Deluded Your Sailors (9 page)

The joke flatlined. No one spoke. Incense wafted, cheap sticks from the strip mall, Elias noticed, ten for a dollar, Dragon's Blood or Queen of the Night or some other sharp stink fit for Frangina Murphy – Frangina, with the green and blue Mohawk, that one – and her briny spare bedroom, where she entertained.

Book Girl stood up. —This is about our heritage. Our history as women. Human beings, I mean. No one's trying to exclude you, Kev. This is about defying the Burning Time. Lots of people in this little shithole of a bay would try to burn us at the stake if they caught us at this. And it's harmless, right? It's not like we're conjuring up demons.

Elias nodded.
Smart girl. Still, enough is enough. That incense
is nauseating me.

Filling the diverse alveoli of his weakening lungs – such frailty a ragged scar on his corporeal design – Winslow stood up and slowly sighed the air back out. The effort exhausted his body; he might need to cancel tomorrow's pastoral visits.

Kev felt it first. —B'ys, it's gettin some cold.

Gum cracked. —We're not b'ys, Kev b'y.

Book Girl looked up from lighting fresh incense. —‘B'ys' is gender-neutral and inclusive. I don't – whoa, that's a wicked sea fog coming in. Did you see that?

Elias Winslow's hallucinogenic breath tangled perceptions. Kev suffered sudden deep cold, as though infected with thousands of parasites made of ice which then stung and thrashed beneath his skin, the formication of broken glaciers. Gum Girl collapsed to her knees and sobbed, convinced oxygen no longer existed. Stubborn Book Girl gazed round, sought and found the origin of their misery: the grey form of that old Reverend Winslow spreading his wings –
wings?
– and striding towards her, his mouth in a deliberate
o.
Her animal brain took over; paralyzing brainstem dread captured fight-or-flight and turned it cannibal. Book Girl moaned and fainted. Kev and Gum Girl ran.

Elias unsheathed the old knife: oh yes, the sharpened blade, the chipped onyx handle. Atom by atom, he strained to become too, too solid flesh, and steadily picked his way across the meadow. He reached the inuksuit and the unconscious girl, snuffed the burning incense with his fingertips and held the sticks as he might hold a bouquet of flowers. Then he cracked them and tucked the pieces into a pocket. Book Girl's freckles smudged her moonlit face. Elias smiled.
You deserve better friends. But you're not the one. I'm
not supposed to give the knife to you.
Kneeling at the inuksuit, Elias gently scraped away ash and defilement from the balanced rocks.
Red iron ore. Be red ochre next. Young people today –

As Elias scraped, an inuksuk toppled onto Book Girl's head.

Elias kept still, waited for Book Girl to moan or move or cry out after those dull smacks. Those little rocks were hardly enough to harm her, except that he'd harmed her first. Groundwalkers most receptive to the truth of Elias and his brothers often suffered from the encounter. Sometimes just shock, sometimes lasting illness. Sometimes, death.

Thready pulse.

Damn!

Elias leapt, only partially ready. Feet weighting him, he crashed into the trees at the edge of the field. Then he remembered the knife. Drawing his deepest breath since falling off an ice pan in February of eighteen-twenty-something, Elias leapt back to the rocks and the blood, found a steady pulse in Book Girl's neck, retrieved his mercifully unstained knife, then leapt once more, hard this time, hard and high over the trees – but tumbled, hurtled and spun through the sparkling aether like a drunk groundwalker drowning. He thudded to the ground near the rectory's back door. Those nuisance needs of the flesh, pain and fatigue, would gnaw him the rest of the night. Too spent to brush away dirt, leaning against doorjambs and walls, Elias got himself to his room and crawled beneath his bed.

What does this mean? What does this mean?

I'm getting old.

Eight months shy of a haircut and apparently terrified of a razor, Seth Seabright spat on the floor of the Port au Mal Loyal Orange Lodge and lit a cigarette. He ran his thumb over his fancy Zippo lighter before tucking it in a pocket. His blue eyes looked dull and tired.—Dorinda Masterson told me auditions were goin ahead today on some kinda priority basis, and now you're tellin me this play won't happen til next
year
. What the fuck am I out here now for?

Still carsick, and now chilled after waiting two hours for actors to show up – Seth the first – Nichole took a deep breath before replying. She'd heard that Seth Seabright could be brusque, slightly paranoid and generally hard to get along with, but she hadn't expected blunt questions and choice profanity before mutual introductions.—It gets staged next year as a tie-in with Settlement 250, and Dorinda Masterson told me –

—This play your idea?

—Not really. I –

—Then who do I speak to? I don't want to go talkin to Dorinda again, that lovely Cleopatra's grip of hers notwithstandin. I thought that vintage HILF was hooked up with that Gabe Furey fellah.

—HILF?

—Hag I Like to Fuck.

—Charming.

—Who's the playwright? Can ya tell me that?

—I am. At least, I'm working on it.

—Not even fuckin written yet? Jesus. When are ya drivin me back to town?

—Excuse me?

—What'd you say your name was?

—I didn't. Nichole Wright.

—Nichole, right. I mean – listen, I hitched a ride out to here. Port au Mal is not exactly on the highway. Walked from St John's to Seal Cove. You ever walk that distance?

—Just –

—When you've walked halfway from St John's to the arse end of Conception Bay to audition for a play that's not even fuckin written yet, then we'll talk. For now, just tell me when you're drivin me back to town.

Nichole chewed the inside of her bottom lip and studied the dart scoreboards on the walls.
Time to pull that snotty God-peering-down-
from-the-mount-Wright face
. Not too difficult, as Nichole stood taller than Seth, for a start. She cocked her chin, let her glasses slide down her nose, dropped her jaw, lolled judgemental eyes over Seth's long hair and beard, and cranked her townie accent.

—And you are?

Seth studied Nichole, willing himself not to avert his own eyes from her deep-set green ones. He thought a moment, blew smoke away from her face and extended his hand. —Seth Seabright. And before you ask, yes, I'm one of those Seabrights.

—I'm one of those Wrights, myself.

—The VOIC Wrights?

—Guilty as charged.

—Ever think of changin your name?

—Everyone'd still know. And I'd probably have some cousin I've never met hunt me to the corner of some dilapidated cabin and heave me down the gullet of a whale for denying my sacred Wright heritage.

—Cracked as my crowd. ‘Seabright' is no Catholic name; I'm pretty sure one of them fuckin stole it. You need a smoke? I saw you lookin.

—Thanks, no.

—Listen, that was bullshit about walkin from St John's to Seal Cove, but I did hitch out here. Can you give me a ride back?

—Sure. You know you're getting paid for this audition, right? Actors' Queue and TCR's funding rules say we've got to get some local amateur talent at least trying out, and the ACHE Board figured getting some professionals from town out here might encourage local support.

—I'm not from town. Can I see whatever part of the script you got done?

—You want to audition from the script?

—It'd be nice. Kinda hoped to see the script in advance, to tell ya the truth. Who's buddy in the dog collar outside?

—Reverend Winslow. He runs the Church of Prevenient Grace at the End of Things.

—You drive all the way out here for church?

—Believe me, I am not one of his flock.

—He's lookin at ya like you are.

Nichole gave Seth the thin manuscript and peered through the grimy window. Elias Winslow caught her eye and strode to the door. Before Nichole could explain Winslow any further, the minister stood in the doorway, dark against the scarce daylight.

—Ms Wright. I might have guessed. Are you going ahead with those try-outs today?

—Yes, we –

—Excuse me, young man, but all public buildings are smoke-free.

Not raising his eyes from Nichole's script, Seth crushed the ember of his fresh cigarette between thumb and forefinger, the same way Winslow had extinguished the graveyard incense.

Elias Winslow walked towards them, and the old wooden door slammed shut. —Ms Wright, you surprise me today. But then you aren't a part of this community, so perhaps I should take that into account. Has it occurred to you, within your little bubble of defiance and pride, to wonder why no one else has shown up?

Slap Nichole Day, is it?
Nichole sicced the Wright face on Reverend Winslow, though she had to push her glasses back up first.

—Enlighten me, Reverend.

Quietly, but not so quietly Seth could not hear: —You suffer from powerful and genetic need for humbling. God have mercy on your arrogant Wright soul.

Winslow looked at Seth next. Doubtless another wayward lamb sent to try his patience and irritate mute memories.
Damnation,
hellfire and demons' wings, what I am supposed to remember about
this one? A Seabright?

Then he spoke at his normal volume.—A young girl died here last night. She's some of our best talent, and she was going to audition today, Ms Wright.

—I'm sorry. I had to no idea.

—So show a little respect. I am very disappointed in you, Ms Wright, but perhaps I should have expected no better. When one dies in Port au Mal, Mr Seabright, we are all diminished, for we are a true community. Yes, I know who you are, you and your filthy books. I need a bath every time I see your covers in a store.

Rolling the script into a cylinder and tucking it into his back pocket, Seth locked eyes with Winslow. —Don't get out shoppin much, do ya? Diminished, Jesus, and a clod be washed away. If I were John Donne, I'd invite you out back for a word of prayer.

Dust motes thickened the air.

Seth hooked his thumbs in the front pocket of his jeans, gently nudging the knife case on his belt. Reverend Winslow copied his posturing.

Chill spread tentacles like a virus in Nichole's blood.
Knife-fight
in the Orange Lodge, great. New folk song'll come out of this,
yet.
She dropped her brittle Wright certainty.—Reverend Winslow, I can re-schedule the community auditions, but Mr Seabright is a professional actor on a schedule, and he needs to go ahead today.

Winslow ignored her and spoke to Seth. —You recognized John Donne. Very good. It seems you've managed to cram in some poetry between fights and fornications. Can you actually recite any?

The saint's medal around Seth's neck flashed in the light.—Jeez b'y, I dunno. Any particular poetry you wanna hear? I do all right with the seventeenth century. Let me fall to my knees for ya.

So when my days of impotence approach,

And I'm by pox and wine's unlucky chance

Driven from the pleasing billows of debauch,

On the dull shore of lazy temperance –

Hang on, now, Rev, there's more. Not polite to leave in the middle of a performance.

I'll tell of whores attacked, their lords at home,

Bawds' quarters beaten up, and fortress won,

Windows demolished, watches overcome,

And handsome ills by my contrivance done.

Nor shall our love-fits, Chloris, be forgot,

When each the well-looked linkboy strove t'enjoy,

And the best kiss was the deciding lot:

Whether the boy fucked you, or I the boy.

Knees obviously paining him, Seth walked over and slapped Winslow on the shoulder.

—John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester. Right noble, that is, and you loved it. Tell the truth, now.

Winslow said nothing. Nichole's jaw worked as she kept her laughter in.

Seth took the script out of his pocket and looked at Nichole.

—From the top?

Act one. Scene one, Port au Mal, Newfoundland. John Cannard, an Englishman in his late 50s, sits writing.

CANNARD: Port au Mal, October 10, 1761. So, trapped on this pinned chart as the corrections made in another man's hand be trapped between two coursing lines of mould, like clews, one larboard and one starboard; so trapped I draw my finger lightly over the coast of Massachusetts, of the bays round Salem (for so this chart be titled, Waters of Salem), stir up gales as I once stirred coffee, thoughtlessly, in Bristol with Runciman – another country, and me another man. And which stranger, then –

Winslow tore the script from Seth's hands. —No! Making a whore of history. Changing dates willy-nilly, destroying the true story of this place. Misleading tourists, heaven help us. Imaginary muck that will besmirch the name of Port au Mal and the good people who live here –

Seth giggled. —Besmirch?

—You shall learn. Both of you. You may not – must not – play with history.

Elias Winslow threw the script at Nichole's feet and departed, quietly enough.

Nichole sagged against the wall.—God. He wears me out.

—Nothin like some dusty old porn to get people to back right the fuck off. You should read Rochester in the bath. Do ya the world of good. Where'd you come up with that Cannard fellah?

—That bit's verbatim from a ledger my cousin found in his father's attic. It seems to match up old letters a friend of mine found out here. Letters from Salem.

Seth picked up the script. —Strict history, then. So what's his Most Reverend Holy-Rollerness Supervillain gettin on with?

—The letters seem to indicate English settlement in this area before 1760.

Seth stopped lighting his cigarette, quite serious. —He the same Winslow who started the whole Settlement 250 thing?