—Shits as much as the next person, Callum said in response to their questions.—Eats like a Spaniard. Sleeps like the dead. Haven’t seen him kneel to pray or cross he’s self the once. And he got the smell of a Prot on him.
—You miserable bastard, Callum Devine.
—Now Jabez, he said, I’m only having you on.
—Have he ever spoke a word to you?
—You can’t squeeze blood from a turnip, Callum said.—But he’s not a fool.
Jabez nodded.—That one’s as deep as the grave, I expect.
At the end of that summer there was a confirmation service at Kerrivan’s Tree. The Mass was said in Latin and the rest of the service in Irish, although most English on the shore attended for the indecipherable pageant of it. Mary Tryphena and Floretta Tibbo and Saul Toucher’s ten-year-old triplets took their first communion as the sun dropped below the hills above the harbour. The triplets were identical and indistinguishable even to their parents but for Alphonsus who’d won the single pair of shoes between them by lot. He slept in the boots to keep them to himself, though his brothers took it in turns to claim one or the other was Alphonsus and the boy wearing the shoes had stolen them from their rightful owner. The shoes and the name travelled from one boy to the next in an endless round and not even the triplets could recall anymore who had been the original Alphonsus. When Father Phelan announced before the sacrament that we are all one in Christ Jesus, the three brothers seemed deflated, as if they’d had enough of such arrangements.
After the service a more secular sacrament was celebrated on the Commons above Kerrivan’s Tree with jugs of spruce beer and black rum and shine passed around. Men and women and not a few children besides got drunk there, the moon come out and the mosquitoes and blackflies fierce in the dusk. King-me Sellers and Selina and their grandson made a brief appearance and a handful of people caught sight of Mr. Gallery circling the clearing to watch the festivities. A bonfire of driftwood and green spruce and dried dung from the goats and sheep that grazed the meadow burning at the centre of the field. Jabez Trim’s three-string fiddle and a wheezy accordion played by Daniel Woundy led a dance of dark shadows tramping the grass flat. Callum persuaded Judah into the gathering where they danced arm in arm, both men polluted with drink. Judah’s fishy stink drifted under the smoke of the fire and everyone on the field welcomed it as the smell of abundance and prosperity come among them. Callum knew a thousand tunes and had been a regular entertainment at weddings and wakes and he was coaxed into singing half a dozen songs for the crowd. It was the first time anyone heard him utter a note since Eathna died the year before. His voice like the first taste of sugar after Lent, a sweetness that was almost hallucinatory.
Couples disappeared into the alders and berry bushes beyond the field as the night wore on, shifting clothes to accommodate the drunken love they had to offer one another. Shouting and singing and petty arguments flared among the congregation as they staggered toward the collective hangover awaiting them. They were never more content with their lot in life, never happier to consent to it.
Lizzie left for home with young Lazarus right after Mass and Mary Tryphena spent the evening in the company of Devine’s Widow. Her first communion was a disappointment, the ceremony tarnished by the sullenness of the Toucher boys who swore under their breath and picked at one another through the service. But the night on the Commons that followed was more to her liking, the firelight and fierce release of it. She walked down to Kerrivan’s Tree to hide when her grandmother announced it was time to go home. She took off her bonnet so the white of it wouldn’t give her away and she climbed into the branches, clear of the old woman’s meddling. King-me’s grandson had settled into the upper branches earlier in the night for the same reasons, but he was invisible in the pitch and Mary Tryphena sang to herself as she often did when she was alone. She almost fell from her perch when he spoke to say he liked her voice.—I wasn’t singing for you, she told him.
—Still, he said.
Absalom, his name was. He said hardly a word in company, and opinion was divided on whether this was due to his stutter or to losing his parents so early or simply a mark of Sellers’ airs at work in the youngster. He was introverted and queer and seemed much younger than others his age, sheltered as he was by living in Selina’s House. Absalom reached to pick one of the young apples, handing it to Mary Tryphena after taking a bite himself, and the unexpected intimacy of the gesture made her stomach quiver like a hive of bees. She watched the featureless outline of him in the dark awhile. She said, Do you know who I am, Absalom?
—Mary Tryphena Devine, he answered, stuttering on the D.
She thought he was making fun of her in some obscure way, but his manner was all innocence. Somehow he didn’t know her mother was King-me’s daughter and Absalom’s aunt, that he and Mary Tryphena were cousins. It was a laughable ignorance in a boy his age and she felt a rush of maternal affection for him. The smell of the apple was surprisingly sweet and she bit into the hard fruit before passing it back. They finished the apple together and Absalom climbed past her to the ground then, his hands travelling her arms and hips and legs as he went. From the base of the tree he said, You’ve the loveliest hair, and she answered good night without looking down.
The bonfire went on burning till the small hours of the night, Father Phelan the last to leave the dregs. He was pleased with himself and with the evening, the children brought to the faith and his homily on the jealousy of angels, the gathering on the Commons and the more intimate gatherings in the bushes at the edge of the field. Life insisting on itself out there in the dark, though times had been mean and uncertain. He found the dirt path near Kerrivan’s Tree and followed it through the village, drunkenly blessing each dwelling he passed. He walked the steep ascent of the Tolt Road and stood on the headland awhile to catch his wind before descending into Paradise Deep. The coastline bereft of light for a thousand miles in either direction, the ocean festering below him. While he stood at the cliff’s edge he blessed the fish of the sea and the dull coin of the moon sailing behind clouds.
Legal strictures against Catholicism had been lifted decades past and a vicar appointed to govern all ecclesiastical matters from St. John’s. But Father Phelan continued to operate outside the bounds of state and Church hierarchy. He lived among his parishioners like a refugee, dependant on the charity of the communities he served. He claimed it was only in the Gut and Paradise Deep that he felt safe to walk about in daylight. The shore was so far from St. John’s, he said, so far from the minds of the governor and the vicar, that they were almost forgotten.
The surf was heavy with the tide’s turn, the shudder travelling up the cliff and through his body, his head like a bell being rung by a hammer. His order preached primitive poverty and austerity, and Newfoundland might have been created to embody both. He was a lousy priest, he knew, and deserved no better than to serve in such a backwater shithole of Christendom. But he couldn’t deny the Lord at work in him, that hammer striking.
He was prodigal with blessings in his drunkenness. He turned to the south to bless the people of the Gut and to the north to bless Paradise Deep. He blessed the figure of Mr. Gallery who had waited near the Commons to follow him home and waited for him now just off the Tolt Road. He opened his trousers and wavered at the lip of the precipice to piss into the waters below. He blessed his shrivelled little pecker before tucking it away to walk into Paradise Deep. He held a number of particular blessings in reserve, thinking of Mrs. Gallery waiting for him in her bed and the archipelago of angels they were about to inspire to fits of jealousy
Through that fall Mary Tryphena found herself showered with small anonymous gifts, handfuls of partridgeberries in the bowl of a leaf, smooth stones or shells from the beach, the weathered skull of a bird, a sweet apple from Kerrivan’s Tree in a square of cloth. There was no privacy in her life and the gifts were placed in public spaces where she would stumble upon them, on the Washing Rocks at the mouth of the brook, tie
d to the door of the outhouse before she made her last visit of the night.
Occasionally her mother or father or Judah discovered the finger of polished driftwood on the doorstep, the jewel of seaglass on the windowsill. But Mary Tryphena never doubted who they were meant for. She was surprised by Absalom’s stealth, by the knowledge he had somehow gleaned about the particulars of her days. It seemed out of character, given what she knew of his awkwardness and insularity, given he had no idea they were cousins.
She hoarded the keepsakes under the roots of an old spruce stump near the house and told no one about the furtive relationship, knowing from the start it was an impossible match. King-me Sellers had disowned Lizzie when she married Callum Devine and the man would never allow Absalom, his only acknowledged grandchild, his sole heir, to follow after her. And it was just as unlikely that Callum and Lizzie would consent to such an arrangement.
They saw each other only when she attended one of Jabez Trim’s services or accompanied her father to Sellers’ store for winter supplies and Absalom was so withdrawn that Mary Tryphena doubted her reading of the world. There was such an unfamiliar pleasure to the conversation between them, such an adult privacy, that it made her feel sick to think she might be wrong. It wasn’t until the heavy snows blew in and the men began spending their days in the backcountry cutting and hauling wood that something definitive came to her, a letter folded and tied with string that she discovered among the blankets of her bed. The boldness of it startled her, that Absalom could come into the house undiscovered.
She carried the paper in a pocket close to her heart for weeks afterwards, unfolding it in her rare moments alone. She studied the note like a botanist in the presence of some exotic flower. She smelled it, she licked the paper and the ink which tasted of oil and berries, she prayed to it as if the words might be coaxed into coming to her in her dreams. She passed her days in a state of irritable exhaustion, she kicked and called out in her sleep. Devine’s Widow was convinced only a man could be at the root of her trouble but Mary Tryphena denied it. Her mother came to her at night to ask if there was anything she could do and Mary Tryphena turned away to bawl into her mattress of straw. Lizzie had set out to teach Mary Tryphena her letters as a young child but the lessons were abandoned during the lean years of rough food and exhaustion and she’d forgotten most of the alphabet in the time since. The note she carried was like a page out of Jabez Trim’s Bible, the word of God which meant one thing and one thing only, and only those initiated into the mysteries could decipher it.
Jabez Trim, she decided, was her only hope. Through November and December as the temperature dropped and people’s lives contracted to the circle of their tiny properties, to their hovels, to the three square feet closest to the fire, Mary Tryphena tried to think how she might steal a few moments alone in his company. By the third week of Advent she’d all but given up on talking to him before spring and the thought of the wait made her surly and impatient.—If we don’t get that girl out of the house, Devine’s Widow said, I’m going to poison her.
Lizzie was boiling Christmas puddings in a pot over the fire, dark molasses with dried currants and cherries.—Leave the child be, she said.
—I’ll take her with me when I bring the cakes over the Tolt, Callum offered.
Mrs. Gallery had no work of her own and she survived on offerings made to the church by the faithful, an account at Sellers’ store for the woman divided equally among the debts of Catholics on the shore. And it was the custom at Christmas to offer some small token to Jabez and Father Phelan for the services provided through the year. The Christmas puddings were an extravagance, a sign of how well the fishing had gone that year.
—We’ll walk out tomorrow, Callum said to Mary Tryphena.—It’ll do wonders for us both.
But her father was taken with a flu overnight, the fever so high he lay under a blanket next the fire calling out to his dead father, and Lizzie said the puddings would have to wait. Mary Tryphena wouldn’t hear of it, knowing no better opportunity would come to her, and Lizzie insisted she ask Judah along, not wanting the girl out by herself with the weather so changeable. She’d take the dog, Mary Tryphena said, sure it could guide her back if a snow squall came on.
—Leave her go, Devine’s Widow said finally.—I’m sick of listening to the two of you.
Mary Tryphena’s feet were wrapped in cloth inside her shoes and she went out into the day wearing an old blanket as a shawl against the cold, strapping on her father’s snow rackets at the door.
Judah heard the voices and peeked out at Mary Tryphena as she walked the path toward him. He was still living in the shed and had taken to sleeping with the dog under the covers against the freezing temperatures. The dog was Judah’s only real companion, a black and white mongrel with a barrel chest and the stunted legs of a beagle. Judah stepped into the open air when Mary Tryphena called the dog and he stood watching as they set out, the animal bounding ahead to break trail through the waist-high snow before turning to run to Jude. It was in a state of agitation, whining and barking as it ran longer and longer relays between the two until Judah disappeared into the shed and the dog sat outside, pawing at the door. Mary Tryphena called uselessly awhile and then turned toward the steep slope of the Tolt Road. There’d been a heavy fall of snow days before and so little traffic between the two communities that it promised to be a slog. The dog nudged past her minutes later and she looked back to see Judah coming along in his rags, a coat rigged out of a bit of rotten sail, his boots two squares of brin tied around his ankles with twine. Her heart fell but she couldn’t think how to send him away without losing the dog.
It was two hours of hard travel to make what was normally a half-hour trip over the Tolt and down to Mrs. Gallery’s tilt, tucked back in a spindly droke of woods above the harbour and away from the other houses around the bay. The trees were the only ones within a mile of the water that hadn’t been cut for firewood or walls or stagehouse posts or oars. Their sparse sickliness saved them from the axe and the surrounding trees made the little building seem confined and haunted. Mary Tryphena had never gone near it before and she called to Mrs. Gallery as they approached. She took one of the puddings from her shoulder pouch as if she planned to heave it at the door from a distance. The dog stopped behind them and barked its fool head off, running back and forth along a line it refused to cross. Judah knelt beside it in the snow, trying to calm the animal down.
Mrs. Gallery came to the door in a heavy woollen sweater and a bonnet, wiping her hands on a grey apron hung over her skirts.—Hello Mary Tryphena, she said.
—I brung a pudding from Mother, she said and held it out, still three feet from the door. Mrs. Gallery didn’t invite them in or ask if they were hungry or thirsty. She stepped out and took the pudding.—Your mother’s a good woman, she said. There was a commotion in the room behind her and Mary Tryphena glanced past Mrs. Gallery to the door. She had never laid eyes on Mr. Gallery and wasn’t sure she wanted to. He’d killed a man out of jealousy years ago and never forgiven himself, was what people said. He was a kind of bogeyman on the shore, parents warning their youngsters away from the woods or playing on the ice on Nigger Ralph’s Pond with stories of what Mr. Gallery would do if he got hold of you.
—I should get back, Mrs. Gallery said.—You thank your mother for me.
It was gone to noon by the time they reached Jabez Trim’s house. Jabez ushered them inside and sat them near the fire where they could open their clothes to the heat. He seemed thrilled to have company, calling into a back room to his wife. The Trims had no children, which everyone agreed was a trial for them, though Jabez let it be known the absence wasn’t due to a lack of trying. Olive Trim made her way out to greet them on her fists, her emaciated legs swinging lifelessly beneath her. Mary Tryphena was always surprised by the dexterity and grace she incorporated into such an awkward posture and motion. Olive lifted herself into a chair beside Mary Tryphena and took the pudding she unwrapped from the pouch while Jabez ser
ved up bowls of fish and potato stew.
It was Judah’s first time inside a house since his move to the little shed and the smell of him was making Jabez and Olive’s eyes water, but they soldiered through with good humour. Judah removed his brin boots and hung them at the lip of the fireplace to dry, stretching his filthy, blackened feet as close to the flames as he could stand. Jabez asked after the health of everyone in the Gut and Mary Tryphena, who was still following Devine’s Widow on her rounds, had plenty of news to offer. But all the while she was preoccupied by her letter. She had pictured a cloistered conversation, just she and Jabez in near darkness, speaking in whispers, but there was no hope of such a thing. Soon enough Olive was urging them to leave, to make certain they’d be home before dark.—Your mother will be worried half to death you aren’t back before supper, she said. Jabez was out of his seat with Judah, the two of them tying strings and arranging clothes at the door, when Olive said, Jabez. She was watching Mary Tryphena who hadn’t budged from her seat and Jabez came over to stand beside her.
—What is it, maid? he asked.
There was nothing for it then but to bring out the letter and offer it to him. Jabez untied the string and opened the paper.
—Behold, thou art fair, my love, he read, behold, thou art fair; thine eyes are as doves. He stopped there, too embarrassed to go on. He passed the paper across to Olive and she glanced through it, shaking her head.—Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my bride, she read.
Mary Tryphena had never heard anything like those words. They made her feel exposed and ashamed of herself, she regretted showing it to a living soul.
—Do you know who this is from? Olive asked.
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