlining the credit he’d extended was unaltered. The only items stolen were cards and cards of buttons, silver ones, wooden ones, glass, and tortoiseshell. Two empty boxes crushed on the floor.

  No one knew who the perpetrator was, but a story linking the crime and the hole soon evolved. They said the devil must have come up from below to fetch whoever did it. Likely the bloke had escaped his grasp earlier in the day, landed in the cove by terrible chance. The devil chased the beggar as he bounded up and down the beach. Angered by the fellow’s slipperiness, the devil slammed his fist into the cliff, a hunk of rock tumbling when he pulled his iron hand away. This is where the devil hid, they said, until the murderer, unaware of the alteration in the landscape, darted past for the last time. And so, it was labelled the Devil’s Hole.

  One fellow, by the name of Herber Mercer, said that although the fanatical theorizing was amusing, he was confident the fissure was a natural phenomenon. There must have been an air pocket in the rock, he explained, formed eons ago, and with the curious weather of the past summer, blazing heat one day, practically freezing the next, the gas just got cantankerous. Wanted to get out. No matter if that chunk of rock was in the way. He never came up with any sort of name, and people dismissed his ideas outright.

  “How do you know if ’tis one or the other?” Amos asked.

  “Because that devil story is utter foolishness if I ever heard the likes. And because it’s a perfect circle. Almost perfect. The devil don’t make things perfect.”

  “And why don’t he?”

  Stella ignored him. “Plus there’s last summer. Little piss-a-beds growed in there, right out of the rock. Not a pinch of soil that I ever seen. And the devil don’t grow flowers out of rock.”

  “Yes, then in the fall, I’s betting those piss-a-beds rotted.”

  “Miracle they was there in the first place. That’s the point. Nothing can live forever, Amos.”

  He fell silent for a moment, sighed and dropped his cigarette butt in the snow. “God’s Mouth it is, then.”

  They ambled up the laneway, passing their house. “Wait here,” Amos said, and he turned back, jaunted to the shed, plucked the lantern from the nail. Glow of light between them, they took the trail between Jenkins’ and Smith’s farms. Along the sides of the path, stubborn blades of grass that had been sticking up through the snow were beginning to bend now, giving up. As he walked, Amos turned to look behind him. He slumped inside his coat when he noticed that his footsteps were already disappearing.

  Even though the snow continued to stumble from the sky, the beach was clean. Whenever a flake would settle, salt water would lick over every crevice and claim it. Amos and Stella picked their way over the polished stones until they came to the stone table. Across the top of it, there was a deep split, and when Amos held the lantern up, they could see the items children had poked down into it: marbles, a miniature cornhusk doll, a whittled piece of wood. Once prized possessions, now just beyond the reach of little fingers.

  “Do you remember when we was little, and some of your friends weren’t allowed to come out here? No picnics on the table?”

  “Yes,” Stella replied. “I remembers Lizzy Bugden’s mom said it’d be like breaking bread with the devil hisself.”

  “I reckons if that were true, you’d have no trouble making a bit of toast.” Amos smiled, nudged Stella.

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  Stella climbed up first, Amos beneath her, pushing up on her rump, until she was able to lean her torso over, slide herself into the hole. He clambered up next, jammed his feet into the cracks in the cliff face, perfectly placed.

  “Like steps,” she said. “Almost as if someone put them there.”

  He placed the lantern between them, then lay back, feet dangling over the edge. On the curved roof of the cave, going from its lip all the way back, someone had used the smoke from a flame to carefully write, The hole is more worthy than the patch.

  “What do you suppose that means, Stell? Do you think they’s talking about this here hole?”

  “Maybe. In a sense. This is more fun that just a plain old flat cliff. Though they could be talking about a pair of trousers too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Takes work to make a hole. Patching it up is easy.”

  “I don’
t believe that.”

  “Why do you say that for?” Stella glanced at her brother.

  “Sometimes ’tis right easy to make a hole. A few cross words, and you’ve got a trench dug right through someone. Patching it up is the hardest thing of all.”

  “Never thought of it like that. But I doubts that’s what they meant.”

  “Don’t you think the patch is way more precious than the hole?”

  Stella lay back next to Amos. Several minutes before she spoke. “I thinks there’s some holes that don’t never get patched. Can you imagine going around the rest of your days with a hole?”

  “I reckons everyone got a hole, Stell. Whether ’tis a pinhole or a canyon is anyone’s guess.”

  She leaned her head, stared at him. “Really? What size one do you got?”

  Eyes focused on the roof of the cave, he replied firmly, “Never thought about it. And I idn’t about to start now.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. It’s a dumb thing to even think about. Holes.”

  “I didn’t say it was dumb. ’Tis something good to mind. But don’t go getting undone about it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I figures ’tis best to patch your holes before they grows too big.”

  “Or before it gets too late.”

  “Yeah. Too late.”

  Amos sighed, put his elbows up, gloves beneath his head. “I thinks I’ll be back soon. Do you think?”

  “Of course, Amos.”

  “Yeah. You best keep my supper warm.” Stella giggled. “All right. If ’tis going to be that swift.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What will you do after the war?”

  “After the war. Few dollars in my pocket. Enough to make a go of something.” Pinching his glove in his teeth, he yanked his hand free, scratched his forehead underneath the woolen band of his hat. It was surprisingly warm in the little space, both of them close together. He could smell his sister’s breath, and it smelled sweet and milky, like innocent custard. “Though, to be honest, it don’t got nothing to do with the money. No way. I just can’t turn my back, Stell. I thought about it. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t. But I got to go.”

  “I knows.”

  “Got to stand up if you believes in something.”

  “If I weren’t a girl, I’d be going too.”

  “Well, I’s sure as hell happy you is a girl.”

  “Amos! The cussing.”

  “Ah, who gives a God damn?”

  Stella started to laugh.

  Amos began to snicker too, then added, “By Christ.”

  “You’s wicked.”

  “Yes, I’s a real little pisser.”

  “Amos!” she squealed, still giggling. “My ears is burning.”

  “All right,” he said with another chuckle. “Let’s see if I can keep my bloody trap shut.”

  “Dirty trap, more like it. Filthy. I should take you over to Mrs. Hickey’s. She’d teach you.”

  “Bugger Mrs. Hickey. If Mother was here, she’d be jamming soap down my throat.”

  “Forget the soap. She’d go straight after the lye.”

  “Ha.”

  When the laughing petered out, Amos sat up, stared out at the snow, just flurries now. He lit another cigarette, rolled it slowly between thumb and forefinger. He wondered how far away a person could see the glimmer from a flick of burning ash.

  “Lots of bad here, but ’tis pretty, idn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Stella sat up beside him.

  “I likes the snow, even though it causes trouble. And I likes the water, even though you can get drowned.”

  “I knows.”

  “But she don’t have to drown you, unless she wants to. She can give you a life instead. She’s fickle, that old sea. You can never tell what’s she’s thinking. Fickle and rich. You can’t never own her. And that’s why every man loves her.”

  As they spoke, the flurries ended, the night cleared. And as though it knew they were talking about it, the sea balled up and rammed the beach proudly, jostling the helpless stones.

  “Do you want to carry on with the fishing when you gets home?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t like working to the mill. Now Skipper Penny said he’d take me on with him.”

  “He took a real shine to you. Treats you like a son.”

  “Yeah, I loves to fish. For me, there’s no pleasure in hacking down trees.”

  “No?”

  “When you’re out there jigging, and you heaves your hook and line overboard, and it disappears into the darkness. I don’t know. There’s some magic to it. There’s chance. Sounds stupid, I suppose.”

  “No, it don’t. Keep saying.”

  “Skipper Penny told me that. He says, ‘Magic is blind. You don’t need to see when you fishes, ’tis all in your hands, in your soul.’ He says that I got to learn with my eyes closed, learn to feel the fish when they’s swimming by, when they nibbles, when they bites. And I does that, I do. Out there with him, leaning over, eyes shut up right tight. And I tell you, something real wonderful moves through me when I knows there’s a weight on my hook. Some wonderful magic.”

  “That sounds right lovely. Never had that myself.”

  “Don’t want much, I don’t. Don’t want no uppity job at some store or nothing. When I gets home, I’ll take up with Skipper. Then, when I gets a handle on things, I’ll go off on my own. If she’ll have me.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “The water, I means. I believes she’s the only woman for me.” Amos cleared his throat.

  Stella put her elbows on her knees, leaned her chin into her mittens. “Sorry about Nettie.”

  “Ah, I put that out of my mind long ago. She’s only a girl. There’ll be plenty of those.”

  “She probably don’t know what she’s doing. Living in squalor all the time. All those sisters and brothers.”

  “That don’t got nothing to do with me.”

  “Well, I can tell you. I idn’t having no dozen kids.”

  “Me neither. Nope. No chance of that. No chance.” Amos stared out at the waves, pale watery fingers slithering through the rocks, reaching for him. Inside, he sensed his nerves were firing shots, shock running down through his legs, heart jolting, stomach flopping. He sighed again, then lay back, arm up, elbow covering his eyes.

  “Do you ever think about dying, Stell?”

  Silence for a moment, then a quiet, “I guess so.”

  “I mean, do you ever think about what it’s actually like to die?”

  “Sometimes. Yeah.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I don’t know. You say first.”

  “Well, I thinks when you reach the point just before you dies, you won’t be hurting no more or nothing. You’ll feel good. But, it’ll be dark, darker than it is now. Black like pitch. And you’ll be somewhere on a cliff or something, high up, I imagines, and you’ll know that one more step and there’ll be nothing at all underneath your feet, only all the space in the world.”

  “And?”

  “You’ll feel good, I’s thinking. And I reckons if you’re going to die, it’ll be your choice, no one nudges you or nothing like that. When you’re at the edge, no one darts up behind and slams you. You makes up your own mind if you wants to go on. I bet you’ll feel so good that you won’t be able to resist it. You won’t even think about it. Something else’ll take over, putting your mind right at ease. And you’ll have no doubt, real faith, I suppose, that when you lets yourself go into all that nothing, when you leaps and begins to fall, someone you love’ll catch you right up. And that’ll feel real good, I bet. Gathered in someone’s arms.”

  “That sounds nice. I like that.”

  “I reckons it’ll be.”

  “Only I thinks ’tis going to be cold.”

  “Really?”

  “And dirty. Tons of dirt, so much you can’t even move around in it. You’ll be stuck. Like you’re buried and covered, but can still breath.”

  “That
sounds more like life to me, maid.” Amos smirked in the flickering light of the lantern.

  “Who do you think’ll catch you?”

  “My mother. My real mother.”

  “That’ll be nice.” Stella swung her legs, banged the heels of her shoes against the rock. “I bet she will too.”

  “I miss her, you know.”

  Amos heard her draw in her breath before she said, “I’m sorry. I really is.”

  “No need to be sorry, maid. Nothing you can do about it. Nothing you could’ve done. ’Tis just the way things is.”

  He saw her wipe her face with her mitten.

  “Though,” she said, “if nothing never happened to your mother, you wouldn’t be here. And it may sound wonderful mean, but that would be worse than anything.”

  “Ah, maid,” he said, and began to laugh, shoulder blades lifting off the stone. “Heaven forbid, you might have got a pinch of peace. Without me at you all the time. I’d torment the devil. Little bugger, I was.”

  “You was not.”

  “I allows I wasn’t. I was worse kind. Bugs in your bed, in your clothes. Remember that time I trimmed your hair?”

  “Trimmed? That weren’t no trimming. You was using rusty old shears.”

  “Well, you let me.”

  “That’s cause I knew what kind of trouble you’d get in.

  ’Twas worth more than my bit of hair.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah.” Giggling again.

  “Ooo. Now that’s cruel. I’m eyeing you in a whole new light.”

  “Though I never thought you were going to take so much off.”

  “Sure, the whole time I had you nipped between my knees, I was pretending you was a sheep.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” she said, then punched his knee. “You’re worse.”

  Amos took a deep breath, sat up again. Another cigarette, but he did not bring it to his mouth, let the curls of smoke trail over his knuckles before the wind found them, dragged them away. “Lots of times I tried to make you feel small, you know. Tried to make you think I was better.”

  “Nah.”

  “I don’t know why I did that.”

  “That’s what brothers does.”