The Cartographer of No Man's Land: A Novel

by P. S. Duffy

  Simon jumped when Mr. Heist leaned forward and patted his arm. “You’ve asked a question, and I’ve given you a lecture. The truth is, I cannot tell you if these things are real, but I can give you this advice regarding your mother—consider the limits of your responsibility. Hmm?” He squeezed Simon’s arm and sat back, a kindly look in his eyes.

  “What?”

  “Consider it. That’s all I’m saying. And, Simon? Be kind to George.”

  “Thanks,” Simon said uncertainly. “I’d better be going.” He carried his mug to the sink, where another mug hung on a hook and two plates were neatly washed and stacked. Before leaving, he glanced again at the brilliant Morpho didius.

  AS HE PASSED by the Mather cottage, Simon saw George in the field, a silhouette against a violet sky. He sped Peg on faster and faster. “Morpho didius!” he shouted. He thought about the unfurling leaves and the spring offensive everyone said was coming. He thought about riding Peg right out of Snag Harbor and on beyond Chester and galloping up to the top of Haddon Hill on the other side of the bay where he could look out over the tips of the fir trees to the great beyond and send a message to his father just by letting his spirit fly to the wind. “It doesn’t matter whether you saved Uncle Ebbin. Save yourself! Come back! We’ll fix up the Lauralee and take her out beyond Ironbound to the edge of the earth! Just hold the line and don’t die.” He had Peg at a fast clip by then. Don’t die. Don’t die. It wasn’t until he was nearly home that Simon realized those cousins of Mr. Heist must have died on the other side of the line.

  THIRTEEN

  April 1st, 1917

  Snag Harbor, Nova Scotia

  “ You don’t mind, do you, Cottnam?” Lady Bromley asked as she positioned herself and a Miss Plante beside Reverend Dimmock, forming a kind of receiving line under the arched door of St. Andrew’s after the service. The reverend followed her gaze to the freshly repaired steeple and said, “Not at all,” and continued to greet his parishioners filing out. As Lady Bromley introduced her as Lord Bromley’s great-niece, Miss Plante extended a plump hand, gloved tight as a sausage in its skin, to one and all. She was surprisingly cheerful, Simon thought, for one who had lost her mother at an early age and whose father was too ill to care for her. A man who had been rejected by the army, it was said. “No doubt a n’er-do-well,” Duncan noted as they’d walked up the hill to St. Andrew’s that morning. “A drinker’s my guess,” Ida had added.

  “Goodness,” Miss Plante said, shaking Simon’s hand. “Call me Charlotte. I only just turned sixteen.” Her gray eyes, so light as to seem transparent, were set in a round face with dimples on both cheeks that grew pronounced when she smiled. She made him feel strangely happy.

  His attention was diverted by the brief hesitation of his mother’s laced shoe above the step. She was nearly devoid of color, but elegant in her black hat and cape. Underneath the outer mourning, she was wearing a dress of robin’s-egg blue. Taking his hand, she barely acknowledged Lady Bromley, who explained to Charlotte that Mrs. MacGrath hadn’t intended to be rude, but had recently lost her brother to the war. “Not,” Lady Bromley said pointedly, “that that should be any of your concern.”

  Simon wandered over to Maisie and Zenus under the pin oak. Not far from them, Lord Bromley was poking at gravestones with his stick. “Lawrence Mader Putnam, 1823!” he shouted. “John Blakely Jollymore, 1877! What have you got to say for yourselves?”

  “My mum says that Miss Plante was talking to the dead, and that’s why she was sent over here. For her own good,” Maisie was saying to Zenus.

  “Talking to the dead? Are you sure? Is she a medium?” Simon asked.

  “I’d say she’s a large,” Zenus responded, as solemnly as Maisie.

  Maisie giggled. “Zenus, you’re horrid. She has lovely eyes.”

  “Lovely eyes.” Zenus fluttered his lids. “That’s what they say when a girl is as fat as a barrel.”

  Maisie turned to Simon and said, “Anyway, she gets messages . . . from dead soldiers.”

  “Bunk! Nuts-o-nuts!” Zenus said.

  Simon looked back at Charlotte. True, she was a bit of a barrel, but with the gay little feather on her soft gray hat, she was no sideshow gypsy. She was a breath of fresh air. Or maybe, he thought, a soft mourning dove. Maisie must have got it wrong. But what if she hadn’t? Had God brought Charlotte to Snag Harbor to give his mother peace?

  “Simon Peter! Let’s weigh anchor!” Duncan shouted out across the churchyard.

  “I have to go. You sure about this stuff . . . ?” Simon narrowed his eyes at Maisie.

  “The whole town knows. Ask your grandfather,” was her response.

  “So nice to see you out and about again, Hettie,” Lady Bromley said as she passed by. “We won’t keep you, not in this raw weather. And poor Charlotte, still tired from her long journey. Good day to you all.” She collected Charlotte and marched on. Lord Bromley straightened, momentarily energized. “Suppose I should catch up to that lot. That girl might get my dinner!” He touched his cap and was off, swiping at the air at his feet with his stick.

  Duncan held out a hand for Young Fred. Simon walked beside his mother, a plan hatching. “Do you think she really gets messages from the dead?”

  “Who knows? It’s a whole movement. Mags is part of it. I don’t know if it’s legitimate or . . .”

  “If what’s legitimate?” Duncan turned to say. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not.” He lit his pipe with raised eyebrows, amused at himself.

  “Spiritualism,” Hettie answered, chin up.

  Duncan looked up sharply. “Spiritualism! That girl was sent over here to get away from that cockamamie cult. No one contacts the dead. They’re in God’s hands.”

  “How can you be so sure, Duncan?” Hettie replied. “Maybe people like Miss Plante can break through the mystery, hear things, see things the rest of us can’t.”

  “Mystery. That’s the point, Hettie. Not for us mortals to understand,” Duncan said sternly. “The resurrection of the dead is about faith. And as Cottnam so rightly put it for once, faith is the maintenance of hope in the face of the unknown. The unknown. If the mystery were known to us, we wouldn’t have much use for God, now would we?”

  “Perhaps you miss the point, Duncan—the maintenance of hope?”

  “Good God, woman. Hope for the world, for mankind, not for—never mind. You leave that girl in peace.” He walked a few more paces and stopped abruptly. He pulled at his ear. His tone softened. “Perhaps I do miss the point,” he said. “Are you thinking of contacting Ebbin?”

  “Certainly not. We have no idea where Ebbin is,” she said lightly, removing her hat and shaking her hair.

  He frowned at this disappointing answer. “You don’t give up easily, I’ll give you that.” Hettie glided by and caught up with Ida. Young Fred skipped down the hill after them, Simon and his grandfather following behind. At the bridge over the causeway on the Shore Road, Ida took her leave. She was off to care for her sister, Franny, suffering from that spring cold they hoped didn’t turn into the pneumonia. She reminded Hettie to take the roast lamb out of the oven.

  Thin clouds swept the sky and a steady southwest wind rippled a carpet of waves toward them—one after another, rushing in, breaking in short bursts on the rocky beach. Young Fred was throwing stones at a submerged log. Ploosh! he shrieked each time. Ploosh! A fat grandfather gull on a boulder gave him a withering look. Hettie leaned out on the bridge railing.

  “C’mon, girl. I hate it when you sulk. Let’s see to that lamb, eh?” Duncan said, linking his arm in Hettie’s.

  A message, Simon thought. A message would settle things.

  VOR MOODY TOLD Simon that Charlotte fetched the Bromleys’ mail every day at 3:45. “Got your eye on her, eh?” he said, shooting envelopes into people’s boxes. “She’d be enough of a girl for any young feller.”

  Simon rolled his eyes.

  “See this?” Vor said, holding up a thin envelope. “Another Kraut letter for Avon Heist.
Come once a week.”

  “A Kraut letter? Let’s see it.”

  “Can’t,” Vor said, shaking his head. “Against the law. Postmarked England, but this same feller,” he stabbed at the letter with a crooked forefinger, “used to write to him from Berlin. I know the handwriting.” He leaned across the counter. His skin shone through thin strands of red hair combed across his scalp. “Sending messages,” he whispered.

  “Messages? It’s just a letter. From England.”

  “Exactly. Whoops. Here comes your girl. Don’t worry, I won’t spill the beans.”

  Simon rolled his eyes again. Then, sure enough, Charlotte trundled into the post office. Her smile made Simon forget to tell Vor she wasn’t his girl and gave him the courage to ask if he could walk a ways with her. She happily agreed; she was planning a walk anyway. They took the Shore Road toward Mader’s Cove. Along the way, he pointed out houses—Chandlers, Zincks, Fredas, Reddens, Clothiers and Hilchies—all the while trying to frame what he wanted to say. He wished he was taller than her instead of the other way around, but after a while he didn’t really care, so easy was their conversation. She wanted to know about each family and about the tides and the islands. As they rounded the road into Mader’s Cove, she dug into a little purse dangling from a crocheted string around her wrist and offered him a peppermint.

  He took it and asked what London was like. Dirty, crowded and cold, she told him. What she wanted was to go back to her father, but her mother’s people disapproved of him. He’d moved to Clonakilty, in the south of Ireland, where there were palm trees, he told her, and where he’d be better appreciated. He’d had an unlucky life, she said, and she missed him.

  Simon told her he missed his father, too. They walked awhile in the silence of that bond, sucking on their mints. The air was heavy with the threat of rain. Fat drops plopped on the glassy harbor as they reached Philip’s boatyard. Simon pointed to the boat sheds, big as barns, and suggested they wait it out. It was the time of day when Philip usually said, “Have a pint or two, don’t mind if I do,” and headed for the tavern. They went down the steps to the wharf and ducked in a side door of the first shed.

  From there they watched rain splash the wharf. The smell of creosote and oily rags, damp sawdust and salt-crusted coils of hemp rope mingled with the tang of salt air and fresh spring rain blowing in, and the sweet rose scent of her beside him. She had a little shiver, and he found an oil lamp among the coffee-stained papers and pencil stubs on Philip’s desk. He lit it for warmth and set it on a roughhewn bench next to them. Rain bounced harder and then great sheets of it swept through the cove and across the deck of the Elsie at her mooring.

  In the dark reaches of the connecting shed loomed the great black hull of the Lauralee, up on a cradle, her rudder straight, her heavy keel exposed, her timbers thick and spongy with fatigue. “Her time’s about up,” Philip had said when they’d had her hauled. “Well past her prime. Wallace wants to put an engine into her, but she won’t do with it. Sits heavy in the water as it is. She’s had near enough, Simon Peter.” Philip took long, thoughtful draws on his pipe. “I can hold off for a while, but come spring, she’ll have to go or go back in the water or be taken down to her ribs. I need this cradle.”

  “Good thing these old sheds were nearby,” Charlotte said, turning around for the first time. “Is that a boat down there?”

  “Yep, our boat. The Lauralee. My dad’s her skipper.” He led Charlotte through to the next shed and rolled the sliding door at the far end back a foot or two to let in some light. Charlotte tipped her head back, taking her in. He did as well and saw the boat anew through Charlotte’s eyes. Her lines weren’t quite as graceful up on the cradle as he’d thought. Her stern was maybe a little too squared off and her beam a little too broad for the sharp clipper bow. He considered explaining that the long counterstern hadn’t been around when she was built. Instead, he said, “She’s good in a heavy sea,” which was true.

  Charlotte pulled off a glove and rested her hand on the thick rudder. It was a gesture Simon appreciated. “She’s grand,” she said.

  “Named Lauralee for my grandmother. She died before I was born.” He didn’t want to break the moment, but death had conveniently entered in, and it was now or never. “Say, um, speaking of the dead, I was wondering . . . you know how you—those messages you get?”

  She dropped her hand. “What?”

  “I was just wondering what it’s like is all.” He feigned nonchalance, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  “No you weren’t. It’s your uncle, isn’t it? Oh, I should have known.”

  “No!” Simon protested. “I, I wasn’t after a message!”

  She raced to the shed door, then whirled around to face him. “I don’t get messages!” she cried. “People think I do, but I don’t!”

  He saw that her jaw was trembling and her pale gray eyes were full. “Don’t,” he said, coming toward her. “Don’t cry.” But she did cry, shoulders shuddering, nose dripping. “Get away from me. I’m wretched. I was sent over here because my aunt in London didn’t want me around, never did.”

  “No,” he said softly. “No.” He reached up because he couldn’t help it, and her wet cheek filled his palm with its soft warmth. She slapped his hand away.

  “Don’t! People think I have a gift. I tried not to, but they begged me and I, I . . . and more people came, banging on the door, everyone wanting a message. But I don’t have a gift!”

  “But why’d they come after you like that?”

  “Because it happened once! One time! And word got out. But after that . . . I lied. To make people feel better, but I lied all the same. There,” she said with a choking sigh, “now you know.” And she was out the door.

  He stood stupefied, then raced after her. Rain pelted his face. “I lied!” he shouted. “I did want a message!” She stopped and turned around. “I wanted a message because my mother thinks he’s still alive. You only lied to help people. I lied to get something.”

  Her expression was lost to him in the rain, but she stood where she was. “Please,” he said, “come back.”

  He led her back to the shed and into Philip’s office. Something about the way she stood there, dumbly staring at her shoes and shivering with her hands at her sides, sent a calm through him. He wiped his hands on a rag and shoved some coal into the little stove and checked the kettle for water. He found a mug on a shelf and another on its hook and the tea in the battered tea tin. He shook out her cape and draped Philip’s old sweater over her shoulders. His every action was deliberate. It was as if the explosion of emotion had cleared the air and now things could begin again in a real way. He pointed to a chair, and she sat down and held her hands toward the fire that was coming up now, spreading warmth. He made the tea, and she wrapped her hands around the mug. Not a word passed between them.

  He stood by the grimy window. The wind and the incoming tide kicked up waves that slapped against each other and flung spray against the wharf. The squall had the Elsie swinging at her mooring. In this weather Philip wouldn’t be coming back from the tavern any time soon. He could hear Charlotte’s breath settle from ragged gulps into a steady rhythm. After a bit he said, “I’m really sorry. Guess I’m not a very good liar. I just wanted . . .”

  “Don’t be,” she said, staring dully into the fire. “It’s not easy being a good liar or not good being easy at it. Or I don’t know what I mean.”

  “I don’t either, but that’s okay.” He turned to face her. “Start over?”

  “I’d like that,” she murmured, staring at her tea. A hint of dimples appeared. She set her mug down and pulled the sweater tighter. “Aunt says I’m too clever for my own good.”

  “No you’re not. She says stuff like that about everyone.” He sat down in Philip’s chair. “She says my grandfather is a pacifist and that’s just not true. He’s just against this war is all.”

  “Yes, she did say that last night at supper. She also said your uncle and your mother were l
ike twins.”

  “Well, yeah. That is true.” Simon asked what else she’d said about him.

  Charlotte thought for a moment. “That he was handsome, and, um, easy, and a bit of a vagabond, but everyone loved him.”

  “His body was never found, you know. That’s why my mother thinks he’s alive.”

  “Maybe he is,” Charlotte said. A burst of rain pelted the window.

  Simon took a good long look at her, but then just shook his head and swiveled his chair around. “Wish I was out in this. It’d be fun.”

  “On a boat?”

  “Well, yeah. You get away from everything on a boat. Plus you’re just in it, the weather, I mean. I’m headed out to the Banks this summer, I think. If I can.”

  “To the what? The bank? You’re going to—”

  “The Banks. I forgot you just got here.” He explained that the Banks were ocean plateaus where the water was shallow. “Well, not shallow exactly, like two hundred feet deep, but shallow compared to the rest of the ocean. That’s where the cod are and that’s why schooners that fish there are called salt bankers. Salt cod, you know . . .”

  “Oh, salt cod, money in the bank,” she said with a smile.

  “What? Oh, I get it.”

  “A silly joke. Will you go out there on the Lauralee?”

  “No, no. She’s not outfitted for fishing. She’s a coastal trader. My grandfather was the captain of a salt banker, but he gave it up to take care of my father after his mother died. My grandfather wouldn’t let my father go out there either after that, not to the Banks. Not fishing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he . . . I don’t know. Because he likes to have his say over everything. Doesn’t matter because I’m going.”

  “Won’t he stop you?”

  “He can try,” Simon said, “but I’ll be fourteen in June.”