Finton Moon

by Gerard Collins

  “What’s in the Valley you’re so worked up to see?”

  He’d know it when he saw it, he said.

  It was a long drive, but they conversed the whole way, and time passed quickly. He was amazed by how much she knew about everything and how little he knew about anything. But he had opinions, and that counted for something. She’d been home for the weekend, visiting family in Stephenville, but now she was back in university to finish the semester.

  “I’m Wiccan,” she said, “which is why I chose my own name.” Then she explained that she was a witch-in-training, a member of a small coven that met at low tide for bonfires on the mud flats of Wolfville every full moon of summer and fall.

  When Finton explained he was “born Catholic,” she said, “No one’s born Catholic. You were baptized—and you can be baptized again as something else.” He liked the sound of that, the chance at starting over, not as someone else, but as the person he’d always felt that he was. Perhaps, in a way, he already had been baptized—for he still felt a chill from his hours in the rain.

  By the time they reached Wolfville and were parting ways, he was already in love with Clarity. She gave him her number and a hug. She kissed his cheek and said, “If you ever need anything, you get in touch. I’m not far away.”

  She left him on the steps of the residence hall at Acadia University. After he watched her drive away, he went to the main office to ask for help, which another young woman joyfully provided. He showed her the letter from the registrar’s assistant—a girl named Debra—but she said she didn’t need it. She just gave him the directions and the key to his room. It was the most precious thing he’d ever held, in a hand that had held many precious things. No one had ever trusted him with a key before.

  Because it was still summer, the residence was mostly empty, although there were several students milling around, conversing on their way to someplace else, possibly to class or out for a mid-afternoon coffee or whatever it was students did in their free time. Until now, Finton hadn’t even realized there was something called free time—the adult distinction between work and leisure. Up until now, all times had been the same: a seemingly endless stretch of constant anxiety.

  It took a few minutes, exploring the hallways, making a couple of wrong turns, but he finally found his room. He knocked on the door, but he knew there’d be no one inside. The girl at the desk had told him he had it all to himself. The charge would be eight dollars each night, and he could stay as many nights as he wanted until September.

  Dear Finton:

  In response to your letter dated May 14, 1976, I am pleased to inform you that we have dorm rooms available throughout the summer for anyone who wants them. The cost per night is eight dollars. Please let me know the dates you’ll be requiring a room. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Regards, Debra Huntington

  The bed had a pillow and two blankets. The bookshelf was empty. A brown metallic heater was built into the wall, but there were no knobs. With his shoes on, he lay on the bed and clasped his hands on his stomach, feeling the up-and-down motion of his steady breathing. So this was freedom. He had just closed his eyes when he just as quickly opened them and sprang to his feet. He sensed it was time.

  The door locked behind him, and he felt in his pocket to make certain he still had the key. Reassured, he retraced his steps and sauntered out the front door, into the warmth of the day. The sunshine on his face was a balm to his soul. He closed his eyes and inhaled, then slowly emitted a life-affirming breath.

  Eyes reopened, he chose a direction and followed it. He strolled across the expansive, forested lawn to Main Street, which ran through Wolfville and connected it to townships beyond its borders at both ends. As he navigated the sidewalk past a small cemetery and a large, white theatre, he imagined one could walk for days and never encounter a bank of fog or a moose. You could go on forever without running into an obstacle, and no one would tell you that you were doing anything wrong.

  He was amazed that there was a sidewalk, and the trees were so tall. He’d seen pictures of oak trees on TV and in books, and this is definitely what they were—strong oaks that had stood at least for decades in the very same spot. And they would remain there long after he’d gone; no one would cut them down for sport or out of necessity. They, and the sidewalk, were the epitome of beauty. They already made him feel that this was the place for him. But they were not what he had come for.

  Onward he ambled, taking his time, knowing he’d get there eventually, for the map showed the next town was New Minas, not too far away. Somewhere outside Wolfville was what he had journeyed so far to see, to be among and to worship—to stare at in wonder: to see for himself that what he’d dreamed of was real.

  Almost half an hour after leaving his dorm room, he halted in his footsteps on the side of the road. The sidewalk converted into a pebbled path that was nonetheless smooth and navigable.

  When he finally saw them, he almost cried.

  Their beauty was beyond anything he could ever describe, although he knew, eventually, he would have to try. Mysterious. Hopeful.Universal. Life. These were words that came to his mind.

  As far as he could see, there were hundreds of apple trees, in infinite rows—he’d never imagined that they were planted that way. He’d always envisioned a haphazard arrangement, as if apple trees could grow wherever they wanted. But these, it seemed, were arranged that way, and there was something so utterly divine in the way they were cloistered, limbs thrusting outward, downward and yet, at their very tips, pointing towards the sky, that, just for a moment, he was certain that God existed and had a plan for him. Otherwise, there would be no such orchard, no such trees, and he would not be standing here at this moment to see their emerald leaves and life-giving fruit glistening angelically under a perfect sun.

  It was the way Mary Connelly had appeared to him on that first day of school in her blinding pink jacket. The way he’d felt when he swam in the cold ocean or lay on his back in a meadow, gazing up at the stars. The certainty and wonder he felt about life before he’d ever laid hands on Miss Bridie’s wound. All that time, he thought Mary’s pink jacket had opened his eyes, but now he could see it had only closed them, and he had been living a sightless dream. But the spectacle of these trees had returned his vision.

  He slipped under a white, wooden fence and strolled across the grass, towards the trees. There was no one else around. Behind him, a few cars slipped by. No one paid him any attention. Out here, it seemed, no one minded anyone else’s business.

  Dear Mr. Moon:

  I am pleased to inform you we can, indeed, hire you to pick apples on Inglis’s Farm from the period of August 30 until October 30. Please inform us as to the date and time of your arrival.

  Sincerely,

  Martha Inglis

  He chose a tree—one that seemed friendly, protective, and open—and he sat beneath it, his back up against it, his noggin against the trunk as he gazed upward, amazed. Seeing one particular apple dangling from a limb, surrounded by soft, green leaves as if presented just for him, he reached up to touch its solid, scarlet splendour. At his touch, the fruit fell into his palm with a weight that reminded him of Morgan’s breast.

  He brought it closer for scrutiny.

  Then he realized, with brutal clarity, that, having plucked the apple, he had invoked the necessity for an unwinnable choice. For, though he dared not mar its beauty by stealing a bite, the apple could not be replaced from where it had fallen. At the foot of the tree with the sun beating down, fended off by the shade of the umbrella-like branches, he laid the lone piece of fruit aside, on the ground by his knee.

  And then, at last, Finton wept.

  By the middle of September, he was already having difficulty remembering who he used to be. He never called home and rarely wrote letters. Once in a while, he sent a postcard with a picture of an orchard, or the Memorial Church at Grand Pré, the sort of things he thought Nanny Moon would enjoy. He wrote a letter once explaini
ng how he’d come to see things, how relations between them had gotten so estranged—it was because he was different, because he needed something they couldn’t offer him, and it wasn’t their fault, but he felt claustrophobic even thinking about that little kitchen and that tiny bungalow at the top of the windblown hill. The Valley had changed him, given him a new identity and a sense of belonging he’d never known before. But he knew in his heart they wouldn’t understand, that he would only make his mother cry. So he tore up the letter.

  Occasionally, when the sun was setting burnt orange in a deep, black sky, or the silver fog encroached and crept over the Gaspereau mountains to settle on the red mud plains of Wolfville, he was reminded of the people back in Darwin in images that were only shades of grey. He would occasionally have flashes of memory, of the night he put his hands on an old woman’s wound and retrieved her from the dead. But, in time, he rarely even thought of that woman or considered that moment. He couldn’t remember the circumstances that led to it or the years of growing up that had followed. His past became like a country he’d only traveled by train, distanced and detached from all those around—disconnected from no one so much as himself.

  It began to seem as if Alicia, Morgan, Mary, Skeet and his brothers weren’t real, but existed only inside his mind and sometimes not even there. Whole days went by when he thought about none of them. Months would pass when he concerned himself only with the new people he’d met—the magic of novelty and constant renewal, here where people didn’t care what you used to be, only what you were now and were about to become.

  At times, he would stare at his small, freckled hands in the glare of an afternoon sun while he sat beneath the shade of a parental oak. They looked as if they once could have healed, but now they were useful for writing an essay, writing a fresh story, plucking an apple from its stem, stirring sugar into a mug of coffee—or holding a girl’s hand.

  The scar beneath his left eye faded more with time and, although it remained visible to him on an average day, it blazed deeper on days when the memories raged.

  One day as he passed by a thrift store, he saw in the window a red bicycle and a manual typewriter—an Underwood, like the one Stephen King had used to write Carrie. For five dollars, he bought the typewriter and took it back to his dorm room where he spent many long and glorious nights composing new stories by hunting and pecking. Eventually, he went back and bought the bicycle.

  On the last day of August, he’d reported for work at Inglis’s farm, and they gave him a place to stay in the bunkhouse. “You’re awful small,” Martha Inglis had said, sizing him up. “Are you sure you’re seventeen? Apple-picking’s not for the faint of heart.” Only when he assured her he was old enough and would work really hard did she give him a key, show him his bunk, and introduce him to the rest of the men. He soon found out that there were some hard tickets among them, one of whom reminded him of Bernard Crowley, the way he always ribbed Finton about writing his “fairy stories” whenever he sat at the typewriter. Others of the men liked to get drunk on their time off, often sitting around and playing cards till all hours in the morning, sometimes even going to work pretty smashed. It wasn’t long before he realized he didn’t fit in with these crude men, some of whom couldn’t read.

  Maybe, he thought, it wasn’t Darwin, but me.

  On days off, he’d go exploring on his bike and, after weeks of hearing about the world-famous Tidal Bore, he went to the store and gave Clarity a call, asking her if she’d take him to see it. She greeted him that day like a long-lost friend, and they drove up to Cape Split, picnicked on a ridge and watched the tide come in. Gradually, Finton noticed that the forest above the beach was filled with a loud, hollow sound like nothing he’d ever heard before, and yet it touched his soul so deeply that he almost cried. But then, all his emotions lately were near to the surface, and he had decided to just let them be.

  “What’s that sound?” he asked.

  “You should know it,” she said. “It’s ‘The Voice of the Moon.’” It was a unique aural phenomenon caused by the inrush of the world’s highest tides, right there in the Minas Basin, outside of Wolfville. When she told him that, he was certain that he’d made the right choice in leaving Darwin. When his fingers tingled and his palms buzzed, Finton shivered briefly and smiled.

  At night, the trains would rumble beside Front Street, out near the mudflats, and make the bunkhouse rattle, the floorboards shake, and the ceiling sway. Finton’s bed would quake so hard that it woke him up. He would lie breathlessly still, listening to the desolate call of a slowmoving train—one of the most beautiful sounds he’d ever heard—and wonder if soon he might be moving on. There were places to see besides Nova Scotia, places that might open his mind equally and expand his soul even more.

  Those moments would stir his imagination and, when he was feeling reflective, he’d write stories about a boy who was able to heal. That same boy, in the same story or in others like it, could also levitate and sometimes fly. In those tales, there were girls who wanted to be with the strangest boy in town. He had a family who loved him in some stories and neglected him in others. But it was always the same family in every tale.

  Dear Finton,

  This will be short. Everything here is good. Your father and Clancy just opened a garage. I don’t know where it’s going, but they called it “Clancy and Tom’s Garage.” Your father says he’d like to hear from you if you get a chance. I told him me and him both. Homer’s going to trades school in the fall. He should do all right if he can put his mind to studying. Nanny Moon gets around pretty good for her age. She said for you to be good and go to church. Anyway, Morgan’s here now. I asked her over for a cup of tea. She seems lonely since her mother died. She said to say hello. Hope you’re doing good. If you need anything, just let us know.

  Love, your mother

  Darwin was encroaching on his newly made life and, as he read the letter, he knew he’d be leaving when the blossoms returned to the orchards of Wolfville. Sure, they were beautiful. But there was no need to wait around for that which he’d already seen. He had a world to seek and a soul to heal, or maybe the other way around.

  This novel has taken many different forms in the decade or so it took to fashion it into the story I needed to tell. Thus, many people have played a role in its development, as well as in my own evolution as an author.

  In 2001, a very rough first draft of Finton Moon won the Percy Janes First Novel Award, and I am forever grateful to Regina Best, the Newfoundland Arts and Letters Awards, and especially the adjudicator, Kenneth J. Harvey, for offering me the encouragement to see this story to publication. Without that initial success, I’m not sure I would have possessed the faith and fortitude to see this journey through.

  Laurel Boone, Sally Harding, Carolyn Swayze, and Samantha North were all very kind and encouraging when they read the earliest version of Finton Moon. Each offered advice that I’ve heeded, evidence of which can be seen in the published novel.

  Dr. Stacy Gillis read parts of the original manuscript and offered invaluable suggestions. But it was your time and enthusiasm that meant the most to me.

  Donna Francis, I can never thank you enough for your unwavering belief in my writing and patience with my process. I wish every writer could have a publisher like mine.

  Pamela Dooley, thank you for the long conversations and endless good cheer in bookstores, Costcos, airplanes, and book fairs. You make promotion fun, and that, for an author, is an uncommon experience.

  Thanks to my editor, Ed Kavanagh, for your patience and diligence. Your constant questioning, your eagle eye, and your uncommon instinct for logic have made me a better writer and Finton Moon a much better novel.

  Thanks, Tammy Macneil, Rob Warner, and JoAnne Soper-Cook for weighing in on my name change dilemma at the eleventh hour.

  Thanks, Todd Manning for the wonderful cover art. Also, thanks Darren Whalen for your amazing talent and hard work, and to my anonymous, skilful copy editor.

 
; Most of all, thanks to my wife, Norma, who has read every version of Finton Moon since I first conceived of the idea nearly twelve years ago. You never lost faith, and you never stopped caring for and loving either the characters, the story, or me. There is no way on earth this novel would have been written and published without you being you.

  I need to thank the book bloggers, the reviewers, the librarians, the bookstore owners and staff, the people who come out to readings and signings, as well as the dedicated folks at Creative Publishers, WANL, NLAC, the Atlantic Book Awards, Tamara Reynish, and the Literary Arts Foundation. We’re all in this together, for the love of books and the arts, and our lives are enriched by your efforts.

  Thank you to the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts Council and the City of St. John’s for their financial benevolence.

  Gerard Collins is a writer and teacher whose fiction has appeared in various journals and won a handful of literary prizes, including the 2012 Ches Crosbie Barristers/Newfoundland and Labrador Book Award for Fiction and the Percy Janes First Novel Award.

  He was born in Bond’s Path, Placentia, Newfoundland and has lived most of his adult life in St. John’s. He has also resided in Nova Scotia, Ontario, and British Columbia, as well as various small towns in his home province. For many of those years, he was, alternately, a guy with a shovel, an agricultural inspector, a printer, newspaper reporter, high school English teacher, substitute teacher, tutor, vagabond, musician, songwriter, grad student, and TV background actor.

  Gerard has a Ph.D. in American literature (MUN), with a specialization in ghost fictions, and an M.A. from Acadia University, with a thesis on the Gothic works of Edgar Allan Poe. For over a decade, he has been teaching English Language and Literature at Memorial University of Newfoundland while writing short stories and novels.