Ghost of the Southern Cross

by Nellie P. Strowbridge

  William looked weary, his voice strained. “It was a bad winter and when it was dyin’ everyone was stretching food, makin’ do. Cellars and pantries were nigh bare. People spared the soft carrots, wrinkled turnips, and hairy, white, grainted fingers of parsnips. Salted fish and eels were all eaten. Once the vegetables were gone, doughboys with molasses or jam was a standard meal. Then jam and molasses got scarce and the flour barrel was showin’ its bottom. On times a hen dropped a surprise—an egg for breakfast, just to save itself from being dinner.

  “Far in the distant offshore, a light shadow could be seen. Ice was comin’, hopefully bearin’ the gift of seals. The smell of fresh meat was only a memory for many households. Now there was a chance of rich meat to nourish bodies weakened during the long winter months.

  “All along the shore people kept watch for a seal easy to capture. Every day Pappa and Uncle Edward squinted against the strong light of the sun on ice hopin’ to catch a glimpse of a dark spot out on the floes. Mam told me about the morning of the misadventure, how she was turnin’ over her bedroom mattress and fluffin’ it when a feather escaped and winged through the air toward the window. She turned and caught sight of a dark spot far out among rafters of ice. The ice had been driven by the wind into layers pinnin’ each other tight as far as the eye could see.”

  William lit his pipe, took a draw, and went on. “Mam must have thought about the seal flippers she’d be tastin’ if that seal was in her pantry. She knew that Pappa would have been off with his blunderbuss if he and Joe and meself hadn’t gone to cut wood.”

  William pulled in a heavy breath. “One time after me and Joe brought home a seal, I punched Johnny in the shoulder and taunted him: ‘Not man enough, you’re not, to bring home a seal. You’re a boy, sure.’

  “Johnny turned away. He wasn’t one wantin’ to go far on the ice. He didn’t have the sea legs for it, and here I was ragging him. He was thirteen when he noticed the seal Mam had seen.” William swallowed hard, as if he was choking up. Then he continued. “It wasn’t only for our family. There were neighbours who were sparin’ and sharin’ their bit of flour and jam, tryin’ to hold on to their seed potatoes. Johnny had heard Mam murmur that people’s blood was thin this time of year. There were many hungry people and few sightings of seals.”

  William stopped abruptly, as if he couldn’t go on. He looked at Elizabeth. “If you want to know what happened you’ll have to ask Johnny.”

  “I will,” she said, determined to get the story. She pulled off her apron, grabbed a shawl from a hook on the kitchen door, and ran over to see her uncle.

  “I want to know everything about the time you went on the ice to hunt a seal when you were a boy,” she said.

  Her uncle lifted his head toward her voice. “You do, now, do you?” he said, his voice distant. His blindness was a constant reminder of that time, the terrible moment when he believed he was lost on a drifting ice pan. He turned away from Elizabeth’s expectant look and toward the warmth of the stove and huddled, his shoulders trembling as the memory of that time rushed at him, one he had no intention of talking about to anyone.

  * * * * *

  That morning Johnny had been struck by the beauty of ice pans sparkling like diamonds in a calm sea under a bright sky. Ice had rimed rocks along the shoreline and had raftered against the legs of his father’s grey stagehead. A patchwork of pans spread as far as the eye could see, and on one pan in the distance he was sure he could make out a large seal. He’d surprise everyone by bringing home a seal that would make fat morsels for the pot. He got dressed and raced down the stairs. He ran to the shed and grabbed his father’s gaff and knife. He figured he could hurry over the packed ice before the pans loosened. He stumbled along the rough terrain sweating with the exertion. He could hear the surging and the cracking and flopping as small pans shifted from shouldering others.

  His gaze had been so intent, keeping the seal in view, afraid it would slip into the sea, that he hadn’t paid enough attention to ice loosening. Ice pans were widening, blue-hued fingers reaching under bay water. Taking a deep breath, he jumped from one pan to another, ice crunching under his boots, his lips splashed with salt water.

  He imagined his father’s voice: Jump leaning forward so you’ll fall flat on the pan. A misstep could put you under water. Ice doesn’t make for a comforting grip.

  The pans widened and were too far apart for him to jump from one to another. He was on an ice pan like a cloud drifting on an incredibly soft blue sky. He gasped in wonder, forgetting his peril for a moment. He steered the pan with his gaff toward his target, getting close enough to lift the gaff and find the weak spot on the seal’s head. Just as he went for his mark the old hood seal reared up and snapped at the gaff, knocking it away from him. He jerked back from the savage jaws. The pan rocked and he flounced into the bone-chilling sea. His mother’s voice, with her nightly reminder, rang as clear as a bell: Kneel and say your prayers before you gets in bed and you’ll find strength for the day.

  He said his prayers, begging for strength as shock waves bit into his skin, knifing every bone in his body. His arms and legs grew numb as he willed himself back up on the flopping ice pan. He curled around himself, quaking with cold and the fear he’d drift into the wide mouth of the sea and be lost. He remembered feeling a hot sting in his legs before he lost consciousness. The rest of his story came from a man on Bell Island, a seven-mile distance from Foxtrap.

  Caleb Taylor was always on the lookout for a seal. He’d get up and scan the ice, though he couldn’t see far on account of weak eyes. He said, “I think there’s a seal out there this mornin’, Maud, me maid.” He hurried into his warm clothes and reached for his gun leaning against the wall in the back porch, always ready should he need it. Anyone else knew well enough not to touch it.

  Maud told people how she would never forget the sight of her husband hurrying down the path to the beach and the excitement she felt as he aimed. She watched as his finger bent around the trigger and he fired. She heard a scream and she couldn’t remember later if it had been hers or Caleb’s. She ran outside and down to the beach. “What have you done?” she asked in a strangled voice.

  He dropped the gun and fell to his knees, his hands over his face. “I think I shot someone.”

  “A boy, Caleb. You shot a boy. I saw him rise up his arms after you fired. Your sight’s not the best.”

  Caleb was already hurrying toward his punt. He quickly pushed it out through sloppy ice pans and jumped aboard. Johnny had been shot and knocked into the water. Caleb recognized him as a Maley boy. He dragged him into his boat and sculled back to his house where Maud waited. She skinned Johnny of his wet clothes, dried him, and dressed his wounded legs. Then she wrapped him like a papoose in warm blankets and held him while she lifted a cup of tea laced with brandy to his blue lips.

  It was a nettlesome night for the community of Foxtrap. Everyone looked into the dark night wondering where the young boy was. Martha went into the room Johnny shared with William and said the prayers Johnny would have said before getting into bed. She added a prayer for Johnny’s safe return. From under his bedcovers William added a weak amen.

  Caleb brought Johnny home to Martha and James a day later. He was full of regrets, saying over and over how sorry he was for mistaking the lad for a seal. “The young fellar’s not the best,” he said, his eyes watering. “He was near gone when I got him.”

  Both legs were swollen where the shot had broken the skin and gone into tissue and muscle. Martha gathered him to her, her hand going to his forehead. “Sure his fever is high and he’s shaking terribly.”

  Johnny heard his mother’s voice one morning. He stirred in the bed. “Mam, it’s been a long night. Why isn’t it day yet?”

  She couldn’t answer.

  “Mam!”

  She swallowed hard. “It is daytime, Johnny.”

  H
e reached a small white hand up to his eyes.

  “We’ll wait, Johnny,” she said in a soothing voice. “You’ve had a bad sickness.”

  He was not only blind from a fever. He was crippled, his legs useless from the shot. He couldn’t even hobble with a stick.

  “He’ll be someone’s care all the rest of his born days,” Martha said sadly.

  Not once did she berate William for tormenting his brother. She always said that a person’s conscience is his accuser.

  When Martha died and Joe married Caroline Taylor, a caring woman, Johnny was taken to the new house they built across the path from the family orchard. Caroline took good care of Johnny, keeping him neat as a pin. He huddled beside the Niagara stove on a little stool, as if the chill that had entered his veins like ice pellets while he was on the ice pan was still there. The stove kept him warm on the coldest day, his legs in long stockings Caroline had knitted for him.

  “Bogey-warped is what he is,” Joe said. “I’d make him a chair with wheels if he’d come outside.”

  One day, after Jamie came home from seeing Johnny, William smacked him on the back and told him. “Johnny is a bachelor who got no use out of his God-given gift. Don’t let that happen to you. I almost did.”

  “For sure I won’t,” Jamie answered, a determined look in his eyes.

  9

  Maggie Taylor lived her life somewhat easy in a household uncluttered by other children. She quieted her longings to go home by filling her days wandering over the hills and along the beach when she wasn’t helping her aunt with chores. Now and again she was caught by one of her aunt’s bad moods. One morning she was stirring the porridge. Her mind wandered and she stopped for a moment. She hadn’t noticed her aunt’s vexed look. “Maggie!” The voice was harsh. “I didn’t give you room and board for holding the family to hunger.”

  Maggie dropped the spoon and it slipped beneath the gummy porridge in the pot. She wished more than ever that she could be home with her father.

  “Come on, me maid,” her uncle said. “Your lip is out far enough for someone to sit on.”

  She smiled at her uncle and forgave her aunt, knowing it wasn’t her daily nature to scold.

  One morning her aunt came up to the garden where Maggie was picking dandelion leaves for the pot. She looked up and her aunt said, “My news won’t get any better by not tellin’ it today. Your Aunt Liddie in Middle Bight alongside Foxtrap wants you.”

  Maggie’s heart lurched. “She didn’t want me before.”

  “She wants you now, then. She’s been sick since her latest child. Her older girls have gone and gotten themselves married.”

  Maggie frowned. “So that’s it.”

  “I’m sendin’ you to tend on her only because she’s got half a dozen youngsters she can’t care for now that she’s in bed with a milk leg. She was in a bad way with hardly a chance of living. She’s improved some, but with her husband needin’ to be plantin’ the ground and gettin’ his punt and trawls ready for fishing, help is needed. You won’t have time for everything. She’s not fussy. Sling a wet face cloth over the youngsters’ faces once in a while and make a batch of bread each day. She’ll thank you for it.”

  Maggie imagined a milk leg as blotchy white, full like a cow’s udder. “How will she get rid of the milk in her leg?” she asked.

  “Bedrest,” Louise answered. “Milk leg is an infection in a vein that Liddie will recover from with rest and patience.”

  She patted Maggie’s hand. “You’ll be closer to home.”

  Her face brightened. “I will.” Then her eyes clouded. Her father wouldn’t be there.

  Nights later, she dreamed about her stepmother. A rough hand took hers, squeezed it tight enough to hurt. “Go on, now,” her stepmother said. “Get your feet into the tub. Stop shivering like someone in the fits. Cold water is good for you. . . . So you want that last piece of bread, do you? Well, you haven’t earned it, climbin’ around the beach all day.”

  One bright summer morning a skiff sailed into Bareneed. Its owner, William Kennedy from Hibb’s Cove, tied up at the wharf and hurried up the path to Henry Batten’s house. When he left Maggie was with him, waving goodbye. She lifted her sleeve to wipe copious tears. Her aunt and uncle had been good to her in their own way. She wondered if anyone would be as good to her again.

  After they left the boat tied to Foxtrap wharf, William, his round, whiskered face breaking into a smile, told Maggie he was off to visit some relatives before he filled his boat with firewood. “There’s already someone on his way to take you to your destination,” he assured her.

  She wasn’t waiting long before the driver of a horse and wagon drew up beside her. The stranger lifted his hat, showing a dark-looking face. Dark like someone from the Labrador, her aunt would say. Maggie felt her heart jump when he called, “If you’re Maggie Taylor, I’m here to take you to your Aunt Liddie’s.”

  She climbed into the wagon, her lips tight. They bumped over rutted paths with deep potholes as they made their way to her new home, not so far from where she had her first years. Now Foxtrap looked damp and unfriendly, a strange place humped above the sea as if recoiling from its fierce nature. She wanted to hurry away but the wheels of the wagon were grinding on, pebbles flying under the wooden wheels.

  When she jumped down from the wagon beside the path leading to her aunt’s house she whined, “I don’t want to be here.”

  The driver shook his head. “Hurry on inside, me maid.” He clicked his tongue and the horse started to trot away.

  She looked around at houses settled against hills and nestled in valleys, a place full of people she once lived near, now strangers, their lives as closed to her as their doors.

  The porch door to Liddie’s house was flung open, but it wasn’t to welcome her. Children burst outside shouting and laughing, caught in a game of lalleck. Aubrey, the children’s father, was behind them. He gave Maggie a grateful look when he spied her.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  She followed him into the house and through a hall to a room where a woman lay in bed, a baby beside her.

  “My, my,” Liddie exclaimed, “the look of you! You’re almost fully grown and the face and eyes of Aubrey’s sister, who was your mother. She won’t be dead as long as you’re alive.”

  “Me mother! You remember her?”

  “Indeed I do. We hung around together when we were young. She was a bit older, but that was nothing.”

  When no one was looking, Maggie went to the mirror in the parlour and looked into it, pretending it was her mother she was looking at. She let the heels of her hands slip under her small chin, her fingers sliding up to cup her face as if it were her mother’s. Sure, you made me very heart, the heart that will always carry you in it. Now all I have to do is look in the mirror to see you. For the first time since her mother died, she thought of her with a smile.

  Liddie was a rough woman with a strong jaw and piercing grey eyes and a tongue not easily bridled. “Pour the children their porridge, not too thick. Allow a share for each. Their stomachs will take more than they need on the say of their eyes. Dress the youngest and rub a washrag over her muns. The older children can dress and wash themselves. The outdoors is where they’ll go for the day until their growling bellies brings ’em home.”

  After Maggie had seen to the children she rushed back to do her aunt’s bidding. She placed a dressing on her aunt’s leg according to her instructions. She changed the baby, powdered his behind with cornstarch, and dressed him.

  Liddie nodded her approval. “You’re better than any nursemaid I’ve heard tell of,” she said.

  Now and then, as years passed, Maggie thought of Elizabeth and Jamie and the other children, now grown. They wouldn’t know me. We’re strangers. She was surprised one day when Aubrey said, “Your stepmother is gone off with a man
twice her age, his boat larger than your father’s was. I can’t see anything else but that the place is yours.”

  “Mine! Me own place!” she exclaimed. “I’ll be wantin’ to go there as soon as Aunt Liddie’s on her feet.”

  “Which will be soon,” Liddie said, “though I’ll still need help with the children off and on.”

  Maggie could scarcely swallow the lump in her throat as she hitched a ride on a horse and buggy going that way. She traced her steps to her father’s house, feeling a sense of loss and dread. It was a cold house now. It had been a cold house after her father disappeared. A large oval rock lay on the floor by the stove. Her father had heated it for her on cold nights. After he disappeared, it stayed cold. It was too heavy for her to lift to the stove and her stepmother hadn’t bothered. She touched familiar things: a rocking horse, a toy boat, and in the cupboard her mother’s special cup-and-saucer set. She remembered her mother’s worn hands cuffing the cup, her tea a golden brown pond, her soft sighs of satisfaction as she tipped the cup to her lips.

  Maggie climbed the stairs to the attic. A bumblebee droned against the dusty window. She wiped the tiny pane, giving her a clear view of the beach, the names of the children who had played there tumbling through her mind. She, and the children she had known, had grown beyond frolicking on the beach. She wondered where they were. She wanted to see Elizabeth but she felt awkward. What would two young women, distanced from their childhood and its interests, have to talk about? She found herself walking on by the homes of the children she had known, on back to Liddie’s house.

  She had taken her mother’s Bible and her cup and saucer. Now she poured a cup of tea just as her mother used to do when she felt unsettled. She lifted the cup to her lips, the image of her face wobbling in its rich sienna depths. Its hot breath swirled up to meet hers. She looked down to the bottom curving around a yellow rose that seemed to float and drift up in a sweet fragrance that reminded her of her mother. Each sip flowed in a whisper over the black and gold filigreed rim. She drank, leaving the yellow rose bone dry.