The Sacred Shore

by T. Davis Bunn

  The men stood, chests heaving as they watched the last of the ropes disappear. As though finally convinced the ship would not give in to its fury, the wind shrieked a further delirious note and began to die. Charles could scarcely believe it was happening, and yet with each swooping rise upon the next wave, less wind lashed at them. The sea remained demented, but in the space of a quarter hour the wind eased to such a point that the captain sent sailors aloft to stretch out more sail. This meant they could steer around the worst of the seas. The trio of storm anchors were hauled up, some crew were directed to work the pumps, and the ship began to make way just as the first ray of sun lanced through the clouds.

  Charles was mesmerized by the sight. Out of the terrifying darkness and desolation, a pillar of hope seemed to pierce into his very being. Though the storm continued to roll and shake the ship, though the sea remained blanketed in froth, still there was this sign that it would be over soon. He felt a powerful connection to that ray of sun, felt it with such intensity that he craned against the rail and searched the storm-flecked horizon, seeking the source.

  “Give God the glory, sir!” The captain walked the tossing deck as easily as he would a village street. “We have survived another one, and you have shown yourself a good hand in a bad time!”

  “It was nothing,” Charles muttered, wishing the captain would go away and leave him to search for the message he feared would be lost to him.

  “Quite the contrary!” Now that the storm was passing, the captain was full of cheer. “Rare is it that a landsman can act properly when the sea beasts roar.” The captain nodded his approval. “It is a pleasure to sail with you, m’lord.”

  “Thank you,” Charles murmured, but not merely to the captain. No. There before him, dancing about on waves still rising as high as their remaining two masts, he saw the answer. The message was clear. There would be more storms in his life, more times when human power and earthly possessions were stripped away. The challenge was not how to avoid them, for they would come. Oh yes. They would come. The question was, how would he use them? What would he learn? When the fury passed and he was in control once more, what lesson would he take from the encounter?

  Charles turned from the rail, satisfied that for once in his life he had managed to ask himself the right question. He did not fully know the answer yet, but for the moment, the asking was enough.

  Nicole handed the little girl, still weak and whimpering with passing fear, up to Guy. Then she climbed the ladder herself and stepped into a world transformed. The air and the sea and the ship itself seemed to shine. The light was impossibly bright, the sea and sky so beautiful it brought tears to her eyes. She staggered to the rail and took great draughts of the sweet air. The storm was passed, the world was sane once more. And she was alive. It was the sweetest breath she had ever drawn. She was alive.

  And yet, and yet. As she opened her eyes, she found herself still hearing an echoing refrain. But the call to prayer was no longer shouted. It was whispered as soft as a distant gull’s cry, almost lost upon the gentle wind.

  Yes, she still wished she could pray. Thanksgiving welled up within her. But another part of her mind wanted to push it all aside, push the desire to pray down deep with the fear that was now passing. She had survived, and now she was free to go on with her life. Her life.

  Even so, the whispered refrain called to her, and the empty feeling at the center of her being softly vibrated to the voice that only her heart could hear. Even so.

  Chapter 23

  Nicole walked over the cobblestones from the market back to the mission. A restless wind tossed her hair, and though she was still weary and bruised from the storm and the passage, she felt her heart responding with gusts as impatient as the wind. But to what, to whom? She no longer knew where this journey was taking her. To Acadia, yes, but what about this inner journey?

  Nine days after the storm had blown itself to sun-tossed shreds, the ship had limped into Boston Harbor. The captain had informed them of the unplanned halt, to no one’s surprise. A shattered stump had been all that remained of the mizzenmast, and four men were required to work the pumps every watch to keep the ship from foundering. The vessel’s home port was as good a place as any to lay over for supplies and repairs. Besides which, the crew had been desperate to see their loved ones again.

  The captain explained the layover this way: “My lady is not mortally wounded. But she is ailing and needs laying to and refitting.”

  Guy had listened to the wealthy Englishman’s translation, then said in speech slow enough for Charles to understand, “Please tell the captain we are ever in his debt for saving us.”

  “It was my duty, sir, nothing more,” was the message Captain Dillon had sent in return. He had halted further thanks by telling the travelers, “There is a seaman’s mission run by the local pastorate. You’ll find lodging there. And I’ll pass word along the quayside that you’re honorable folk seeking passage north.”

  Nicole had found herself studying the wealthy Englishman, the titled gentleman whose name she did not know other than “Lord Charles.” He looked as tired and battered as all the others, yet there was something new in his gaze. Nicole had listened as much to the man’s voice as she had to the discussion, and wondered if it was the life-threatening experience itself that had marked him so. In the end she decided not, as the man did not seem afraid so much as uncertain. It was a sentiment and a confusion she could well understand. As they had broken away from the discussion, Nicole found herself asking, “What will you do, m’sieur?”

  He had examined her with a frankness that matched her own. “I have holdings, a new land grant, in the eastern portion of this colony. I am considering a trip out to inspect them.”

  She had nodded, feeling the eyes of the others watching. “Your haste to arrive in Halifax has lessened?” she asked, lowering her voice.

  His gaze had remained on her face, and he gave a brief smile. “To be perfectly honest, mademoiselle, I am no longer certain of what I seek.”

  “I understand,” she had murmured. “All too well.”

  Nicole turned into the side alley that brought her to the mission entrance. She almost collided with an elderly man, the one person she had come to know by name. “Oh, your pardon, Monsieur Collins.”

  “What a lovely way to brighten up a morning,” he exclaimed, doffing his black hat with the sharp corners and the hard round crown. “You are well this glorious day, I trust?”

  The Reverend Collins served as both an overseer of the mission and a teacher at the seminary. It was in fact the seminary and the attached church that financed the waterfront mission. Many of the quayside inns were also bawdy houses, and all served strong drink. Many years back the seminary had seen a need for housing visiting seamen and families in an atmosphere of wholesome Christian principles and offering the Samaritan’s hospitality. Those who were able to pay did so. All others were housed and fed for two weeks during the summer traveling season. In the winter those who wished to stay and work were made welcome. All this Nicole had learned from Reverend Collins, the only member of the seminary faculty who spoke French. He did so with a mishmash of accents, for the man had lived in Normandy as a child, back before relations between the French and English had become strained, and then served as a missionary in the province of Quebec. As professor of New Testament, he spoke German as well, and read Greek and Latin and a little Hebrew. Over his years of ministry he had added to this a smattering of several American Indian tongues. Nicole had observed how others within the seminary community, both students and faculty alike, treated the professor with deference and warmth. Yet he held no airs whatsoever, as though his knowledge and his intelligence were of little importance.

  What mattered most to Nicole was the light in his eyes, a gentle flame that seemed to reach below what she was able to see herself and soothe the torment that had remained long after the outer storm had passed. Nicole hesitated, then replied, “I am rested, thank you.”

 
; “Ah, well, that is good, is it not? We all must find a safe harbor, a place to recover from life’s tempests.” He displayed an untidy gray beard, one long enough to tickle the upper buttons of his black coat. He seemed as unaware of his appearance as he was of his talents. “And how are the rest of your family?”

  “The young one rested better last night, and the children are eating well.”

  “Yes, I have noticed how the two boys seem to be losing their pallor.” He smiled as two students passed them, both doffing hats and bowing low to their instructor. “Such a pity that you had to endure that frightful storm.”

  “It was most wretched, m’sieur.” Nicole found it surprising, both that he was willing to stand and speak with her as though she mattered, and that she wished to remain as well. “Have you ever been to sea yourself?”

  “Not since my youth, and only then with great trepidation. I even made the trek from Quebec overland, and that was back when there was not even a trail to follow.” He chuckled and patted the broadcloth covering his ample belly. “I fear my constitution does not agree with the sea. I have been known to grow queasy just standing on the dock and watching the waves roll in.”

  Nicole tried to return his smile but was unable to keep her mouth from trembling. Pastor Collins must have noticed instantly, because his face creased with deep concern and he said, “My dear! Have I distressed you in some way?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” But his concern made it even harder for her to maintain control. Nicole tried to laugh, but the sound was made false by the catch in her throat. “I am tired, nothing more.”

  “Of course you are. Here, let me take your basket.” Ignoring her protests, he plucked the basket with its parcels from her hands. “It is so difficult to be the strength upon which others seek to draw, is it not?”

  “I am hardly that, m’sieur.”

  “You will permit me to differ, mademoiselle. Your fortitude is evident to all here. You are a strong one, a pillar against which all of your family leans.”

  The matter-of-fact but gentle way he expressed himself left Nicole blinking back a hot flood of tears. “I fear I have misled you. They are not my immediate family at all. Guy Belleveau is my uncle, my mother’s brother.”

  “If you mingle your affairs with them, they are kin,” Pastor Collins replied firmly, pushing open the mission’s front door. “If you take their cares upon your heart, they are family and more.”

  Instead of handing the basket back, he opened the door that connected the mission to the seminary. “Why do you not join me in our central hall for a moment? It is bound to be quiet this time of day.”

  For reasons she could not understand, Nicole followed him, grateful for the opportunity to share a few minutes more with this warm-eyed pastor. “You are too kind, m’sieur.”

  “Not at all. I am a lonely old gentleman who is charmed by your beauty and your strength. As are we all.” He led her down a long connecting passage of stone and narrow windows, through another door and into the communal kitchen. He set her basket on the counter, then led her through a final door and into the dining hall. Two girls at the far end were setting the tables for supper. He selected a table by the window, waiting until she was seated to lower himself into the seat across from her. “Now then. Tell me what is in your heart.”

  The simple words held such a potent invitation, yet Nicole’s proud nature was sorely tempted to refuse. It would have been so easy to deny there was anything at all. If she said there was nothing, he would not press. A single glance at that seamed and bearded face was enough to show that he was not a man who probed where he was not welcome. But she also knew that here was a man who did not judge, did not condemn, who would not distort what was already so confusing. The warmth in his features and his gaze seemed to draw from her the torment she had carried since the storm. And even long before that. “I am so confused,” she began slowly.

  “Ah.” Nothing more. A single nod, a leaning back, a waiting. Ready for whatever it was she wished to say.

  “But there is so much to tell, so many tangles, I do not know …”

  “Of course, of course.” Another nod. Slower this time, taking in all his upper body. “So many of life’s greatest woes are such because they do not come alone. They attack with gathered force, do they not?”

  “Yes,” she sighed.

  “Tell me not in order, not in place. Tell me only what you wish. And at your own pace. I am in no hurry.”

  Nicole found herself thinking back to the journey down the bayou. The day she had refused Jean Dupree’s request for marriage. And all the confusion seemed to leap up into her being once more, all the torment that had seemed to commence with that day. As she spoke, she found herself filled with the images of her home. The bayou waters sparkled green and soft and warm. The scents of home wafted through the stone hall. Baking bread and steaming crawfish and spices and the rich warm earth of planting. Her father’s voice seemed to reach across the distance and speak to her, as though he had been waiting for just such a moment to tell her that they missed her and loved her and …

  Nicole could not help but lower her head to the table and sob. A gentle hand patted her arm, then the back of her head. But nothing was said. Nothing except the one hand, letting her know more than words that she was not alone. She gathered herself as best she could, raised up and stared through the window as Pastor Collins rose and went to the basin in the opposite corner. The scene outside was washed with distortion by the leaded glass. Exactly the same as the feelings within her heart.

  “Here you are, my dear.”

  “Thank you.” She accepted the damp cloth and wiped her face and pressed hard against her eyes. “You must think me such a fool.”

  “I think nothing of the sort. Those who are expected to be strong sometimes find themselves unable to be weak. Even when it would be better for their own health and well-being.”

  Nicole found it uncanny how he seemed to know exactly what to say. She was able to set her shame aside with the cloth, take a deep breath, and confess, “I feel torn by so many different desires.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, the single word an invitation to continue.

  “I want to go on to Acadia. I need to. But I miss my family.” She realized she had broken down before even explaining why it was she wished to travel on. But at the moment, his understanding this was less important than her need to shape her confusion into words. Not for Pastor Collins, but for herself. “I have always wanted to travel. I have never felt fully at home in Louisiana.” A sudden thought struck her, one that rose unbidden. She tested it by forming it into words. “Perhaps that is why I have not married, because I did not want to be tied to one place and one way of life.”

  She waited, almost expecting this older man of the church to tell her that this was a woman’s place. Yet Pastor Collins said nothing at all, merely watched and waited.

  Which allowed another thought to rise from the shadows of her own heart. “I think perhaps I was too scarred by what happened when I was young. I was just a few months old when the British expulsion began. My earliest memories are of living in places that were not our own. We traveled, we worked, we saved, we traveled on. Always looking for a land and a home of our own. Now my parents are happy in Louisiana. They are settled. My brothers as well.”

  “But not you,” Pastor Collins murmured.

  “I am and I am not. I want to stay and I want to go. I love my Louisiana home, and yet I still feel the call of my younger years, and all the journeying. Always that feeling that the … the place of rest is just ahead … somewhere.” She felt a new freedom with this examining of herself. “And all the mystery of what lies beyond the road’s next turning. I want this—and I don’t.”

  The older man seemed pleased by her response. “So much of life is like that, is it not? Pulling us so hard in two opposite directions.”

  “Yes.” She felt so relieved by his words, not just that he took her seriously, but that he was able to understa
nd her meaning. “Yes, it does.”

  “So hard to know which direction to take. So hard to make harmony of it all. Or of ourselves.” He cocked his head to one side, his gray eyes twinkling. “Do you feel as though this confusion reflects a conflict at the very center of yourself?”

  His question seemed to peel back the layers of her heart. Nicole whispered, “Yes.”

  “Oh, so do I, my dear. So do I. Often. Sometimes a conflict is there at the deepest point of my existence. So many outside problems seem to reflect this inside uncertainty—at times an anguish. And do you know what I have found?”

  The simple truth of his quiet words delved with knifelike precision. Nicole wanted and yet did not want to hear what he had to say. But she nodded for him to continue.

  “It seems to me that the friction and the discord spring from my very humanness. Do you ever feel that?”

  She nodded once more, almost against her own will. She wanted him to stop and yet willed him to continue. The mirror he had suddenly lifted and held before her face hurt to look into. Yet it was so brilliantly clear that she could not turn away.

  “Oh, so do I,” he went on. “The apostle Paul declared there was something he bore, an illness, a pain—we don’t know exactly what it was—that forced him to turn to God. Day in and day out, he had to seek God because it was only with His presence that Paul could bear his burden. Do you see what this confession makes of this thorn in his flesh?”

  “A gift,” she whispered, surprised that she spoke at all.

  “There! I knew you were a brilliant lass. A gift! Is that not a wonder? Who else but God could take such a thorn as the conflict that stirs in my mind and heart and turn it into what keeps me closest to Him? It is only through God that I can choose the right path. Only through God that I can hold to peace. Only through God that I can see what is eternally right, and what is merely smoke rising from the fires of my sinfulness.” He smiled with such joy, as though he was sharing with her the labors of his lifetime. And perhaps, she realized, he was.