Stung

by William Deverell

  Solara, rummaging through their library for something to read, barely smothers laughter.

  Arthur flops into his old club chair and leafs through his library’s dog atlas. Someone — Solara, he suspects — has left it lying open on the armrest. He can’t quite focus on the pictures of border collies, too many memories — it’s too soon to consider replacing Homer. When he’s ready, he might choose a different breed, so he wouldn’t be constantly reminded of his old pal.

  “Maybe an Australian shepherd,” says Margaret, who has sneaked up behind him, with Solara. They’re leaning over his shoulder.

  “Maybe.” Or something more imposing, grander, like that Irish wolfhound pictured here, handsome and noble. Described as loyal, generous, sweet-tempered, dignified, thoughtful. Possibly the most devoted pet in the animal kingdom. A regal beast who, in centuries past, guarded the thrones of the Irish kings.

  “Beautiful dog,” Arthur mumbles. “Aristocratic.”

  “Their specialty is killing wolves, dear. No one has seen a wolf on Garibaldi for decades. You want a herder, a farm dog, not a hunter. Says here these guys aren’t great guard dogs either. Too friendly to strangers.”

  “Nonsense, any dog can be trained.”

  Arthur reads on. The breed is older than ancient Rome; wolfhounds were remarked upon by Caesar. Coursing hounds, hardwired for the chase, blessed with keen eyesight, they were bred to be ferocious fighters, known as “war dogs,” but over the centuries were transformed into the tame and trusted companions of the nobility of the British Isles. Everything about this dog, its looks, its temper, its glorious history, commend it to Arthur.

  Dream on. He must settle on something more commonplace, with proven farm skills. A different type of collie, maybe smooth-coated this time. Or one of these English shepherd dogs, here handsomely illustrated. Maybe one of the European herding dogs.

  He sighs, closes the book, wipes a tear.

  5

  Sunday, August 26

  The sun has returned, pulling mists into the air. Margaret is off to a meet-and-greet in the Cowichan Valley, so Arthur must attend church service alone. He dons his suit of funereal black and coaxes his pickup to transport him to Mary’s Landing, a batch of homes bordering a pebble beach with a public dock, a nearby islet where sea lions bask and grunt.

  Overlooking all is cozy, cedar-shaked St. Mary’s Anglican, on a shoreline bluff above the island cemetery, its graves hidden from view by big-leaf maples and weeping willows.

  After greeting friends and settling in a pew, he tries to be mindful of Reverend Al’s counsel from the pulpit to accept loss, to find inspiration from the tribulations of Job. But he can’t focus, refuses to believe Job’s torment is any worse than his own.

  He gazes sadly out the window, then blinks: Has he just seen another vision, a humanoid form? Hovering behind his truck, then vanishing. Job, seeking forgiveness and charity from the Lord. Maybe just rising mist, sculpted by the breeze. Maybe a ghost, because the path to the cemetery leads from there. Jeremiah Blunder, returning to his grave? Or is it more proof that Arthur is succumbing to dementia?

  After service, he praises Al for his splendid sermon, then mingles with other parishioners in the parking lot, among them elephantine Nelson Forbish, editor of the weekly Island Bleat, who is sniffing around for items for his “News Nuggets” column.

  “I’m closing in on deadline. You got anything for me?”

  “One of my farmhands hypnotized a mink in the chicken pen.”

  “Save it for Facebook, I don’t do animal stories.”

  Arthur dallies while the lot empties, intrigued by the mist-blurred form that evanesced near the path to the cemetery, and finds himself propelled there, past the lumbering trees, down a slope studded with crosses and stones, bottoming out at Pioneers’ Row.

  Arthur has always enjoyed visiting this lovely little graveyard with its quiet and privacy, and he aims himself toward his favourite bench, the bronze three-seater dedicated to “Dear Ethel T. Wiltby, Our Loving Grandmother.” Dear old Mrs. Wiltby, offering comfort from the afterlife. “Thank you, Ethel,” Arthur says, sitting.

  This is a place of many buried memories, but also some that survived in lore. The quarry master who died under the massive block of granite that is his grave marker. The despotic wife-beater gunned down in his Model T Ford, with his widow — acquitted after a one-day trial — lying beside him. Major J.R. (No-Nuts) Nelson, who returned home in disgrace from the Great War, having accidentally shot himself.

  But of more interest, almost abutting the Wiltby bench, is the headstone of Jeremiah Blunder, unreadable after a hundred West Coast winters, his remains identified by a plaque from the Garibaldi Historical Society.

  Here, it is said, lies Jeremiah Blunder. Or maybe not. Maybe he’s too busy making guest appearances on country roads. Maybe there has never been a body in this grave; maybe Jeremiah Blunder is still in an old stone well somewhere on Blunder Bay Farm, still clutching his jug. No papers or journals exist from those days, no death records. Some bits of old correspondence hint he bootlegged his moonshine off-island, by rowboat.

  That evening Arthur packs for Vancouver. He must learn something about subsurface mining rights. Would they apply to limestone formations? Would such rights precede parkland zoning, or was Kurt Zoller talking nonsense? Arthur has already contacted the firm’s savant, old Riley, a fixture in the law library, where he practically lives. He will have the answers.

  6

  Monday, August 27

  Arthur alights from a taxi at the entrance to the bank tower where Tragger, Inglis occupies floors thirty-nine to forty-three. He hopes he can sneak in without alerting Bullingham, though the old fellow, sharp of eye and ear, too often manages to find him.

  He enters the vast atrium and contemplates the bank of elevators. The thirty-ninth floor is to be avoided, with its bustle and gab at reception and in the secretarial pool. And he won’t carry on to the forty-third, the partners’ floor, where Bully presides. Arthur’s office is there too, preserved, empty, Bully refusing to accept that Arthur is a full-time tiller of the soil.

  Politeness requires him to hold the door for a Tragger, Inglis file clerk, a chatty fellow eager to engage with him. “Good to have you back, sir. How were your holidays? That was quite a little rain we had, lovely now.”

  Arthur nods and smiles, punches the button for forty-one, the library. The elevator stops on thirty-nine, and the clerk rushes off, presumably to announce a rare sighting of the firm’s senior counsel.

  The library is cathedral-like, bookshelves to the ceiling, walkways, ladders: all artifacts of long past — most of the research is done these days online, an art even Arthur has finally mastered. Several young lawyers are hunched over laptops and copying machines. And there is Riley, half hidden by a computer monitor, a grizzled, bespectacled gnome scribbling notes.

  He looks up, his greeting a simple nod, as if Arthur, whom Riley hasn’t seen for a year, is still routinely popping in.

  He waves off Arthur’s how-are-you and his compliments, and advises, in his clipped, no-nonsense way, that he is embroiled in a monstrous copyright action set for two months beginning in September. However, he has done a quick review of the quarry issue and could give an oral summation.

  Arthur is still in mourning, slow of mind, and can’t grab onto much of what Riley is relating. What he gathers is that a search through government records shows rights to the quarry were never extinguished, even after the park rezoning, and were assigned to TexAmerica Stoneworks three years ago. Those rights appear to defeat any local bylaw. It’s unlikely though not settled that the Islands Trust’s preserve-and-protect mandate will be of avail.

  “There is no authority exactly on point. I can show you the leading cases. Canada Cement Lafarge v. Manitoba holds that industrial-grade limestone is included in any grant of minerals.”

  Arthur is dismaye
d by the bleak prognosis, and is about to slump into a chair when a voice too familiar intrudes.

  “Ah, Beauchamp. We’re most grateful for your visit.” Roy Bullingham has, predictably, materialized at the door. “Do you think we can we have a few minutes?”

  * * *

  They are in Bully’s sumptuous, mahogany-panelled office, Arthur standing at the window, taking in a view of Stanley Park, the inlet, the North Shore peaks, the suspension bridge sweeping over the First Narrows. His persuasions have not moved the old man.

  “I shall have to be blunt.” Bully, leaning back in a swivel chair, stern, disapproving. “I see no upside to this business with your quarry that would profit our firm. We do not go gambolling off to take on every picayune cause of action that pops up in some remote corner of the hinterland.”

  Arthur reminds him that the firm has a proud history of pro bono service to deserving causes.

  “Are lives or livelihoods at stake? I think not. No, Beauchamp, we have exceeded our pro bono budget for the year. You are on your own.”

  “Surely you can give me a junior. It’s no simple matter.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. We cannot afford a junior. Nor can we afford Riley — he’s needed for a copyright claim. Something about computer language. Beyond me. You are welcome to use the stationery and the staples.” A pause. “However . . .”

  “What?”

  “If you were to agree to get back in the saddle, handle a trial or two, we might be able to offer some consideration. We have the Williger homicide coming up. Logging company CEO. Shot his wife with a hunting rifle. Accident, of course, though there’s some issue about her having had a lover. Set down for ten days in October.”

  Ten days . . . plus a month of prep. Impossible. Arthur will not give in to this extortionate proposal. He will have to do without Riley. The judicial review of the rezoning of Quarry Park cannot wait.

  He thanks Bully for his kind offer and returns to the library and opens a text: Mining Law in Canada. The words swirl before him, blurred, incomprehensible.

  7

  Tuesday, August 28

  Syd-Air runs a scheduled half-hour flight to the Gulf Islands, and when Arthur, as today, is the sole Garibaldi-bound passenger Syd is generous about dropping him off at Blunder Bay’s dock. So on this early evening he is quickly back home.

  He alights on his dock with his overnight bag and a thickly packed briefcase. Margaret appears at the veranda door, waving delightedly while talking on her phone. Solara emerges from behind Stefan’s van, races to meet him, relieves him of his bag. A mischievous look. “We have a surprise for you.”

  From behind the van the surprise comes bounding toward him, trailing its leash. Stefan comes running in pursuit. The dog, thickly furred, frisky but clumsy on its massive paws, stops ten feet away to assess this new stranger.

  Arthur stares back. The dog is twice Homer’s size. A male. Handsome. “What do we have here?”

  “Irish wolfhound pup,” Solara says.

  “He’s a pup?”

  “Six months old. Y’all was admiring them. In that book.”

  “Yes, that’s, um . . . wonderful, but how . . .”

  “Wolfhound group on Facebook. Stefan and me, we drove up to the Comics Valley on the weekend.”

  “Comox Valley.”

  “Co-mox, I got it. Anyway, very nice lady, on in years, and now she’s been diagnosed with stage two cancer. She wanted next to nothing, just wanted to make sure he had a loving home.”

  “What did she name him?”

  “Wolfy.”

  “Absurd. I will not vulgarize him with that name.”

  Stefan draws beside him. “He’s playing strange.” He passes Arthur a couple of dog biscuits.

  Arthur bends low, offering one. “Come here, fella.” The dog temporarily called Wolfy approaches warily, snaps up the biscuit, backs away, gobbles it up. A second is offered. This time the pup doesn’t shy away, instead gives Arthur a big, wet slurp on his face. Arthur laughs, then embraces him.

  “Ulysses. That shall be your name. Hero of the Odyssey, king of Ithaca.” Worthy successor to his own Homer, named after the great Greek poet who immortalized Ulysses. And to honour the Irishness of his wolfhound, one must also celebrate James Joyce’s masterwork. Arthur is suddenly energized.

  Margaret joins him. “You won’t want to see inside the house. He knocked over the spice rack and chewed up one of your slippers.”

  Stefan seems embarrassed. “My mistake. He has to be watched until he learns inside manners.”

  Solara tosses an inflated rubber ball, and Ulysses bounds after it. In less than a minute it’s in shreds. Then he spots a wandering chicken, which flees, flapping and squawking, as Stefan and Solara run for the trailing leash. The chicken somehow makes it over the henhouse gate, and Ulysses doubles back, leaps at Solara, sending her on her rear.

  Everyone is laughing. Arthur hopes this over-energized, impetuous pup is trainable. He retrieves the leash. “Let’s go for a stroll, Ulysses.” The pup leaps ahead, Arthur staggering after him.

  Chapter 3: Rivie

  1

  Saturday, September 1

  Clustered around the antique oak table back of Ivor’s, our core group tweaks the final inning of Operation Seduction. As usual, Helmut Knutsen presides, though nobody ever elected him. We aren’t into power rankings, but the old activist has been chairing meetings for eons, and the role fits him like his ratty pair of Birks.

  Okie Joe is only vaguely with us, he’s focussed on his MacBook, code scrolling up the screen. He’s pulled some emails from the U.S. federal pesticide lab that hint of negligent testing of neonics like Vigor-Gro but hasn’t been able to punch a hole in Chemican-International’s firewall. That bugs him. He has underground fame to live up to, post-Google, as a star hacker with Anonymous.

  To my right sits Lucy, all honey-tongued and supportive. The hot body to my left belongs to Chase D’Amato, newly arrived from the Peace River dam site. Chase does a lot of the high-wire acts you see in the news clips, swinging and rappelling, suspending Greenpeace banners from bridges and derricks. He’s been arrested on four continents.

  For all that, he’s loose and easy, an almost stereotypical hunk: lanky, lean, bunned brown hair. Likes to pretend he’s not conceited. Currently, he’s tanned all over, except his ass. I know that because I conjugated with him last night.

  We had a fling once and maintain a tradition of getting it on when he sashays into town, and that worked out spectacularly, a home run with bases loaded. I’m still tingling.

  Lust has been sated, putting me in a more soothed mood just as I’m about to encounter Howell J. Griffin again. He texted me to say he’ll be flying in this afternoon and has reservations tonight for Paramour, a French restaurant so expensive that nobody I know has ever been there. He’ll call me when he lands.

  “What if he insists on picking you up at home?” Doc asks.

  I’ve been coy about telling Howie where I live. Out in Scarborough, I claimed.

  Lucy’s solution: “Tell him you’re working late and you’ll meet him outside my pharmacy when you get off.” Her North York Rexall. Good plan. I’ll explain I changed from my work clothes in the staff room.

  “You sure he’ll invite you up?” Doc asks.

  “The odds against are infinitesimal.”

  “You bringing some safes, right?” Lucy said. “It’s not like really fucking if you rubberize him.”

  Chase laughs. He wants to sympathize with my touchy situation, but can’t help finding it funny. I do have condoms. Lucy slipped me some morning-after pills too.

  I still wonder, though, if I can avoid his penis going into me. It’s not that I hold any puritanical views. I’ll prostitute myself for the cause if I have to, but I’m just not into Howell J. Griffin. It’s not his phony urbanity or his male superiority presumption
disorder, or even the panting, tail-wagging doggie love. It’s his loyalty to his corporate master.

  And here he is, my Becky phone is chirping. I put it on speaker. The room goes silent.

  “Hi, Becky, it’s me.”

  “You made it. Awesome. What’s up?”

  Chase makes a gag-me face.

  “TripAdvisor has the Paramour as number two in T.O. Hope you’re hungry. I have to warn you I won’t be my usual bright-eyed self. Flying all night and day is a unique modern-day form of torture. But I will overcome.”

  I tell him where to pick me up. That he’s wrecked is a plus: he may be so bagged he’ll pass out.

  2

  It’s Stage, whatever, Eight? Anyway, here I am on my totally-not-hot date with Howie, who is in meltdown after his nightmare overnight from Brazil. I told him he should’ve taken a day to recover, but I guess he couldn’t break free of his manic obsession over the object of his desire.

  The atmosphere in this über-expensive restaurant is dark and moody, and I’m beating back the butterflies. Tonight’s the night, it’s the Last Chance Saloon, I either pull it off or get fucked for nothing.

  I’m in sandals not heels but in the same mini I wore first time we met, in the Beaver’s Tail — it’s the only garb I own that didn’t come off the recycled racks — and I’m getting lots of looks: How come that bag-eyed boozer scored such a dishy date? This somehow flatters Howie more than me.

  He is working on a sirloin while my alter ego, Becky McLean, picks at a Caesar salad. Between us is a bottle of champagne that probably costs more than half a year of welfare cheques. That came after his two martinis. I passed on the cocktail but am into my third flute of fizz, I can’t help it, it’s too pricey to waste. Stay sober, comes the warning voice.

  I assume Howie found time to shower, but I still get heady whiffs of something, maybe fatigue sweat. He’s been entertaining me with rambling tales of his triumph over the peasant farmers of Brazil, who had shamelessly tried to stop Chemican from dumping tons of neonics on the big, mechanized farms they dare to compete with.