by Ann Walsh
This road between Barkerville and Richfield was so familiar to me that I knew every wagon rut and every tree along the way. Here was the snag which fell last winter, blocking the road for a day. Here was the curve where the stage overturned during one rainy spring, and here, just ahead, was the tree where, half-hidden in the branches, James Barry had called out to me and I had first heard his laughter. No matter how many times I walked this road, I could never pass that tree without feeling my heart beginning to race.
But today was different. I deliberately slowed my steps as I drew nearer to the place, not speeding up to pass it quickly, the way I usually did. I had been afraid of him, of James Barry, from the moment I first saw him on this road. I had been frightened of him even before I learned, months later, that I had good reason to be afraid. But no more, no more.
I raised the small green bottle in my hand, held it above my head the way a soldier going into war would flourish his sword.
“Never again,” I shouted. “You are banished from my life and from my dreams, Mr. Barry. Can you hear me, Mr. James Barry? You will never frighten me again. Never!”
Three
My mother was leaving our house when I arrived home. She was wearing her bonnet and shawl, and she carried a basket, the one she takes to town when she shops.
“Where were you, Ted?” she asked. “You left without my knowledge, and when I needed more wood for the cook stove I had to fetch it myself as you were nowhere to be found.”
“I’m sorry, Ma. I went to the shop.”
“Your father sent you home again, I see. Which is just as well as I need the wood box filled. Since you will not be working with your father for the next while, I am counting on having a good supply of firewood split and stacked.”
“Yes, Ma.”
“You look more like yourself, Ted. Your trip to town has refreshed you. Perhaps it will do the same for me.”
“Shall I come with you to carry your purchases?”
“No, I can manage. Just tend to our wood supply. It still is cold at night, and we are running low.” As she moved past me she noticed the green bottle in my hand. “What have you there?” she asked.
“Medication,” I said. “Pa asked Doctor Wilkinson to see me, and he prescribed something to help me sleep tonight.”
“Let me see,” she said, taking the bottle from my hand and uncorking it. She sniffed the contents. “Laudanum,” she said. “I know the odour well. My mother used this whenever she had one of her bad spells, and she claimed it gave her much relief. But I have never known it to be prescribed for someone your age.”
“J.B. said it would help,” I said defensively. “He promised.”
“Who is this ‘J.B.’ and what does he know about laudanum?”
“Doctor Wilkinson,” I said. “He asked me to call him J.B. We are friends.”
My mother smiled. “I am glad of that, Ted. Although Doctor Wilkinson is a busy man, I am sure he will make time for you if he already thinks of you as his friend.”
“He does,” I said, as I watched Ma disappear down the road, retracing the route I had just taken. I began to whistle as I set off in search of the axe, almost looking forward to my afternoon’s work.
When my mother returned, Pa was with her and carried her basket. I was surprised to see them both, but then realized that it was late and my father’s workday had ended. I put down the axe, deciding that I, too, had done enough. I had worked all afternoon, and the stack of freshly split firewood had grown to a substantial size. With the April sun warm on my back, I had not realized how quickly time was passing.
It had been good to be outside, working in the fresh air. Here in the goldfields the winter comes early and stays late, and although spring was a month away, the afternoon’s heat promised warmer times soon to come. But tonight the temperature would drop well below freezing, so I would fetch Ma an extra bucket of water in case there was a skim of ice on the creek in the morning.
We ate our evening meal amid laughter. I told my parents about J.B. “Dispense, dispel, dispose, and another word beginning with ‘dis.’ He crammed all those words into one sentence!”
“He’s a clever man,” said my father. “Although I confess that sometimes both his wit and his behaviour are difficult for me to understand.”
Ma was silent for a moment, then she spoke as if she were answering a question my father had not asked. “Doctor Wilkinson’s troubles are over, Ian. I feel sure of that.”
“What troubles?”
My parents exchanged glances, looking at each other over my head as if I weren’t even in the room. Neither one of them answered me.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Things which are past,” said my father, after a long silence. “Difficult times which are best forgotten.”
“What difficult times?”
My mother smiled at me. “My curious son,” she said.
“You have always sought to discover what others wished to keep secret. I am glad you enjoyed Doctor Wilkinson’s company. He is a good man.”
“Like me, he dislikes his middle name,” I said. “He wouldn’t say what it is, although it begins with the letter ‘B.’ Do you know it?”
Pa laughed. “I do not know the doctor’s middle name. Besides, it is none of your business, Ted. But I do know that if you could fetch your fiddle and play us a tune, it would help my dinner settle.”
My fingers surprised me with their speed and skill and I played for an hour, wondering why lately I had found it such a burden to practise. I would show Mr. Malanion that I was not ready to abandon my music lessons, and I would go to the carpentry shop and show my Pa that my work was not useless.
When I at last put my fiddle away, Pa had already retired for the night. Ma stoked the fire, setting the kettle near the back and turning down the damper in the stovepipe.
“Good night, Ma. I know we shall all sleep well.”
“Good night, son,” she said, and handed me the small green bottle J.B. had given me. “There is no dosage written for this. Did the doctor tell you how much you should take?”
“He said to use it just before I went to bed. He said it would help stop the dreams.”
“But how much are you to take?”
I thought hard. This morning seemed such a long time ago, and I had trouble remembering exactly what J.B. had said. “Two. Two spoonfuls. Yes, I am sure it was two.”
My mother sighed. “Tablespoons or teaspoons, Ted?”
“Is there a difference? Does it matter?”
“A tablespoon is much bigger.”
“Tablespoons? Yes, I’m sure that’s what he said. Take two tablespoons on retiring.”
Ma passed me a spoon and a cup of water. “That’s more than my mother’s dose,” she said, “but perhaps this is a less potent mixture. Here, have some water. The taste may not be to your liking.”
It wasn’t, but I gulped down the medicine anyway, then hastily swallowed the water. Ma gave me a hug and left the room. I picked up the small lantern to take to my bedroom, but at the door of the kitchen I stopped.
Two spoonfuls? Or was it three? Three? Yes, now I was sure that I remembered correctly. I was supposed to take three spoonfuls of the medicine, not two.
I uncorked the bottle once more, and decided not to bother with a spoon. One gulp, that should be about equal to a spoonful, I thought. I took a large swallow and began to recork the bottle. Only a small amount of liquid remained and I looked at it, wondering. What exactly had J.B. said? Wasn’t it “for tonight I shall give you something for a dreamless sleep”? Did that mean I was to take the whole bottle of medicine tonight? Well, it was a small bottle and there was very little left in it.
“For tonight,” the doctor had said. Never mind about teaspoons and tablespoons and how many. J.B. had meant that I was to use it all in one night. I was sure of that now.
I tilted the bottle to my lips, drained it, picked up the lantern, and went to bed.
The ligh
t through my curtains was grey when I awoke and my mother and father were beside my bed. So was Doctor Wilkinson.
“You were right, J.B.,” I said, my voice dry and brittle. I swallowed hard, wondering why my mouth was so parched, and spoke again. But my voice was weak, hardly loud enough to reach past my own ears.
“You were right,” I said again, louder this time.
“I didn’t dream.” “Don’t try to talk,” said the doctor. “Here, drink this. Small sips, now. And again.” He held a glass of water to my lips and I drank slowly.
“Thank you,” I said, and lay back down. “I am still tired and my head hurts. I think I shall sleep some more.”
J.B. shook his head. “You shall do no such thing, young man. Since you’ve finally opened your eyes, we shall force you to stay awake long enough for me to examine you.”
“Not now,” I said. “In a while. I’m tired.”
“Ted?” My mother was holding my hand so tightly it hurt. “Ted, speak to me.”
“Not just yet, Ma,” I said. “Let me sleep some more, then I will speak to you. Not now.” My eyes closed again.
“None of that, Ted. Up, lad, get up. Mrs. MacIntosh, fetch him a large mug of strong coffee while his father and I get him to his feet. He must start moving to make the drug dissipate, help it clear from his body.”
I heard my mother leave the room, then Pa and J.B. each took one of my arms and half pulled me out of bed. “Stand up, Ted,” said the doctor. “Make your body move. Come now. Walk.”
“I can’t,” I said, surprised. “The floor will not stay still.”
“It is the effects of the laudanum,” said the doctor. “The sensation will wear off shortly. Take a step. Good. Now another one.”
“I can not,” I said again. “Hold me, Pa. The floor moves under my feet. I’m falling.”
“I have you son. You’ll not fall.”
The two of them made me walk around and around my bedroom until Ma came back with a steaming mug of hot coffee.
“Now we are going to sit you on your bed,” said the doctor. “You may sit, but you may not lie down. Sip the coffee slowly, but drink it all. Then we shall walk some more.”
“I don’t want to walk,” I said. “I don’t want to drink coffee. I’m tired. Why are you making me get up? Look out the window. See, the light is grey, the sun hasn’t risen yet. It’s too early. Go away and let me sleep.”
My father laughed. “Morning was many hours ago, son. The grey light you see is the light of dusk, not dawn. You have slept the day away.”
I gulped, swallowing a mouthful of coffee. “It isn’t morning?” I asked, and finally began to wonder what everyone was doing in my bedroom, waking me up and making me walk around and drink coffee.
“No, Ted. Morning is long passed.”
I thought for a moment. “I guess it was teaspoons. Not tablespoons.”
“Most definitely not,” said J.B. “ I was neglectful in not writing out the exact dosage. That vial contained three night’s supply, but you downed it all at once. I can only say that I am glad you have returned to the land of the living, my friend. You were lucky.”
My head began to hurt again, the blood pounding in my temples, the pain as sharp as if someone were hitting me on the head with an iron kettle.
“I took it all,” I said and, in spite of their efforts to make me stay upright, I lay back on the bed. “I guess that was too much.”
“Aye, son,” said my father. “A wee tad too much.”
Then I think I slept some more.
When I awoke again, it was morning. Real morning this time, with the sunlight pouring through my window. I swung my feet slowly out of bed and cautiously stood up. The floor behaved itself and didn’t sway and buckle like the last time I tried standing. But my legs were weak and my knees felt as if they were made of rubber. I sat back down on the bed, took a deep breath, and tried again.
This time I made it to the bedroom door and, taking another deep breath, ventured into the hallway. A few more faltering steps got me as far as the kitchen, where my mother saw me and came to take my arm.
“Ted! You should have called for me to come and help you.”
“I don’t need help, Ma,” I said, but let her hold my arm and guide me to a chair anyway. “But I am hungry.”
“A good sign,” she said. She put a full glass of milk on the table in front of me. “Here, start with this and I’ll fetch the rest of your breakfast. Doctor Wilkinson said you would be yourself by this morning, and he was right. You are much better.”
“Yes, Ma. I’m sorry I caused you concern and made the doctor come to the house. He was here, wasn’t he? I seem to remember that he and Pa made me walk and walk and walk.”
Ma laughed. “They did indeed, son. And you grumbled and complained the whole time until Doctor Wilkinson declared you far too irritable to be in any further danger. So we put you back to bed to sleep to your heart’s content.”
“Sorry,” I said again. I didn’t remember complaining. Actually, I didn’t remember much about yesterday at all.
I ate. When I next stood up my legs were steady and held me upright without difficulty. Ma brought hot water to my room, and I washed and dressed and then went back to the kitchen.
“Doctor Wilkinson will have to give me another bottle of laudanum,” I said. “I won’t take the whole of it tonight, just the dosage the doctor says. I’ll have him write it down so there will be no misunderstanding. It served its purpose well, Ma. I did not have nightmares.”
My mother shook her head. “I know that you did not dream while you slept, even though you were asleep for the better part of yesterday. But Doctor Wilkinson assured me that he will not, under any circumstances, ever prescribe laudanum for you again.”
“Why not?”
“Ted, you did not see yourself yesterday. You were covered with a rash, all over your face and hands and chest, as if you had scarlet fever. We could not wake you, no matter how hard we tried.”
“That’s because I took too much of the medicine, Ma.”
“It was not merely that, Ted. The doctor says that some people have a sensitivity to laudanum and it was that sensitivity, not just the fact that you took too much, which caused you to sleep so long and so deeply. Doctor Wilkinson believes that if you use it again your condition would worsen.”
“I wasn’t sick, just tired and I slept, without nightmares.”
“I know that, son. But the price you paid for that dreamless sleep was far too high… for all of us. We must find another method of dealing with your dreams, a method that does not involve medication.”
There was a loud knock on the kitchen door. Ma opened it and J.B. came in. He grinned, clapping his hands enthusiastically when he saw me at the table. “Ah, you are awake enough to eat. Good. Has the floor stopped behaving as if it were a boat in high seas?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t pay closer attention to your instructions.”
“No harm done, now that you are recovered, Ted. But has your mother told you that you must be extremely careful in the future to avoid any medication similar to laudanum? That is, anything which contains opium, its main ingredient.”
“She told me,” I said. “But I don’t agree. It worked, J.B. I didn’t dream about… about him for the first time in months.”
Ma had set a cup of coffee on the table, and the doctor sat down and pulled it towards him. “I can not prescribe another medication for you, Ted. I fear that something else might have an even worse effect. Drugs are not the answer.”
He must have seen how disappointed I looked, for he laughed. Leaning back in his chair and tucking his thumbs under his suspenders he said, “Courage, Ted, courage. There are other ways of dealing with distressing dreams.”
“What other ways?”
“You give up sleeping. There, the problem is solved.”
“But, Doctor…” said my mother.
“That’s not…” I began. Then I saw his grin. “You je
st,” I said. “I do,” he admitted. “It would be a good answer if it were possible, but since it is not, I have another suggestion.”
“I am relieved to hear that,” said my mother crossly. “This is no joking matter, Doctor Wilkinson. And please do not lean back in that manner; it will weaken the chair.”
“I apologize sincerely, Mrs. MacIntosh,” he said, straightening up and looking serious. “Please forgive me if I spoke inappropriately. Unfortunately I tend to do that far too often for my own good.”
“What do you suggest, then?” I asked.
“I have a theory, Ted, that when the mind is kept busy during the day, it has no strength to formulate dreams at night. So I propose that for the next few months we keep your mind—and your body as well, for unfortunately science has not yet discovered a way to separate the two—occupied from sun-up to sun-down.”
“But Theodore is busy all day, Doctor. He has his chores, he works with his father in the carpentry shop, he practises his violin and…”
“Yes,” agreed the doctor. “His hands are busy. But his mind is free to wander and wonder and worry. He needs work which involves his mind, allowing it no time to dwell on fears or fancies or fate. Or on Mr. James Barry.”
“I can continue Ted’s schooling,” said Ma, and her eyes began to gleam. “Just last year the library was moved to Barkerville from Camerontown. It is much more convenient, and Mr. John Bowron, who serves as the librarian, reports that he now has over five hundred books in the collection. There is still much for Ted to learn.”
“But, Ma,” I said. “I know how to read and write and do sums. I do not need any more schooling.”
“When you began to work with your father, I agreed to discontinue your instruction, Ted. But if you will not be learning carpentry, then I see no reason why we should not return to your lessons. Your knowledge of geography is far from adequate, and we have yet to study Mr. Tennyson’s poetry.”
“But, Ma…”
“I will hear no arguments about it, Theodore. We shall begin work tomorrow morning.” She tossed her head as she spoke, and her lips settled into a determined line.
