The Pilgrim

by Paul Almond

  Was I dozing off? My eyes flew open with a very real sense of a presence in the room — as though the space became dense with an overwhelming weight; I even had trouble breathing, so intense was this feeling. I believe I actually sat up. And then I felt it: the grip of what I can only describe as a giant hand, but also feminine, the touch being so soothing and gentle, although at the same time, possessed of some superhuman strength. I just couldn’t move.

  And then, I heard a soft but omnipresent voice: “John. John.”

  I answered, “Here I am.” I wanted to say, who are you, but further words strangled in my throat.

  The voice said simply, “You are mine forever, John.”

  Mine forever? What on earth? And then of course, I knew. I would never be so bold as to suggest it was the Lord himself, although now that I know more about Him, it would have been entirely possible. And that reinforced this desire for a more substantial contact.

  Then the heaviness, the stifling weight, left the room and I saw out the window across the quadrangle, the shapes of buildings appearing in the dawn. I drifted on a cloud of peacefulness. Really. Such a comforting feeling, at last, firmly and completely, to KNOW. For I was aware then that I had been chosen. No more restless nights wondering what my life would be. I would become a clergyman.

  Soon after we left Natashquan, the trees, mostly spruce, grew smaller, stunted, and finally disappeared altogether, save for the odd cove or “drake.” These long low stretches of smooth granite, pocked with inlets and capes, were covered only by multicoloured lichens and occasional tiny, late-blooming flowers. Lots of berries everywhere, which we stopped to pick: especially redberries, which I didn’t know from the Gaspé, but a delicious supplement to our rather plain meals.

  We intended to reach every family that Gene remembered visiting, and some he’d only heard about, especially on islands where parishioners had not yet moved back to the mainland. “Fishermen here,” Gene explained, “move out with their families into their summer places, mostly on islands, where fish are close and plentiful. They only return to the permanent homes in the autumn.”

  Each time we were welcomed and given a meal, after which we would invoke the Lord with prayers, psalms, and occasional hymn singing. These people I found relied a good deal more on their faith than we did on the Gaspé. No wonder, for here, more than anywhere, I felt close to the Almighty, there being so little in the way of distraction.

  As we progressed along the coast eastward toward the Atlantic, the fall foliage on the banks diminished, their leaves making patchwork coverings on their granite pallets. In some coves, and around streams that tumbled into this turbulent gulf, a few brave trees still bore the dark reds or yellow-brown leaves with a kind of persistent pride.

  As we went further, the absence of spruce and birch revealed great naked capes and achingly denuded shorelines. Some had thrown across their shoulders shawls of autumn lichens and ripened berries whose russet coverings kept them safe from the harsh frosts that bit savagely into every living thing after Christmas. Once November drew to a close and “slob” ice began to spread outward from the many coves, navigation would be shut down until teams of dogs and their komatiks could be placed in service. I’d been told repeatedly about the severity of the winters and I did wonder how I’d survive them — and manage a dog team, our only means of transportation. Well, I would soon find out.

  Our plan called for us to go as far east as Blanc Sablon, near St. Paul’s River, where I would drop Gene before returning to Mutton Bay, my own centre of some thirty or forty families. Gene had married and was anxious to return to his wife, Anna Bell, who was teaching school at this eastern base of ours. They would winter there, while from Mutton Bay I would travel by komatik to the rest of the outlying communities. The thought filled me with some nervousness, because I had grown accustomed to Gene’s comforting presence, though he’d only had a year of ministry here and was indeed only a few years older.

  A heavy fog bank began to move in on our third day of travel. Owen found a convenient inlet to wait out this navigational hazard. Both Owen and Gene were quick to point out how instantly changeable and often dangerous this weather could be. Having visited La Romaine, and the various islanders preparing to move back to the mainland, we now hoped to make Sunday service at Christian Bay, near Kegaska, where Gene said a few English families, the Bucklands, Stubberts, and so on, eked out a living. But the next morning, fog still kept us prisoner.

  Our first night aboard the Evangeline, Owen made himself comfortable with pillows on the tiny floor space in spite of my protestations: being the youngest, I felt that I should be using that makeshift bed, but Owen insisted. Thus we clergymen slept comfortably, if a bit guiltily, on the two bunks.

  During a second night of being fogbound, I awoke to feel the ship rocking. Ah, that heavy wind would mean the end of fog, so I went back to sleep, pleased that we’d soon be off. But in the morning Gene and I crawled out onto the deck to find it covered in snow. Heavy wet flakes were falling everywhere, with visibility almost negligible again. The glass began to drop, fast, meaning lowered pressure and thus bad weather. We were in no danger, but Owen would not weigh anchor, much as both Gene and I chafed at our inactivity: so many families to be visited, and winter coming on, witness the falling snow, about which I questioned them.

  “Like as not, we have one good snowfall in October,” Owen affirmed. “But then it clears up until November, and that’s when you never know what you’re going to face.”

  Until November — what about now? How could one plan anything on this coast? And all travel was of course shut down in spring and fall, when komatiks and boats would not serve. At any rate, Gene and I passed the day in reading Pilgrim’s Progress and discussing passages with each other, and toward nightfall the snow stopped. But the temperature had dropped and even our enclosed space on the boat seemed so awfully chilly I had to throw my overcoat over the blankets.

  At dawn, Owen got us up and we were soon under way. A light wind moved us along at a good clip, and in the afternoon, we called in at three houses on a bluff, where one family remained. They had been preparing to row to the mainland the previous week, but the fog and snow had kept them here.

  “Good supply of cod,” the husband told us, “these last three weeks, no idea why. I wanted to stay while they lasted, but the wife kept saying, we’ll all freeze or drown. So we’re taking off in the morning.”

  We anchored the night by the little outpost, soon to be empty of occupants until next summer. The next morning we got up and found they had already departed. We ate a good breakfast and sailed on to Wolf Bay where we had prayers with the Jones family, Gilbert and Louisa, and their twelve children, still at their summer home on the island. We kept winding our way along the shore inside the outer islands, to be sure we did not miss a soul. Gene thought these Joneses would be the last of the island families, but this was given the lie late afternoon when I caught out of the corner of my eye some movement.

  “Gene, look.”

  At the tiller, Owen shaded his eyes and Gene stood up. Yes indeed: someone wildly signalling.

  Gene turned the tiller and we tacked in toward the lone group. But there were no houses nearby. What would they be doing here, all alone? As we came closer, we saw two children lying together under a coat, while another little boy clutched his mother who still waved frantically, even though she could see we were heading right for them.

  We came close and dropped anchor. The three of us leapt overboard and waded ashore. The mother, a tall lean woman who looked fifty but was surely younger, dropped to her knees, clasped her hands in prayer: “Praise the Lord, we’re saved, but too late, too late!”

  The little boy ran to us through the water and leapt into the arms of Gene, who hugged him. “My little son, you’re freezing. Here, come on the boat. Owen, get the stove started. Get this child warm.”

  I hurried onto the shore and quickly went over to the mother who knelt, bent over, crying her heart out. T
hen I came upon a sight that battered my heart: two small children, wrapped in each other’s arms, lay beside her, but now so very still.

  When I helped her up, she clutched me with such fierce strength. Her icy fingers enwrapped my neck as she continued sobbing. I saw I must get her onto the boat, so I disengaged her arms and tugged her out into the freezing water. But she seemed unwilling to leave the dead children. Firmly, I got her into the strong arms of Gene and Owen, who hefted her into the boat and safety.

  “Don’t leave ’em, don’t leave ’em,” she wailed. “I cannot, I cannot go, I must stay.”

  Gene and I exchanged looks. What was there to say?

  Gene, the more experienced, spoke gently. “We won’t leave them, ma’am, never you mind, we shall bring them with us. Now you get warm, ye hear. Go below, please, our stove is hot, start warming yourself and take care of your little son. John and I will go get the boys.”

  Gene motioned to Owen and whispered, “Got any canvas?” Canvas here comes in three weavings: a heavy one for sails, one for winter garments, and a third for general coverings. Owen produced a couple of fragments, enough for one child, I thought, and then we looked at each other. I had no idea what to do next.

  Below, I saw the mother and son shivering by our wood stove with our blankets round their shoulders, sipping their hot tea. Owen crawled over the deck and from a rear compartment pulled out a rather unclean sack. I shuddered: could we really consign a dear little boy to this? On the coast I had often seen open coffins with their corpses carefully prepared by local women for burial. But this was my first time dealing with dead bodies, frozen stiff in fact. Well, I told myself, better get used to it.

  “You stay ’ere, Mr. Gene,” Owen suggested and we both leapt into the icy water, leaving Gene to deal with the mother and her son. We splashed ashore and somehow managed to gather up the stiffened bodies of the two children, so deathly white, but by the same token, so angelic. We carried them back to the boat, trying to keep the sight from their mother, and stored them under a covering in the stern.

  With Owen at the tiller we set off for Harrington Harbour, the nearest settlement. Gene had heated our saucepan of soup from the night before and once the woman fed her son and herself, she was able in broken sentences to recount her tale of woe. “We just come — me and the little ones, m’husband bein’ off up the coast on the last fishing trip. We come over ’ere to Netagamiou Island t’get our winter’s supply of redberries. The place is full of ’em.” I confess, with the grisly sight that greeted me, I had not noticed the profusion of berries. “We spent the morning picking, and then, with the fog rolling in, we started back to our boat only to find it had drifted away.”

  Gene nodded. “Yes, the fog stopped us dead, too.” Then quickly he went on to say, “We moored in an inlet, and waited it out — in the safety of our boat, of course.”

  “We had no such safety,” the woman went on. “We just huddled together as best we could. No protection, we tried to nestle in among the lichen and berries, but it was some cold. In the morning, you couldn’t see your hand before your face in the fog. If my husband ’ad come back, ’e’d a been off lookin’ fer us fer sure, but he must’a still been away.” With that, she began once more to sob quietly, trying not to disturb her son, who also took up crying.

  I reached out and touched her. My heart had broken along with hers.

  “Well, we had our berries to eat, but that’s all. No spring water on the island, we was some thirsty. The berries helped, but awful bitter, raw like ’at. And then, you seen it, the snow started up.”

  I nodded. “That snow... How anyone could’ve survived...”

  “I don’t know how, we all just clung together for warmth. But after a bit, first Danny, and then Jack, they both... they faded, just faded away. When I felt they was colder than cold, I let them drop.” With that she began to cry once again.

  Now events began to move rather quickly. Before we had gone an hour tacking into the wind, two boats came sailing toward us: parishioners from the Barachois, having been alerted by the husband to the family’s absence.

  What a heart-rending encounter! The husband leapt aboard and was soon hugging his wife. When he heard from her of the tragedy, he bent over and, already exhausted and battered, sobbed horribly. We left him and his wife and child alone in the cabin as we tacked our way home.

  We arrived at Harrington Harbour before suppertime and unloaded our unhappy cargo. Such a welcome sight, that squiggly line of homes scattered along a twisting shoreline of granite, heavily indented with narrow creeks that gave access to the waters for the residents, all with their stageheads and tethered fishing boats. At each side, headlands reached out to shelter the harbour.

  We set the funeral for the morrow and Gene introduced me around, though the occasion was hardly the arrival that I had anticipated, this being one of the main centres of my parish. The devastation brought on by the deaths of the two children was palpable; they had been a well-liked family and the next day most everyone in the village turned out for the moving and memorable service. I found myself, as I read the lesson, close to losing my self-control in the midst of all this terrible sadness.

  The night before, Gene had proudly shown me the skeleton of the church sited by the Bishop the year before, to which many energies were now being applied. I marvelled at the proportions and how enterprising these good folk were. They had even constructed a sawing platform, for instead of digging a deep trench as we do on the Gaspé, they’d built a rough scaffold for a man to grip the saw at the upper end, while his partner stood on the ground. This way, the two could cut boards from the logs brought from the inland forests. Already the foundations had been laid and a few uprights lay about for lifting into walls. Mr. John Bobbitt, our lay reader here, had been instrumental in organizing it all, with Levi Wright as the actual builder, a good Anglican in spite of his first name.

  This funeral was not how the day ended, however. I had left Gene at the graveside with the family when, coming down the path, I was met by a fisherman. He told me someone from the large schooner unloading autumn supplies had asked for me. The crew member had gone into the old shed at the back of the wharf, or rather, stagehead.

  I wondered what on earth could be the trouble? Was the man in fear of his immortal soul? Did he require absolution for a dreadful deed, or just some special solace? Or perhaps there had been a mutiny on board? As I strode down the path behind the fisherman, my mind roiled with many wild imaginings. I was not used to this position of responsibility.

  The fisherman walked across and stopped at the stage. He gestured inside. I thanked him and, after he went off, I hesitated, and then not knowing what to expect, opened the door.

  A lantern hanging from the ceiling threw its glow across the old nets, new killicks, fishing gear, and other oddments. Was this to be a dangerous meeting? When a figure came forward out of the gloom, I tensed up.

  Then I recognized my freckled, red-haired companion from the train ride to Matapedia three years earlier. We had talked long into the night about his plans for becoming a mate on one of his father’s schooners. His face broke into a happy smile when he saw me. “John! What a lucky happening!”

  “Indeed it is! Wonderful to see you.” We immediately fell to talking about the intervening three years, me having taken Holy Orders, and him having shipped on a different schooner each year, learning a great deal thereby.

  Through all this, I could see something was bothering him. “So tell me, Frank, what caused you to seek out a clergyman? Not done something wicked, have you?”

  “No, John. Maybe I should call yez Mister John? God luv me, I wish it were that simple. It’s not me, fer sure.” He hesitated, and gestured apologetically. “See, I had t’meet ya hidden away, like, because if anyone found out ’twas me what told on them, I’d be in fer it.” He looked around, rather nervously I thought, and then stepped forward and leaning close, whispered into my ear.

  His news was so shocking that it to
ok me time to fully comprehend the implications. He stepped back. “So you got to rescue her!”

  “Me? But how?” I asked. “Is she the only cook on your schooner?” He nodded. “So what shall I do? Bring a party of villagers to attack the ship?” I was at quite a loss.

  “Of course not. You’re a man of the cloth. The captain will listen to you. I found none other at any of the last ports o’ call: nor magistrates, justices of the peace, no police in fact.”

  He was right. “Nor even a mayor,” I agreed. “These folk hereabouts have developed no formal organizations like Shigawake’s village council. I guess they work by a sort of consensus.”

  “So no other authority for me to appeal to.” He fell silent, and looked at me. My thoughts tumbled about, seeking any escape.

  He grasped me by the arm, and his eyes gleamed. “Now look, if they find out it’s me spilling the beans, one day, I’d be just ‘swep’ overboard.’ I got no wish to end my life like that. But I want justice done.” After a pause, he said, “Her name’s Lorna Maclean, but you better not say that at all at all... they’ll know how ya found out.”

  Not one of the duties Gene had outlined, for sure! I doubted if he’d even met this situation. So should I pass it over to him? No, it could be dangerous. So how could I, in all conscience, step away? “You think I should go on board alone?”

  “No other way.” Frank looked at me with a hopeful intensity. “But gimme time to get back so’s no one’ll suspect. I made up some story about seeing a relative. I gotta be back and out of harm’s way when you come.”

  “So you want me to get out to your schooner, confront the captain, and convince him to let the only cook for twenty hungry crewmen come back on shore with me and leave his ship forever?”

  He nodded. “I been pressin’ my father to stop this business of women cooks on schooners. I heard o’ other such goings on last year, too.”