Torn Away (12 page)

“Tell me about Belfast,” said Ana.

They were sitting out on the porch, wearing warm jackets. The month of the loon was a rainy one, cold and damp. Declan liked to sit and watch the different moods of the sea and the sky. Ana and Thomas sometimes sat with him.

“Where I lived, all the Catholics have a picture of the Pope on the wall,” said Declan, “like the one Matthew and Kate have.” He went on to describe the Falls Road area
where many of the women painted the side-walks outside their homes orange and white and green, the colors of the Irish flag. The Protestants did the same on theirs, only they painted the Union Jack: red, white and blue. And the Protestants hung English flags out of their windows.

The graffiti on the gable ends of the houses said things like: IRELAND FOR THE IRISH; KILL KILL KILL; BRITS OUT; BLOOD DEBTS REPAID IN BLOOD; and (painted by the Prods during the night) KILL THE POPE.

Derelict houses, bricked-up windows, rusty corrugated tin, bleak streets, barricades of brick and barbed wire, the air hazy with the smoke from coal and turf fires, no grass or greenery, broken pavement and guttering, starving dogs roaming about. While Radio Ulster played constant Country and Western music, the smell of poverty clung to everything like cigarette smoke.

“Declan, it sounds awful. Surely, the rest of Ireland is not like that?”

“No. Ireland is beautiful. We live in one of the poorest parts of Northern Ireland.”

“You must have hated it.”

“Not really. We're used to it. My ma worked in the shirt factory. We got by. But compared to the nicer parts of Belfast, the houses in my neighborhood are pretty awful.”

There were rats. They left hard pellets on the kitchen counter. His ma took care of the baiting and setting of the traps, though the rats were usually cunning enough to avoid them. If the traps ever killed, then Declan did not know of it, for his ma was always the first up in the morning, and she never spoke of it.

Afterwards, after the bomb, when he was alone in the house, he set a trap and awoke one night to the sound of thumping. He thought it was the Brits or the Prods breaking in. Heart racing, he pulled on his jeans and tiptoed down the stairs. The noise, a constant rhythmic sound of something being thumped against the counter tiles, was louder. When he saw what it was, he backed off. Then he slipped his hand into his ma's oven mitt and gingerly picked up the trap and dropped it into the back yard toilet and waited until it had drowned. Then he threw it into the bin, trap and all.

“I hate rats,” said Ana.

“I hate them too,” said Declan, “but there's worse things in Belfast than rats.”

“I'm glad I live here,” said Ana.

Declan did not reply, but he thought about the Belfast he had just described to Ana and then he thought about the day on the mountain hunting with Matthew. The eagles, the jays, the graceful deer, the quiet, pine-scented air.

“What are you thinking about?”

Declan brushed back his hair. “How people in different parts of the world can lead such totally different lives.”

Declan knew he wasn't telling Ana the complete truth about his thoughts. What he'd said was true as far as it went, but also at the back of his mind was a blister of a thought, a nagging suggestion that his day in the woods with his uncle had been only a part of Matthew's larger plan in his role as Chief Fixer. Matthew and Kate were trying to drag Declan into their world, and he refused to be dragged. Such tactics by his uncle and aunt only strengthened his resolve to return to his home; he would show them that Declan Doyle was made of much tougher stuff than they'd bargained for.

One day after school, Declan and Ana got off the bus and, as they turned into the lane, Declan noticed Thomas run and hide in the cedar hedge.

“Pretend we didn't see him,” said Declan.

They went in the back door of the house. “Where's Thomas?” said Declan in a voice loud enough for Thomas to hear. They came back out into the yard. “Where's Thomas?” said Declan again in a loud voice.

“I hope we haven't lost him!” cried Ana.

“Oh no!” cried Declan, pretending to become quite upset. “Thomas! Thomas! Where are you? Come back to us, Thomas.”

A muffled giggle came from under the hedge.

“Did I hear something?” said Declan hopefully.

“It was only the cry of a lonely bluejay in the branches of the Douglas fir,” said Ana, declaiming, storybook fashion.

“No!” said Declan, enjoying himself, and following Ana's tone. “It sounded to me like the tortured cry of a poor boy imprisoned in the deep deep earth.”

“It was a bird, I tell you.”

“You're wrong, Ana. It's poor Thomas trapped under the deep earth.” Declan made loud sniffing noises. “I can smell the orange he had for his lunch.”

“The smell you smell is the cedar hedge, sharp like lemons,” said Ana in her storybook voice.

“He's here, I tell you!” shouted Declan. “And we've got to save him before it's too late!”

Louder giggles from the hedge.

“I hear him! I hear him!” Declan bent down. “I see him, Ana! I see him! It's Thomas! He's trapped in the earth under the hedge. Help me free poor Thomas from his prison!”

Thomas giggled and squirmed as they dragged him out. They stood him on his feet. Thomas screamed with laughter, pleased with himself for having fooled them for so long. “I trapped, Declan. I trapped . . . deep . . . deep.”

Declan and Ana threw their arms around him. “What a fright you gave us, Thomas!” said Ana.

“We thought we'd lost you!” cried Declan.

That night as he lay in his bed, head turned to look out the window at the night sky, Declan remembered how happy he had felt when they were playing with Thomas, dragging him out from under the cedar hedge, and his mind fixed uncomfortably on the word
dragging
. The Fixers, Matthew and Kate, were intent on dragging Declan into their world. Ana and Thomas were a part of that world. He would miss Ana and Thomas, he realized.

The realization was like a weight around his heart.

Miss Ritter came down to the wind-battered porch one evening to watch a storm over the ocean, and when she saw them all gathered there, she said brightly, “How nice you could come.”

Kate made room for her on the broken sofa. “Sit here, Miss Ritter, and I'll bring you a cup of tea. There's a pot made fresh only a minute ago.” She got up and went inside.

“Good evening, Matthew,” said Miss Ritter. She looked about her, smiling. “Ana.” She nodded. “Thomas.” She nodded again. She came to Declan and frowned slightly.

“Oh!” She appeared surprised. “I thought you emigrated to Australia, Walter!”

“This is Declan,” said Ana.

“Oh, how silly of me. But he looks so much like Walter when he . . . “

Kate handed Miss Ritter her cup of tea.

“Thank you, dear,” said Miss Ritter, taking the cup and saucer in her birdlike hands.

Kate sat down beside her.

“It's so good of you all to come,” said Miss Ritter. “I get a little nervous sitting in-doors during a storm. It's so much nicer when friends come to visit.” She kept darting glances at Declan. “I was born in this house . . . “ She looked at Declan expectantly. “ . . . lived here all my life,” she finished uncertainly.

Declan nodded solemnly.

“I never moved.” Miss Ritter stared at Declan, and when he said nothing, she nodded her head, took a sip of tea, and gazed out over the sea, a bright smile on her face.

Matthew and Kate were talking quietly together; Declan couldn't hear what they were saying. He looked over at Ana. She smiled at him and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “Relax. Poor old Miss Ritter is like this sometimes.”

They watched in easy silence the sky diminish to darkness. The storm blew high, crashing breakers up onto the rocks, and the lightning flashed on the far horizon.

The morning after the storm, they found a harbor seal pup on the beach.

“It's dead,” said Declan after examining it.

“You can't be sure,” said Ana. “It could be unconscious.”

“Consh . . . “ said Thomas.

They sat on the beach and watched the pup.

“It shivered,” said Ana. “I saw its nose shiver. It's alive.”

“Leave it to die,” said Declan. “It's almost dead anyway.”

“Matthew and Kate will fix it,” said Ana. “They fix animals all the time. They fixed a Canada goose that had something wrong with its wing, and a baby racoon we found at the bottom of Headley Cliff, and . . . “

“Hmmph!” Declan kicked the sand. “The Fixers strike again!”

Ana and Thomas climbed back up to the
house and got Matthew to come down.

Declan watched him squatting, examining the animal without touching it. “Its mother could be out searching for food. Best not to touch it.”

“But what if it lost its mother in the storm?” said Ana.

“Leave it be for an hour,” said Matthew. “If its ma isn't back by then, well . . . “

They returned to the house and watched through binoculars for an hour. The mother did not come. The seal did not move.

They went back down to the beach with Matthew and stared at the pup.

“It will die if we don't do something,” said Ana.

“Then leave it die in peace,” said Declan.

“We could leave it to die, right enough,” said Matthew, nodding his head.

Ana said, “No! We should try to save it!”

Thomas became excited and started jumping about. “Save it!” he cried. “Save it!”

Matthew nodded. “There's always the chance it might live if we take it.” He looked at Declan.

Declan shrugged and turned away. He wanted no part of it. Matthew would never
make a Fixer out of him.

“We could try,” said Matthew. He bent and rolled the pup onto his forearms, and clasping it to his chest, carried it up the cliff to the house.

For Declan the days were dissolving into one another, one following another, it seemed to him, seamlessly. Otter Harbour was a quiet, unhurried place, so to Declan the days seemed all the same.

Early on Sunday morning, before anyone else was up, he decided to take a look in Matthew's workshop to check on the seal pup which had now been there two days. The seal, motionless on a bed of straw in a big cardboard box near the heater, regarded him
with a milky eye. Matthew should have let it die on the beach. The seal was too far gone: it was beyond Matthew's ability to fix it. Declan couldn't help a brief feeling of satisfaction. The Fixer would fail. The seal would die.

He wandered down to the shore to sit and watch the ocean and the gulls from a high rocky promontory, a short distance from the house. He came to this wild place often when he sought isolation. Somehow, the sight of the sea beating and frothing against the rocks made him feel at home, at the center of things, even though his home was far away; the wild hiss and draw of the surf somehow calmed him.

Today, however, there was another figure on the beach near to the rocks. When he got closer he could see it was his Aunt Kate. She was sketching with pastel crayons. A large pad of sketch paper rested on her knees.

“I didn't know you were an artist,” said Declan.

She smiled up at him. Again, he was reminded of his ma: they had the same eyes, the same easy, fond way of smiling. “I've always painted,” she said. “Ever since I was a child.” She tilted the seascape sketch so he could see.

Declan studied the dark sweeping colors on the page. Then he looked at the scene before them. “Is that what you see?”

“Today, it's what I see.”

“You did the paintings in the house,” said Declan, “I can see that now.”

“I paint from some of the pastel sketches, yes. There's a small gallery in Sechelt owned by a woman from Dublin, Moira Donaghue, who came out here about the same time we did. Moira started taking some of my stuff a few years ago. Then a gallery in Vancouver wanted some. So they keep me busy.” She sighed happily. “Ah! Every day is different here. It's the grand country. I try to catch the different moods of the sea and the sky.”

Declan laughed. “I was only just thinking how every day is the same, one day after another with nothing to tell them apart.”

Kate said, “You're dead wrong, Declan, so you are. Each day is unique—one of a kind.” She pointed. “The clouds are never the same; they move constantly, changing their shapes. The light is always different at different times of the day and the year. I like the early morning light best; it's purer somehow, have you noticed?”

Declan shrugged.

Kate said, “Life is change. Clouds, light.” She looked at him slyly. “People too; they grow and change.”

Declan said nothing to that. He remembered: Kate was a Fixer too, just like Matthew.

“What kind of a name is Iron Eagle, anyway?”

“A First Nation name.”

“What does that mean?”

“I am a Native Indian. When I was baptized I was given a Christian name—Joe Summers. But many First Nation people take the old names now.”

They were eating their lunches on the outdoor steps. The playing field was empty, but several runners were circling the track in the afternoon sunshine.

“I don't see many of your people at school,” said Declan.

Joe shrugged. “They leave to hunt or fish. Some go logging.”

“Why not you?”

“I stay.”

“Yes, but why?”

Joe often frowned over a question, and took his time answering. He did so now. Declan waited.

“I stay because I want an education,” he said at last. “I plan to study law.”

“A lawyer.” The tone of Declan's voice conveyed his low opinion of law and lawyers. “I thought you wanted to be a scientist.”

Joe shook his head. “I want to help my people.” He saw the puzzlement on Declan's face and laughed. Then he became serious again. “Like many of my people, I live on a Reservation.” He waved his arm in a wide sweep over the distant forest. “Once, all this land, as far as an eagle can see, belonged to us. It was ours to hunt and fish. But it was taken away from us. We have been fighting for many years to get it back.”