Deluded Your Sailors (7 page)

Nichole's vision blurred: fir, spruce, pine, ponds, barrens.

—Because of what happened to his father?

—Grandfather was only in his early fifties. Looking for a lost youngster. No one ever figured precisely what killed him, because there was hardly a mark on the body, apart from a few bruises. He had a bad heart, but he'd also lost his glasses, blind as a stump without them, so he couldn't read the gauges. Engine cut out that day, too. Skipper wouldn't even let me and Matt play with remote control planes. Someone gave us a matching set one Christmas, but Skipper took them away. Then I started building my own. I must be talking your ear off. Stomach any better? You said you were throwing up last night.

—I'm just not used to hearing you talk. You're still nervous and jumpy and all that, but you're not the same Lewis Wright I worked with at VOIC.

Lewis almost said
No more am I
; instead, he swerved to avoid a moose. The car skidded off the shoulder into a snowcrammed ditch. The moose clopped across the road, rustled through trees and snow, disappeared.

It's caribou in my dream.

Both Wrights blinked, sniffed, cleared throats, and loosened their locked seatbelts. Each turned to the other and spoke at the same moment.

—You all right?

—Fine.

Lewis cracked his knuckles. —Good, good. You scoot over here in the driver's seat, and I'll get out and push. Can't keep Reverend Winslow waiting.

Nearly lost to unaided vision, the ceiling reached through dun to heaven, and the pews' edges looked straight enough to be sharp. The windows, iced-over and Protestant-plain, further dulled the winter daylight. Far past the windows, down on the stony shore, sat the flattened boulder locals called The Devil's Couch. Nichole had reclined there once, suffering the breakdown that cannot be called a breakdown, because we don't use that word anymore, Nichole.

The Church of Prevenient Grace at the End of Things.

Nichole shuddered. —Still no heat or light in here. And that smell, Lewis. You catch that? Old smell. Smell of old things, I mean.

—Probably smelled like this when Grandfather crashed his plane. Good, good, Reverend, hello.

Black shirt, white collar, black pants, dark eyes, thick brown hair shot through with grey and white and rather long hair for a man his age, whatever his age might be: the Reverend Elias Winslow. Something leather-bound hung off his belt, near his right hip. —Welcome to the Church of Prevenient Grace at the End of Things. Did you have an appointment?

—Reverend Winslow, this is my cousin, Nichole Wright. I spoke to you about her on the phone. I believe you bought some land from her. Nichole, this is Reverend Elias Winslow. We're here to speak with you about Settlement 250 and all that old stuff.

A soft and pale hand took Nichole's bony one. —Ms Wright, nice to meet you.

—Spruce tea. I've been here before. So were you. A long time ago. I remember your voice.

Reverend Winslow gently pressed her knuckles, her bulimic's calluses. —Look no further for the hearth. The old hearth out on the plot. I watched you kick the turned-up ground. We started digging last fall. I'm sorry to say I allowed the hearth to be bulldozed, for I'd no idea of its true age. A mistake I shall not repeat, I promise.

Nichole snatched her hand away and bumped into the edge of a pew. —You're confusing me with someone else.

Lewis dipped his chin to his chest. —I remember that hearth. Nichole, do you? Out here, summers, touching the old stones and mortar, and someone even carved a man right in the back, man wearing a hat and stooped under a sack. Is that what you were looking for?

—When?

—Visited that hearth every day, the summer I spent out here with Aunt Ellen.

—God, Aunt Ellen. Three steps shy of being the Bearded Lady.

—No need to be cruel, Nichole. I'm sure she had more important things to think about than her looks.

Reverend Winslow met Nichole's hard gaze. —Do you have a question, my child?

—Were you out here in the late 1970s?

Winslow took a step closer to Nichole, his waxy face smooth, as if he shaved with Uriel's sword and then splashed his cheeks with plaster. —I am deeply rooted in this community. Now, Lewis, why did you come here?

—Haah...

Nichole also tried to explain.—The snow and the frozen mud, the highway, then the moose – I just –

My God. I dreamt this years ago. Dreamt I stood in this church
after seeing mink pelts stretched and pinioned on a cross made of
spruce boughs.

Reverend Winslow smiled.

Lewis chewed the insides of his cheeks. Nothing in the Prozac handout from the pharmacy had prepared him for this meeting.

—As I said on the phone, Nichole is researching this history of Port au Mal. Settlement 250.

Reverend Winslow smiled some more.

Nichole glanced at Lewis, then back at Winslow. —Tell me, Reverend, will you be getting this old church declared a heritage site once you build the new one?

—We'll just tear it down.

—You must be planning some serious upgrades. Electricity, maybe?

—Candles and lamps suffice. Fire is God's light.

Wind beat the windows, hard, but the glass held fast. The strong draughts narrowed to chills and invaded through cracks. As usual.

Note to self: brain Lewis for dragging me out here. Not that
much would spill out his ears – wow, they really stick out.

—Haah, right. Yes. Reverend, I hear you're heading up a committee to help the project.

—The Historical Accuracy and Representation Committee. More to oversee and guide.

—HARC, good, good. What can you tell us of the settlement history out here?

—The first white European settlers arrived in 1760, of course, hence Settlement 250 next year.

—The other night, when I was cleaning out my father's attic–

—You belong to Thomas Wright, correct?

—Yes. Me and my brother, Matt. When I was cleaning out my father's attic –

—Give your father my regards. I've not seen him for decades.

Enough of this.
Nichole cleared her throat. —Lewis found a ledger with handwriting and tallies and dates preceding 1760. The writer's name is John Cannard, and he notes living out here in Port au Mal
before
1760.

Winslow looked directly at Lewis, not Nichole.—How did this Mr Cannard get here?

Nichole answered, voice getting louder. —Shipwrecked.

As Winslow seemed not to hear Nichole, Lewis repeated it. —Shipwrecked, Reverend.

—And literate? How convenient, a Newfoundland Crusoe. Even an amateur historian must see how that is not very likely.

—He wasn't alone. He writes about other people, where we make it out.

—Old handwriting is notoriously tricky. I expect the curlicues deceived you, dear. Port au Mal's settlement records start, quite clearly, in 1760.

—Reverend, we had Hayman and his
Quodlibets
over in Harbour Grace from 1718-28, then our first Naval governor in 1729, yet there is no mention of Port au Mal until 1760? Are you quite certain of that?

—So many of our written records were lost in those Rare Documents fires. Did you come with a spiritual question, Nichole?

—Cannard's Point? Lacey's Lookout?

—Place names around here for which there are no written records prior to 1790. Even that record notes the names are traditional, despite there being no Cannards and no Laceys here.

I'm sorry, but this is normally when I write my sermons.

Outside, shards of snow scraping their faces in a minus ten windchill, Nichole and Lewis sighed in unison.

—Not worth beating our heads off this wall, Nichole. Let's just get back to what the ACHE Board originally said.

Nichole answered as she climbed in the car, so Lewis could almost pretend he did not hear her. But she said it, and he heard it: —Not fuckin likely.

Pleased her voice could not be easily heard in the crowded restaurant, Nichole dipped a piece of sushi into soy sauce. —Then he tells me I've got to cast some Seabright guy. ACHE is pushing me around left, right, and centre. And I'm just writing the damn thing, not directing it.

Evan fell out of his admiration for Nichole's use of chopsticks at the name Seabright. He pushed the last of the seared tuna, her favourite, onto her plate. —Seth Seabright? That little hurricane? He crashed the Tattoo last summer. At least, I think it was him. Just a rehearsal, thank God, with no audience. I got them doin a full drill when boyo leaps over a chain fence and joins in. Thinks he's fuckin Danny Kaye with the knights in
The Court Jester
, dancin in formation with them, marchin a perfect drill. God love them, they didn't miss a step, them in full dress kit and bearskin hats with this force of chaos mockin them. I lost it. Not just because he was interruptin practice, and not just because he was makin fun of history and all the work the Tattoo was after doin, but because we had live fuckin firearms on the go. And I'll be honest with you, Nichole, what pissed me off the most was the beauty of it. He did a good job. Outta fuckin nowhere.

Nichole passed Evan a new set of chopsticks to replace the ones he'd just snapped.

—You sure it was Seabright?

—No. Whoever it was took off before I could get to him. I bawled out
Halt
so much I lost my voice for the rest of the week. I finally got the whole regiment at attention when boyo leaps like someone set fire to him. The b'ys told me afterward that whoever it was stank of sweat and piss and gin.

—Charming.

Evan accepted the bill from the anxious waiter. —Looked like Seabright. I saw him in a play once. Place is gettin crowded. Still up for that drive?

Somewhere in the inconveniently and stubbornly historical Petty Harbour – where old houses seemed to look down in anger at the upstart paved road, the road itself a cowpath – Nichole mentioned the ledger. —Would you take a look at it, see if it's genuine?

—What'd you say the dates were?

—Before 1760. Cannard began –

Evan quickly pulled off to the dangerously narrow shoulder, coasting to a stop just left of a graveyard and church. He loomed over her. —
John
Cannard?

Nichole immediately felt for the door lever and yanked it to escape. The engaged power locks imprisoned her but also kept her from falling out. —Evan, let me out of this car.

Evan followed Nichole's glance downward. Sure enough, an erection starting. —Nichole, wait, I'm not – I'm sorry. I just get so excited – I mean –

—I'll scream. And I will drive my keys so far into your eyes –

—No! It's not like that. I'm not like that. I just – the ledger, sweetheart, the ledger. Just listen to me. Okay? Y'all right?

Nichole slowed her breathing, put her keys back in her pocket. —Sorry, Ev. This is my first time trying to date since – I dunno, are we dating? I mean – —Two friends gone out for supper is what we are.

—The ledger. The ledger. Right. Now, 2009, this is 2009. Yeah, John Cannard. The ink's gone brown.

Evan kept his voice low and calm. —Iron-gall, most likely. Pigment comes from galls on trees, these cyst-things on leaf buds: wasp eggs. Goes down blue-black and fades to that rusty brown. No blotters back then, so they'd sprinkle sand or grit to dry the ink.

—Fear in a handful of dust?

—Those letters I picked up in Riordan's Back, dated 1745? Written
to
John Cannard of Port au Mal.

While Nichole took this in, a slight flush colouring her upper chest, Evan squirmed against his snug jeans.

Then Nichole smiled at him. —Can I see those letters?

Nichole tugged on archivist's gloves and tried not to flinch as Evan tied back her coarse and brittle hair. —Ev, I'm sorry. It's a big deal for me to let someone touch me from behind.

Not sure what she meant, Evan refrained from leaning round to kiss her on the cheek. —You've got nice hair.

Nichole said nothing to that, but she could hardly leave the ragged silence alone.
Keep cool, girl. Evan's no Almayer Foxe. Too
late to pop a tranq now with these gloves on, anyway
. —Nice table. I like the lines, all straight and clean.

—Great-grandfather made that. Back before all those chrome dinette sets from Canada took off. I just need to get the letters from my room. Then we can spread them out here. If you hear another voice, that's just my grandfather, True Rideout. He lives here. He and Nan reared me, and now I'm lookin after him. Funny how it turns out. If he says anythin to you – yeah, he's not at his best anymore. But more than likely he's gone to bed for the night. I'll be right back.

Nichole stretched out her gloved hands. —I feel like a lady who lunches. When can I wear white shoes?

Laughing over his shoulder and wincing at his messy bed, Evan gently shifted dirty laundry to a spot in front of his glass-doored bookcase, a gift from his grandfather a few years ago.
Where the
hell did I put my briefcase?

—Who's out there?

A beautiful bass voice, like that of his hero, Johnny Cash, came from True Rideout. He stood in the unlit hallway, thinly dressed and cold but tall and still muscular. Evan had his build. True had forgotten something before going to bed, some crucial step. Both the forgetting and his recognition of the forgetting deeply irritated him. Now, on his way to investigate noises in the night, he'd forgotten yet something else. Not his teeth: sticking them in his gob when stalking burglars would just be vanity. Not his glasses: he only needed them for reading. Evan would know what he'd forgotten. Except Evan had gone out. And by the sounds of it, some brazen fool now ransacked Evan's room.

—Right here, Pop. In my room. Sorry if I woke ya.

True Rideout could not guess who spoke just then, because Evan had gone out. That fact remained, and True clung to it.—By the Jesus...