It’s the Trustees’ latest initiative that has Arthur roiled up. The island’s old limestone quarry, abandoned several decades ago and deeded to the community as a park, would be rezoned to industrial. TexAmerica Stoneworks, headquartered in Fort Worth, seeks to reopen the quarry. Limestone prices have skyrocketed. This is being hailed as exciting news.
Arthur’s route takes him from winding Centre Road, the island’s east-west connector, to a paved lane that climbs steeply to the quarry. It abuts Gwendolyn National Park — Margaret has beat her brains out trying to persuade Parks Canada to extend its boundaries to encompass the quarry. But the bureaucrats decry its lack of “natural values.”
The Fargo lurches onto the quarry’s white, dusty entrance road, where Arthur parks near a towering limestone seam, thrust from the ocean floor in eons past. It was well worked before the pits were ceded, leaving steep-sided gullies in the hill and a maze of alleyways and cul-de-sacs and caves. Families take their kids here on weekends to explore and watch with awe the peregrine falcons that soar from nests high above. And here’s one now, diving like a missile and snatching a hapless snake that dared wriggle from its hole.
Falcons have been seen to capture lumbering game birds, and robins in mid-air, but are rarely successful against the agile, darting cliff swallows that nest in narrow crevices. There are scores of them in the air, their nestlings out, fattening before fall migration. Higher still, floating on thermal drafts, are a few vultures and eagles, patient, patrolling.
Arthur lets Homer out and warns him to stay in the shade of the truck. His arthritic limbs would find it a test too severe to manage the steep, wonky steps that lead to the viewpoint near the summit. Reluctant but ever-obedient, the pooch sits, and watches with sad, watery eyes as Arthur takes up his walking stick and begins his climb.
He rests, panting, taking in a view. He envisions giant excavators and bulldozers cleaving off slabs of rock, dump trucks ravaging the island’s quiet country roads, the brutal reports of dynamite blasts, the island’s winged and four-footed citizens fleeing their nests and dens.
Finally, he attains the flat ridge atop the escarpment that locals call Bob’s End, in honour of a popular local who ventured too close to the edge in a downpour. He enjoys a visual feast: the islet-dotted Salish Sea, the Coast Range to the north, the Olympics shining white to the south, snow-capped even in August. Nearer is Garibaldi’s smaller and wilder neighbour, mountainous Ponsonby Island, untamed by the blight of civilization, its few dozen residents eking a living off the land: loners and New Agers.
In more immediate view, to the north, are a few farms and artist studios snuggled into the valleys bordering Gwendolyn National Park. The north island is otherwise unpeopled except for the remote hamlet known as Bleak Creek. To the southwest is Breadloaf Hill and its homely little subdivision and scatter of shops, and to the east, Ferryboat Landing, where the Queen of Prince George has nestled into the dock, excreting little toylike vehicles. Swallows swoop and flutter above and below.
Arthur has endured unhappiness in this life — unloved and, he suspects, unwanted as a child, friendless and awkward socially as a bookish student of the classics and the law. Then, as a young lawyer, he took a wife, alluring Annabelle, artistic director of the Vancouver Opera Society, who turned out to be voraciously unfaithful, and he nosedived into the depths of alcohol addiction. Twenty years of that, thirty more in AA.
But this island, this placid sanctuary to which he retired from the grind of the courtroom, has brought him peace and fulfillment and joy, a caring life partner, a sense of belonging. That is something he’d never known.
He lies on the sun-dried moss and watches the clouds drift by. High on a limestone crag a bald eagle coaxes two fledglings onto a branch of a gnarled oak rooted in a seam. They take wing, led by their mom, to the scavenging grounds on the rock-strewn beaches. TexAmerica Stoneworks plans a massive loading dock down there, where the seals and otters play.
No, this will not happen. The quarry and its park will be saved.
Fortified by this vow, he makes his way back down, not limping anymore, the pain unfelt, ignored. The wasps are forgiven — they were merely protecting their home, as Arthur aims to protect his.
Homer gets to his feet, ungainly, overcoming his own pain, tail wagging. Arthur embraces him and lifts him up into the truck. The Fargo too has found new strength, and rumbles into life with a throaty growl.
3
The Community Hall is packed — three hundred islanders on fold-up chairs, Arthur near the back with Margaret and Reverend Al and Zoë, his wife. A syrupy-voiced pitchman for TexAmerica Stoneworks is answering questions while extolling the largesse his company is offering. There would be a job for every able-bodied worker who cares to join this exciting endeavour. They will build sheds and lifts and warehouses and quarters for workers. They will grow the island’s economy.
Kurt Zoller and Ida Shewfelt are sitting up front nodding with approval. The third Trustee, a realtor representing the Outer Islands, sits numbly acquiescent.
The hack for TexAmerica rests his case. Objections are made loudly and passionately by the conservation-minded, but Zoller gavels them into silence. Question period is over. They are out of order. The democratically elected Trustees will not be dictated to by a noisy minority.
Zoller delivers a barely coherent ramble about the company owning surface mining rights and they can do what they want, it’s the law, and the Trustees’ hands are tied. Margaret leans to Arthur’s ear. “What is he talking about?”
“I have no idea.”
A taunt from Hamish McCoy, directed at Zoller: “How much did they pay you off, you scheming barnacle?” An aging leprechaun with a round face framed by a halo of white hair and beard, the scrappy sculptor has a waterfront studio next to the quarry. The old Newfoundlander has been on a rampage.
“I resent that inference.” Zoller slaps the table, papers go flying. “This here meeting is getting out of hand due to the no-growth attitude of doomsayers. Motion to pass the bylaw.”
“May I have a moment to pray on it?” says Ida Shewfelt.
“Okay, we will adjourn to make our decision.”
The Supreme Being takes all of two minutes to stamp approval, and they are back with their decision, two to nil, the third Trustee cowardly abstaining.
* * *
Afterwards, Reverend Al invites leading doomsayers to a strategy session in his sunny backyard, over tea and beer. The two dozen attendees form the nucleus of the Save Our Quarry committee, with the feisty acronym of SOQ.
Arthur has parked himself as far as possible from local potter Tabatha Jones — Taba, as she’s known — a lusty, busty redhead with whom Arthur had shared a single, vigorous conjugal episode last year, a tryst in the woods, impetuous, witless. He’d shocked himself — at his age!
An attractive woman of middling years, Taba never remarried after her faithless husband ran away two decades ago, but has enjoyed the company of many island men, long-term and short, single and not. But Arthur had never been unfaithful and still can’t quite account for his behaviour. It was no excuse that Taba had bluntly propositioned him. Other factors were in play: his spells of loneliness during Margaret’s long absences and her own admitted affair, also last year, with a smarmy psychologist.
Arthur confessed in turn, overcome with shame. There was hurt, there was lamentation, but also forgiveness. Not for Taba, though, whose long friendship with Margaret is now strained, their encounters marked by cool civility. Taba’s gaily decorated pots and vases once adorned their home but most have disappeared into basement storage. Arthur wishes he had held his tongue — yet how could he have lived with such guilt?
Beside him, Margaret is scrolling through her phone. He chances a look at Taba. When she smiles a greeting, he drops his eyes and studies the pattern of tea leaves in his mug.
As soon as everyone has settled upon the lawn
, the question of seeking legal redress is raised. All eyes go to Arthur. “You’ll save the day, old son!” Hamish McCoy shouts.
Municipal law is not Arthur’s forte. He’s unsure about how mining rights might trump the preserve-and-protect mandate of the Islands Trust. Zoller isn’t smart enough to have figured that out for himself, so it’s likely TexAmerica armed him with a legal opinion. They have enormous resources, a division of Koch Industries.
“I shall get on it,” Arthur says, with an effort at enthusiasm. Maybe he can conscript someone from Tragger, Inglis to work through the maze of law, regulations, and precedent. Old Roy Bullingham, the scion of the firm, will not be thrilled to know Arthur has undertaken a pro bono defence of an obscure limestone formation. The old skinflint is piqued that Arthur has been turning down lucrative criminal files. He’s ninety-four and he’s still working, ten hours a day, six days a week.
The Save Our Quarry members debate other options. Submissions will be made to the government. A petition will be circulated for the recall of the two Trustees. Meanwhile, a statement will be composed for the press. Margaret will beat the political bushes, lining up prominent allies.
Someone mentions “direct action.” Arthur is not comfortable with that bold concept. It seems open to too many interpretations, including unlawful acts. He is a stubborn believer that civil society is founded on the rule of law.
* * *
Margaret wants a drink after that, and they carry on to the bar at Hopeless Bay, the Fargo burping and farting all the way. The shocks are gone, it’s like driving a wonky Mixmaster. Margaret tries to tighten her seat belt but it’s stuck in the door. “When are you going to put this clunker out of its misery?”
Arthur’s noncommittal response isn’t heard over the roar from the loose muffler. He would like to go green when his beloved old chariot gives up the ghost, but electric pickups are still on the drawing board.
He hollers: “I’ll have to go to the city to do some research. Probably Monday.”
“I’ll hold the fort for a few days. But I have to pack for Ottawa.”
To help organize a concert fundraiser for the defenders of Brazil’s honeybees, for the legal costs. Several name performers have already signed on. David Suzuki has agreed to emcee. They hope to have it televised, with a plea for donations.
Hopeless Bay is a sheltered inlet with a community dock and an old General Store that sells everything from oranges to whisk brooms and dusty copies of A Thirst for Justice. It’s perched on a small rise and from it a wooden footbridge over a narrow inlet gives easy access to the pub, the Brig.
They take a table for two on the open-air patio, which is cantilevered over the rocky shoreline. It offers a pretty view, waves lapping up a finger of the inlet, starfish clinging to wet rocks. But that doesn’t allay Arthur’s depression. SOQ is counting on him, but he’s not sure if he’s got the gumph. He tells himself to buck up, remembers his vow to save Quarry Park.
It’s well into evening, and they’re hungry, but they have half a chicken waiting in their fridge, so they settle for soup and crackers with Margaret’s wine and Arthur’s tea.
A couple of tables away is a foursome of local loafers with their splits of beer. Baldy Johansson, who’d been at the bylaw hearing but slipped away early, is holding the floor. “There’s good times ahead, boys.” He’s well in his cups. “Jobs for every able-bodied worker.”
Arthur can’t remember Baldy ever having a job that lasted more than three days.
“Nobody goes to that park anyway,” says Gomer Goulet.
“I’ve never been,” says Ernie Priposki.
“We got to grow the economy,” Baldy announces.
* * *
Arthur’s funk deepens on their return home; a heaviness suffuses the air as clouds bulk up and blot the setting sun. He has premonitions of worse to come, and they aren’t dampened as they pull in. From the chicken coop, they hear a loud, cackling commotion, punctuated by barking and human shouts. Arthur knows immediately what this is: mink attack.
He and Margaret scramble from the truck, run to the coop. The shouts are coming from Solara, standing outside its gate. “Oh, my Lord, that sorry creature’s on a killing spree! It’s a fucking hen holocaust! Help!”
Stefan holds Homer, restraining him. Normally, mink are on Homer’s job resumé, but Stefan is doing the right thing — with his disabilities, Homer could be mauled by that furry little tyrant. Arthur sees at least ten dead bodies strewn about, a killing frenzy, an infrequent but dreaded island horror.
Stefan releases Homer to Arthur, then steps carefully toward the back of the coop and bears down on the mink. It’s cornered between the fence and the shed, its eyes glowing, fangs bared.
Margaret silences Arthur with a tug. Solara calms down. Homer’s barking fades into a whine. Stefan is without a weapon, no shovel or hoe. This gangling young man is now squatting, calmly staring back at the mink, speaking to it, his words too soft for Arthur to make out in all the clucking. Maybe a dozen or more hens had survived.
Whatever Stefan is vocalizing has a soothing if not hypnotic effect, and the animal curls into its long tail as if to sleep. Stefan picks it up by the scruff and strolls out to the apple orchard and sets it down, waits till it darts off, then returns to the witnesses by the chicken coop: pretty, elf-like Solara with her wide, shocked eyes, and Margaret with her quizzical smile. Arthur, feeling unsteady, lowers himself onto the chopping stump by the woodpile.
“I just couldn’t . . . couldn’t destroy her,” Stefan says. “Can’t fault her, she has babies to feed.”
“That’s fine,” Arthur says numbly.
“Please get some empty feed sacks, Solara,” Margaret says. “Make sure you use gloves.”
Arthur follows Margaret to the house, changes into overalls, and prevails on her to sit tight while he attends to the obsequies.
Three of the hens are too mangled to survive, and Arthur takes on the dismal task of fetching each in turn to the woodpile and the chopping block. The not-so-elegiac side of rural life.
The farm’s two incompetent mousers, Shiftless and Underfoot, have finally screwed up the courage to give in to their curiosity, and follow Solara as she brings the body bags. Stefan has found the hole in the chicken wire where the invader entered, and is already twisting it shut. Solara watches with awe.
Arthur has heard of people exercising semi-magical powers over fellow mammals, but it’s not a faculty he’d ever expected to behold in practice. A rara avis, this Stefan. He has trained juncos and chickadees to eat from his hands. The geese often follow him around. So do the cats. A puzzling fellow, taciturn, self-contained, distant. A rapport with animals is just one of his many talents — he also has a gift for music, plays classical guitar.
After the carcasses are gathered, Arthur powers up the tractor and scoops a grave from under the invading blackberries in the west pasture. Solara throws meadow flowers after the bodies, then Arthur lowers the blade and fills in the hole. Stefan watches, casually chewing on a grass stem — he’s a vegan, likes to graze. The mink whisperer.
It has begun to rain as Arthur returns to the house. He’s intent on having a good, hot, pounding shower, but then realizes he’s hungry, and studies the offerings of the fridge. He looks at the platter, white meat on one side, dark on the other, a drumstick left. He decides to make a salad instead.
But just then, Solara rushes in.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Arthur, I truly don’t want to be the bearer of even worse news to y’all . . . I don’t know how to say it.”
Almost instinctively, Arthur knows.
“You’ve lost . . .”
“Homer.” Arthur races outside to the supine form of his lifeless dog lying under a pear tree in the orchard. Stefan is kneeling there, mute and sad. “Heart attack,” he says. “He just keeled over. The uproar caught up to him.”
Arthur take
s the furry old fellow in his arms, overcome. This has turned out to be about the worst day in his life.
4
Saturday, August 25
The funeral service is held early in the morning around a shallow grave in the pasture where Homer reigned in the days when they had sheep: his favourite spot, on a bluff with a view. A dozen friends and neighbours attend, umbrellas unfurled in a steady rain. Barney the horse, two cats, and four geese show up as well, out of respect for their former comrade. Reverend Al delivers the eulogy, taking over from Arthur, who is in too much despair. Then they all repair to Arthur’s house for tea and sympathy.
Arthur’s funk continues through the weekend. He goes about his chores listlessly, incommunicative, his mind foggy. He forces himself to take his daily health walk, despite the rain, and he often pauses, looks around: Where is his old companion? Homer liked to scamper ahead, reconnoitering, sleuthing, urging him on with impatient glances.
Returning from one such walk, late on this Saturday, he veers off onto a deer trail that meanders across his north pasture. Descending into a vale of bracken and alder, a part of his domain rarely visited, he spots a form moving among the trees, another walker, a skinny man in coveralls carrying a jug. When Arthur looks again he seems to have vanished into the bush. A mirage? The island ghost, Jeremiah Blunder, whose spirit levitated from the well into which he’d drunkenly plunged in 1895. Maybe Arthur needs to have his eyes checked. Or his brain.
Arthur has a collection of Jeremiah artifacts — cups and bottles, rusted tools, a jar of buckshot, a pee potty, the workings of abandoned stills — but despite his many days scouring these forty acres of meadow, pasture, and forest, he has found no remnants of the infamous well.
Back home, he tells Margaret of the Jeremiah sighting. “Strolling across the north pasture with a jug of moonshine.”
She says, “Are you sure you recognized him, given he’s been dead for well over a century?”
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