Pastoral

by André Alexis

  The gate to the gravel pit had been opened. The sound of laughter and a chaos of light accompanied Father Pennant and Lowther through the trees, around the hills and to the pit. And here there was a marvellous vision: hundreds of people gathered around the water, encircling the gravel pit. And it seemed each of the hundreds held his or her own lighted candle. The candles were tall, short, thin, thick. Some were scented; most were not. So many candles that the night was lit up by flickering flames. The black water in the pit was flecked with candlelight, the whole surface looking like a plane of anthracite on whose edges hundreds of fireflies had settled. It was one of the most beautiful things Father Pennant had ever seen.

  Then, just before midnight, there was a commotion as Mayor Fox made his way to the edge of the pit. The townspeople began to sing, quietly at first but then with confidence. They sang a hymn whose melody Father Pennant did not recognize but whose words he knew well.

  – The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want …

  When the hymn was finished, Mayor Fox, speaking through a bullhorn, thanked everyone for coming. He spoke about how bountiful the preceding year had been. He promised the coming year would be just as good. He said the names of those who’d died during the previous year. Then, asking for quiet, he put aside his bullhorn and began to speak his necessary gibberish.

  – Uine iat eooe iut xosl oox naz iu setu …

  The crowd was now so quiet one could hear the flippety-flip of candle flames bending and rising in the wind. Mayor Fox stepped off the shore and into the black water. Most momentarily held their breath. The only sound, save for the wind and candle flames and the splash of water, was the voice of Mayor Fox reciting his nonsense as he walked in broken rhythm across the top of the gravel pit. Only when he had made it from one side to the other was there a collective sigh and then a great cheer. Mayor Fox had succeeded and his success was theirs. Joy spread through the crowd in waves, like a communal, prickly blush. And for a moment, there was harmony. And then, one by one at first, the crowd extinguished its candles. Flashlights were turned on and slowly the people of Barrow walked back to town together.

  Despite himself, Father Pennant was unnerved by Mayor Fox’s walk across the pit. As he went home, the day returned to him in all its uncanny aspects: from the sweet red skulls to the fireflies on anthracite, from the face in the insect to the drunk on Richmond Barrow’s back. It occurred to him that Barrow itself was neither good nor evil but was, instead, animated by whatever it was that animated the land, the thing that animated each and every one of them and, so, revealed itself in its hiddenness. In fact, one felt, or he felt as he walked – blasphemous though the thought was – that God was only an aspect of the hidden, an idea brought into being by man in order to point to a deeper thing that had no name and reigned beyond silence.

  For an instant as he walked from Petersen’s gravel pit to St. Mary’s rectory, Christopher Pennant was vertiginously pagan and in touch with the hiddenness that coursed through him and his God.

  Naturally, he kept these thoughts and feelings to himself.

  IV

  JULY, AUGUST AND AFTER

  Jane had spent Barrow Day alone, for the most part. She’d watched the revellers from inside her parents’ house, ashamed of what she took to be the town’s puerile ways. Barrow Day was an embarrassment and for a number of years now she had taken to spending June 15th at home, usually alone, usually with a book.

  This year, she read Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the fourth time and dreamed of New York and London, Paris and Amsterdam. She almost always enjoyed her solitude, but this year it was charged with something. Something was on its way. Something or someone would come into her life to save her from the louts and boors of Barrow. She could feel it. She sat in the living room, in a chair that had been made by her great-grandfather, the floor lamp with its floral shade beside her, the house smelling of Barrow bread, the noise of the world dimmed by closed doors and shut windows. She left the curtains open, however, and from time to time she could see groups of revellers as they passed.

  Robbie had refused to walk naked into Atkinson’s.

  After the fire-hall dinner and dance, Jane’s parents returned. They were childishly happy about something. Mrs. Keynes, one of their neighbours, had inhaled an olive pit and had needed the Heimlich to clear her windpipe. That wasn’t the amusing part. What was amusing was the sight of Mr. Chester, a man thin as a whippet and half Dora Keynes’s size, trying desperately to squeeze Dora’s ‘thorax’ (her mother’s word). The definition of futility. Mrs. Keynes had flung him around from side to side in her struggles for breath, until Jane’s father snuck up behind her and, with poor Mr. Chester between them, squeezed the olive out of the exhausted woman.

  – Shucks, it was nothing, said her father, smirking.

  – It was too, said her mother. And it’s too bad you weren’t there, Jane. You should come out to Petersen’s tonight. It wouldn’t hurt you to be sociable and maybe meet someone other than Robbie Myers.

  – Mom, my private life’s none of your business, said Jane.

  – It’s my business when everybody in town is talking about my daughter like she’s a scarlet woman.

  – No, said Jane. It’s not your business. And who cares what other people are saying?

  – Well, just remember, said her father, don’t go kissin’ by the garden gate. ’Cause love is blind but the neighbours ain’t.

  Exasperated by her giggling parents, Jane got up and, with a show of annoyance, flounced from the room. Her mother’s words stayed with her, though.

  – It wouldn’t hurt you to be sociable and maybe meet someone other than Robbie Myers.

  The words made her want to see Robbie. So, shortly after her parents left for the gravel pit, Jane took a flashlight and went out to Petersen’s on her own.

  The sky was clear. There were a trillion stars and it was warm enough that her sweater was too much. She took it off, tied it around her waist and then found she was cold. After a brief battle with herself, she hung the sweater from her shoulders. Once out of town, it was as if she disappeared. The group of people in front of her was jovial and paid her no attention. The group behind was much the same. She was alone without being alone.

  The sky, the stars, the night, the trees; the world a collection of simple things, from the smell of pine to the stridulating crickets. She should have found the night consoling, but it was all rustic and empty to her: nothing for anyone but the lovers of nothing.

  At Petersen’s gate, Jane turned off her flashlight and followed the revellers. The place smelled of earth and standing water. Above the trees you could see a handful of stars and then, as they came to the clearing, the sky was grand again, filled with suns that warmed countless other worlds. Jane heard voices she recognized but no one she wanted to talk to. From time to time, light from candles or torches lit her, almost inviting her to take part in the celebrations, but she kept to the edge of the crowd, looking away whenever she thought anyone might be looking at her.

  Against the odds, what with the faces of her fellow citizens only partially revealed by the shimmering light, she saw Robbie. He was in the second row of spectators on one side of the pit. She recognized him and then imagined she heard his voice as she saw his lips move. Beside him: Elizabeth, the one who belonged. Despite herself, Jane felt betrayed. Though she wanted to leave Barrow, she resented Elizabeth Denny’s acceptance here. An orphan, imagine that, a come-from-away, and yet there was place for Liz Denny and none for her.

  There was a hush and then the sound of Mayor Fox reciting gibberish as he walked across the water. Big deal. A cheap, ridiculous trick. And to hear the in-drawn breath of four hundred bumpkins! To think this was Barrow’s idea of ceremony. It was a meaningless end to a meaningless day, meaningless years, meaningless lives. To hell with Barrow, she thought, and left the gravel pit before the mayor had made it halfway across.

  Jane walked back home alone, the beam of her flashlight like a ground-sniffing dog be
fore her. How had she failed to convince Robbie? Could it be that Elizabeth Denny actually knew him better than she did? Jane had waited until he was most vulnerable. She had arranged things perfectly. On a night when her parents were away, she had invited him over, fed him his favourite meal (shepherd’s pie) and seduced him.

  Afterwards, in her bed, she had asked

  – Robbie, how much do you love me?

  – I love you as much as I can love anyone, he’d answered.

  – What would you do for me?

  – Anything you want, except I won’t give Lizzie up.

  – But anything but that?

  He had cheered up then, the bastard, since he didn’t have to give up his ‘wife.’

  – What do you want me to do? he’d asked. Name it.

  As if rummaging in her mind for a suitable task, she’d taken a minute before asking

  – Would you take your clothes off in public?

  as if the thought had just occurred to her.

  He’d been lying up in bed, turned toward her, smiling. But the smile had stuck on his face at the question. He hadn’t known what to say. Perhaps thinking it was a joke, he’d answered

  – Of course I would.

  – I’m serious, she’d said. I want you to show me how much you love me. I want you to walk into Atkinson’s Beauty Parlour naked.

  Robbie had stared at her and then laughed.

  – Sure, he’d said. I’ll go into Atkinson’s naked. Why not?

  – That’s wonderful. Why don’t you do it tomorrow?

  She had kissed him and they had spent the night in each other’s arms, though his snoring had kept her up until two in the morning. But when day came and she reminded him of his promise, he had tried to laugh it off. She’d pressed him on it. He’d tried to avoid the subject until, finally, he’d refused outright. He wouldn’t do it in a million years was his new tack. He hadn’t been serious the night before. He simply wouldn’t do it. If she wanted proof of his affection, he’d rather jump to his death.

  – But you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. What are you worried about?

  It was true. He had nothing to be ashamed of. The ladies having their hair done would see a well-built man. No one would object on that score. But there was no talking him into it. In fact, though they had planned to spend the day together, he had walked out, angry at her pestering. That had been a surprise. She’d been so certain she could get him to do anything she asked. She hadn’t bothered to think things through or devise another approach. She had failed, and the more she thought about it, the more she felt ridiculous.

  As she walked home at the end of Barrow Day, she felt helpless.

  Then it occurred to Jane that she’d been cowardly. Yes, cowardly. The stakes were not as high for her as they were for dowdy, four-eyed Elizabeth. Elizabeth stood to lose someone who mattered to her. But she, Jane, was not as attached to Robbie. What then had she really stood to lose? Nothing. For her to truly care if Robbie went into Atkinson’s or not, for her to be persuasive, the stake had to be more significant. So, beneath the stars, Jane resolved that should she fail to convince Robbie to do what she asked, she would leave Barrow for good. She would leave everyone and everything she knew behind. A fleetingly painful thought, because something deep within her wanted to be part of Barrow or, at least, wanted to belong somewhere.

  As she was superstitious (a trait she shared with most everyone in Barrow), Jane consulted The Book of Common Prayer as soon as she got home. She had been doing this all her life, whenever she had to make an important decision: opening the prayer book to a page chosen at random, trusting that the first words she encountered would have some bearing on her decision.

  She inevitably used the ancient Book of Common Prayer her parents kept in a locked cabinet in the living room. The book, a first edition from the eighteenth century, was bound in thick brown leather that was cracked and scored. The prayer book’s pages were brittle, its print looking more like handwriting than anything from a printing press. An heirloom, it had once belonged to her grandfather’s ­grandmother. But Jane was not afraid to touch the book, to use it to guide her. For instance, when she had been wondering if she should go out with Robbie, she had opened the book to a prayer about love and she had taken that to mean that, yes, she and Robbie belonged together. She unlocked the cabinet and took the heavy book from its place. It smelled of Time itself. That is, when Jane thought about Time or History, the thought conjured this smell: dust, dry pages, desiccated leather.

  Closing her eyes and thinking of a question

  – Should I leave Barrow if Robbie won’t do what I ask?

  Jane opened the book, put her finger down on a line and, opening her eyes, read

  In the Lord I put my trust; how say you to my soul, Flee as a bird to your mountain?

  The meaning was obscure, but Jane resisted the urge to see where the words came from. She read the phrase over and over, allowing it to sink into her imagination. Then she closed the prayer book and locked it away again.

  In the Lord I put my trust … Flee as a bird to your mountain?

  As she got ready for bed, the words nestled in her mind and then, just before she fell asleep, they bloomed. She imagined herself flying, eyes closed, toward a city, a mountain of glass and light. Before the first wave of dreams buried her under a million symbols, she felt certain she’d made the right decision. If Robbie did not do as she asked, she would flee from Barrow. The Book of Common Prayer advised it.

  At the end of Barrow Day, after watching Mayor Fox, Father Pennant experienced the curious sensation of falling that had preceded his decision to be a priest.

  Christopher Pennant was born in Ottawa, but his family had property in Cumberland. Ottawa had been home, but Cumberland was where they had spent their summers, at a cottage where he could be close to his parents, brothers and sisters without thinking about much or worrying about anything.

  Cumberland, with its fields and stones, was where he had his first religious feelings. The very first of these he remembered clearly. It had been a warm day in August, with dark clouds wriggling over the blue sky. He and his brothers and sisters were all inside, where it was humid and smelled of paint. Every once in a while, the screen door to the kitchen clacked, as his father went out to check the meat cooking on the barbecue, and every now and then the smell of burning charcoal and hamburger would pass through the cottage.

  He hadn’t been doing much: idly playing with an old deck of cards, by himself because everyone else had tired of crazy eights and old maid. He could recall the cards still: their red backing curled up at the edges to reveal the white pith between the lamination and the surface. He had just arranged the cards for a game of solitaire when he heard his name called:

  – Christopher.

  – Yes? he’d answered.

  But when he looked around to see who had called, there was no one with him. Everyone else had left for other parts of the cottage or gone outside.

  In retrospect, it was surprising how little fear he’d felt. The voice had sounded playful. Then he heard his name again. This time it seemed to come from the kitchen, so he got up to see who it was. As he entered the kitchen, time, as they say, stood still. He heard nothing, neither the hum and creak of the cottage, nor the distant voices of his family. He seemed to be alone in the world when, suddenly, his solitude dissolved (or modulated) into the most intense feeling of company. Far from feeling alone, he felt whole, as if he himself were the cottage and the field behind it, the green hill in the distance and the roiling clouds above. For what seemed like hours, his ten-year-old self stared out the window at the sky and the fields as if he were staring at his own face in a mirror. As suddenly as the feeling had come, it dissipated. His father came into the kitchen. The screen door clacked and the world returned to him, like a stream flowing over an obstruction.

  Though he was too young to fully understand the implications of a call, ten-year-old Christopher instinctively knew that the voice that had
called his name belonged to the Lord. He was certain of it.

  Doubt came fifteen years later when he entered the seminary to become a priest. Most of his fellow seminarians experienced similar doubts, but their doubts were generally about their own fitness to serve God. Most of them worried they were not pure enough. Some worried the Church was not pure enough. Still others began to question the nature or even the existence of God. Christopher Pennant was closest to this third group.

  While he was a seminarian, his doubt centred on a question that he had not previously conceived of, let alone resolved: who, exactly, had called his name that day in Cumberland? Had he been too quick to accept that the voice belonged to God? If it had not been the voice of God, whose voice had it been? Did his teachers not insist that Satan’s voice is sweet? For a terrible moment at the seminary, it was as if he had been living a lie. (And what could it mean to confuse His voice and the voice of His shadow?)

  So, at the threshold of priesthood, he faltered.

  But then, influenced by his fellow seminarians, he again came to believe that the voice calling him had been God’s. Satan, they said (as if they had all been acquainted with Satan), would have led him on a different course. He, Christopher Thomas Pennant, would not have chosen the church if Satan had called to him. Gradually, Father Pennant’s doubts were quelled. His crisis passed.

  What Lowther could not have known was that Father Pennant’s encounter with ‘evil’ (or, more exactly, with Mayor Fox) would precipitate a return to the uncertainty that had lain unexamined within him since the end of his time at seminary. Watching Mayor Fox walk on water had, metaphorically speaking, plunged him into a tide of questions. Who had called him? Whose voice had he heard? To whom was his vocation dedicated?

  At seminary, Christopher had struggled because he had not known if the voice he’d heard belonged to God or Satan. Following Barrow Day, a new thought occurred to him. What if it had been neither God nor Satan? What if it had been the land itself that had called him? What if it had been Cumberland – the hills, the trees, the stony fields – that spoke? If so, could one serve both God and the land? Were they indistinguishable or were they, rather, two jealous masters, only one of whom could be devoutly followed?