“But you saved me—” She tried sitting up, but had to slide back down again, letting her head rest gently on the pillow. “I think I might have died without you.”
He stuffed his hands into his pockets because the urge to hug her was strong. “I think you got lucky.”
“No—really, Finton. Did you—” Her voice trailed as she closed her eyes. Just when he thought she’d fallen asleep, she opened them again and finished: “I thought I went somewhere—with you.”
“You were in my arms the whole time.”
She smiled at the reminder. “Yes,” she said. “We were floating. We went really, really high… and the planets were bright—red and yellow and green suns all around.”
Finton tried to suppress his smile. He’d never heard anyone else describe the journey to his planet. It was as if she’d actually been there—meaning he hadn’t gone there alone or just in his imagination. “I call it the Planet of Solitude.”
A shadow of concern crossed her face. “You mean we were actually there?” When he nodded, she asked, “How is that even possible?”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
She promised not to, but her confusion was evident, and he was pretty sure his own bewilderment was obvious too.
A gargantuan black pickup truck came roaring through the fog like a colossal dragon, its bright yellow fog lamps like eyes, and chunky, black wipers swiping side-to-side like flapping wings. He stuck out his thumb and stared into the fog lamps, but his heart leadened in his chest as the driver accelerated. The tail lights winked at him just before they disappeared into the mist, and he was left alone with his thoughts.
He wished Alicia had come with him. He wished he’d never left Darwin.
He knew she wouldn’t tell anyone about the Planet of Solitude. No one would believe her—or they’d think he was insane, and Alicia had sense enough not to bring that down on his head. She seemed to believe him, that the planet was real and that he had the ability to bring people there, heal their injuries and illnesses, then bring them back.
But, in this case, that wasn’t what had happened. They had shared a thought, and that was that.
“It wasn’t you,” she’d said. “It was me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you didn’t make me better. Look at me—I’m still not very good. But I’m better than I was.”
“So… I cured you.”
“Tell me this—whenever you healed somebody before, did they get better right away, or did they take awhile?”
“Right away.”
“Exactly. Otherwise, genius, there’s no miracle. You can’t have a miracle after you go home and take two aspirins and call the doctor in the morning. A miracle is spontaneous. It happens right away, right before your eyes and that’s how everyone knows it’s a miracle. But look at me—still in bed, still in bandages—arm in a sling.”
“We could take the bandages off.”
“You try and you’ll have to wear bandages yourself.”
Finton understood. He didn’t need to tell her that. He just sat by her side, listening to her talk. She was obviously already beginning to heal, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d played a role in that. Watching her, though, he also wondered what had actually happened. She was far too chatty for someone who’d suffered a concussion.
“Are you listening to me?”
“I’m sorry—what?”
“I said, maybe that’s all it ever was—maybe you never cured anyone. Maybe they healed themselves, and all you did was give them a placebo—you made them think they could be better, and so they were.”
“I think you got hit a little too hard on your head.”
“Is it that hard to believe? Are you that egotistical?”
“Why are you saying all this?” He stood up then, hands plunged into his pockets. “I thought you were on my side.”
“I am. But I can’t let you go on deluding yourself. A friend would tell you to get a grip.”
“But you saw—you saw what happened with Bernard.”
“It was dark. I didn’t see anything.”
“People came to me. And I healed them.”
“No one really gets healed, Finton. They all die, eventually. You can’t escape that.”
“What about Miss Bridie? What about Mary?”
“Easily explained, and you know it,” she said. “I think they weren’t ready to go, and you gave them something—where are you going?”
“I’m gettin’ outta here.”
“Don’t be such a—Finton!”
He didn’t even say goodbye.
The blaring of a horn jolted him from his daydream. But not at first. It was more the glare of headlights, shining onto the pavement before him. Even though he leaped into a ditch and twisted his ankle, the driver didn’t stop, merely leaned on his horn as he zoomed past, the wet pavement whistling through the treads of tires.
For the first time in a long while, Finton felt like crying—he just wanted to sit there in the soggy ditch, knapsack twisted around and clutched to his stomach, and bawl as if he’d just been born and slapped on his behind. But he couldn’t will the tears to come. The rain pelted his face. The fog banks drifted past like mountains of mist, and right before him, in a whisper-thin clearing, stood a large, scrawny, grey dog, with its head lowered and appearing startled. As Finton stared back, the creature bared its yellow teeth and emitted a low, rumbling growl as it started to lope forward. Finton was mesmerized by its jaundiced eyes that appeared more frightened than he was himself. Still, he wondered if, after so much had happened and with freedom so near, this was how he was fated to die.
The dog—which reminded him of the “wolf” in the cage at the circus last summer—maintained steady eye contact, but it never came closer than a couple of feet as it passed beside him, slipped into the thicket, and vanished. The apparition had occurred so quickly that Finton could barely compose a thought. But, considering how far they were from the nearest town, he might well have just witnessed a kind of quiet miracle. Still trembling and yet strangely revitalized, he climbed out of the ditch and back onto the shoulder of the road, keeping a watch on the spot where he’d seen the wolf melt into the woods.
Limping slightly, he got himself moving southward again.
His heart and his clothing grew heavier with each step forward, and the deluge kept coming. Even his skin felt waterlogged beneath his clothes, inspiring the thought that he could not get much wetter unless he were water itself.
He had no idea where he was or how far he’d travelled, for the fog was so dense he could not read the signs and, without a horizon dividing one from the other, the pavement was indistinguishable from the downpour—all wet and all black. A handful of vehicles zipped by like blinkered phantasms—a school bus, a garbage truck, and a few vehicles that looked as if they were stuffed for vacation. The thought should have made him smile, but there were days when the weather on this island incited anger that could only rightly result in defeat. The very notion of travelers on the same miserable road as him, seeking heaven and freedom amid such perpetually horrific conditions, was so irresponsibly optimistic he could only shake his head.
He plodded along, sneakers squishing and backpack scraping, fifteen minutes removed from the last car sighting, so he occasionally walked on the asphalt, knowing he could easily scoot aside if a car happened to come along. The silence on the highway was startling and lonely, inspiring him to wonder how it could be that, at the moment of his greatest freedom, he felt such insignificance in the pattern of all things, such removal from the joys, comforts and concerns of humans. With the roadside trees standing silently tall, like grim witnesses to a brutal test that could only end in tragedy, it was obvious that this journey was leading in one direction, towards his own physical and mental devastation. Immersed in such unsolvable greyness, how could his fate be otherwise? Without even a fleeting light to interrupt the immortal darkness, what reason could there be for hope or faith?
It had alw
ays been like this, really. There never had been any reason for hope. Being born to a woman who could barely take care of herself, let alone an infant, what chance did he have in life? He understood why he’d been taken. No one ever spoke about the past, a policy he never understood because the bygone days were no more threatening nor darker than the present. Nanny Moon had once said to him, “Give up all hope of a better past.” At the time, her words made sense. But, despite her intentions to the contrary, there was something defeatist about them—the notion that there was a part of your life—essentially, the entire mass of moments and conditions that comprised your existence—that was beyond healing. In his deepest moments, he rejected the idea, clinging to the belief that somehow he would find a way to rectify the past, to at least reconcile it within his own mind and be at peace with his own history, with the history of his people and, thus, prepare himself for a better future.
Without peace with the past, there could be no hope for future contentment—which made the present a battleground for Finton Moon. That was the last thought he had before his foot slipped into a water-filled pothole and he wrenched his already-injured ankle. Screeching in anguish, he dropped to the pavement, clasping his foot.
“Ow! Ow! Ow! Fucking ow! Ow! Ow!” he cried out as he rubbed the injured spot. His words fell dead on the asphalt and gravel, for no sound could carry far in such indomitable fog. All noises were close as if emanating from just beyond his body. He cursed the road, the Department of Highways—what kind of godforsaken place has potholes in the middle of a highway?—and he cursed an apocalypse on God himself. He cursed his mother and father and Bridie Battenhatch. Most of all, he cursed the rain.
A few tears rolled down his face, but that was all. He tried standing up, but the pain was too sharp and, more out of frustration than physical necessity, he again fell on his arse, plop down in the pothole full of dark water.
This time he didn’t curse, only hung his head to his knees, which he wrapped his arms around and pulled tight to his chest. He was just about to launch into a round of Hail Marys when, from somewhere nearby, he heard the unmistakable whir of rubber on wet pavement as a slowing vehicle rolled towards him. He didn’t bother lifting his head, for he couldn’t handle the vicious cycle of hope and despair.
But he could swear this car was slowing down as it came closer. The pothole in which he sat was suddenly awash with light. The tires ceased rolling, the engine rumbling like some massive beast in suspension. Finton wondered what greater misery was about to descend. He wasn’t exactly prepared to fight, but he supposed he would, if forced.
“Hello again.”
A familiar voice.
Moments later, he sat in the front seat of a police cruiser across from Kieran Dredge, staring into the fog and drizzle.
“Not a fit day for a walk,” the constable said.
“So I found out.”
Kieran laughed. It was a warm, genuine laugh—a sound not necessarily intended to make the youth feel at ease, but it had exactly that effect.
“Your family’s probably worried sick about you.”
Here it comes, he thought.
“Where are you headed?” Kieran asked. The wipers scraped rhythmically, every few seconds, until their sound became a wordless song that cut right to Finton’s heart.
“I’d rather not say.”
“You should tell someone where you’re going.” Kieran paused thoughtfully. “You could tell me.”
Finton maintained a steady gaze on the hidden horizon. Shapes in the mist drifted before his eyes like white watercolour paintings. In the all-consuming blankness, he saw nothing and everything. He saw his past and his future—the people he knew and those upon whom he had yet to lay eyes. But mostly he saw himself—a past barely gone, a future unwritten. “No, thanks.” He sniffled as water rivered down his face and plopped onto the seat.
“Mind if I ask why?”
“Because I’m not sure who to trust anymore.”
“Fair enough.” Kieran sighed. “You remind me of myself when I was your age.”
Again, he thought, Here it comes—the old “you remind me of me” speech.
“Didn’t get along with my family. Thought nobody understood me. Man, I hated this place. Hated intensely. I couldn’t wait to get away and go someplace better.”
“Did you find it?” Finton was skeptical about where this “talk” was leading, but he played along, hoping his sociability would score him a ride for a few miles.
“What I found was, there is no place better. There are only other places.”
“I don’t believe that—some places have gotta be better than this shithole.”
“So you would think. But when you get away, you actually miss it—the ocean, the land, the fog… and the people.” He laughed bitterly. “I didn’t miss them for the longest time. I missed my little sister. My mother. But that’s about it.”
“Did you get along with your family?”
That made him smile. “Let’s just say we have different ideas on things.”
“I know what ya mean,” Finton said. “My family doesn’t get me either.”
“Anyway, I’m not saying I didn’t love the city life, the girls, all the things to do. It was pretty great. But no matter how bad things were back here, this was home—a place you’re always connected to, always affects you, for better or worse.”
“I’m thinking mostly for worse.”
“Maybe,” said Kieran. “Just don’t go writing people off.”
“There’s some pretty bad people here—you should know that better than anyone.”
“Oh, yes, indeed. But it’s not just here. They’re everywhere. And the good ones are here too, just the same as anywhere else.”
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t go anywhere.”
“No. I’m saying, don’t go havin’ any great expectations.”
Finton found his choice of words funny. “Do you read?”
“Yeah, I read. I read that one in school—Dickens, right? But I mostly read non-fiction. Biographies and articles. Sports stuff.”
“Like Clancy.”
“Yeah, I know Clancy. I was a few grades ahead of him in school. Good guy.”
Finton found himself tingling with pride to hear his brother’s name mentioned in such a positive manner. “He’s good at cars and stuff.”
“I know—he replaced a belt in my old Gremlin a while ago—before I sold it to that Stuckey friend o’ yours.”
“Listen,” said Finton as he drew a deep breath. “Tell Alicia she needs to get out.” As he steeled his nerve, a car went by, honking like a migratory goose before it disappeared into the white wall.
Kieran smiled. “She’s a big girl. She’ll make up her own mind.”
“I just thought maybe you could convince her.”
“She’s still a bit young for that.” Kieran nodded, his lips knotted thoughtfully. “So are you for that matter.”
“I’m old enough,” he said, unwilling to explain himself any more than that.
“I’ll drive you down the road a ways, if you like.”
“That would be great.”
“But I’ll ask you one more time—would you rather go back home?”
Finton considered it. He wished the weather was better. Hell, he wished a lot of things were better. He wished there was an easier way and a better way. But this was the best thing for now. “Onward,” he said; within half an hour, they were rolling across the Avalon.
The ferry to Nova Scotia was bigger, brighter, and bluer than he’d imagined. He didn’t tell Kieran his destination, but since he said it wasn’t St. John’s, the constable turned right at the Argentia access road. Somehow, he’d known. When he dropped Finton off at the ferry terminal, he wished him luck and advised him to contact his family once he got where he was going. He told Kieran, “Have a good life.” Then he changed into dry clothes and tossed his old ones into the washroom trashcan. Only his sneakers were still soaked through, and they squished and
squeaked with every step he took.
The boat ride went quickly—they’d left port in the evening and arrived in North Sydney a mere fourteen hours later. For sixteen years, hardly anything had changed. But in just under half a day, Finton had practically entered a new country.
Nova Scotia was vast and yet similar to the place he’d left, the only apparent difference being the sunshine. While the land behind seemed perpetually bathed in fog and snow, Nova Scotia was bright and fairly warm. The ferry ramp, the dock, the goldenrod-striped pavement, and the perky conifers that bordered the government property were all tinted golden, lending the expedition a touch of grandeur. He felt as if he were in a movie—all the people just actors, saying tired lines.
The sight, as he left the station, of a red and white flag with the maple leaf rippling against the powder blue sky made him stop and stare, wondering if this was what it felt like to belong to something bigger. The moment was fleeting, however, and he started walking alongside a narrow road that would eventually lead to the highway. Cars and trucks whizzed by him, same as before, all going some place. They might even be going to the same place as him. But he didn’t stick out his thumb. He simply trusted.
It was a long time before one of them pulled over, and when he ran to the waiting car and opened the door, there was a young woman with long, dark hair and soft, brown eyes, asking where he was going.
“The Annapolis Valley.”
“Well, that’s where I’m going,” she said. “Do you need a lift?”
In her front seat, he felt as if everything was going to be okay. In that moment, who he used to be and the place he’d grown up no longer existed. Maybe in years to come, it would all come back. He might even miss it. But from now on, he was a young man named Finton Moon and that was all. Like a snowball heading downhill, he would accumulate himself as he rolled along.
The pretty woman asked his name, and he told her.
“Where are you from?”
“A whole different place,” he said.
She didn’t prod, but when he asked her name, she said, “Clarity.”
She wasn’t born with that name and yet somehow she actually had been. She had chosen it, but she’d always known it; she just hadn’t known what it was till she said it aloud.
Finton Moon Page 38
