The Place Page 3

  “Sir! Yes, sir!” Michael was visibly shaking.

  The major stood up straight. His tunic had ridden up his waist. He yanked it down viciously over his lean hips and was walking away when he turned and said, “By the way, Mike. You are now promoted to Lance Corporal.”

  3

  Becky

  I don’t remember anyone ever loving me. If my parents did, they never told me, never showed me, either. Since I can remember, I worked for them without ever receiving a penny of pay. Didn’t ever get a fond peck on my cheek from my mother. Not one simple thank you, either, for any work I’d done. That would have been payment enough for me. My life, like a punishment of memories, a penance I must pay and repay, comes back to me in sleep, every detail of it. I was the last of seven children, and because I was the seventh, I was supposed to have the gift of charming toothaches away and, with only a touch of my left hand, stopping the bleed from a cut. As I grew, the only gift that came my way was the one of enduring work without complaint.

  Then, seeing as I didn’t possess the charm, an old woman in the Place said such a gift was only bestowed on the seventh child born of a seventh child. My mother was the third child in a family of nine. Besides, the old woman claimed, such a charm was found in the male line and rarely in the female. The only charm of my life came late. Too late for me, maybe. It was when my son, Jake, placed his baby son, Templar, in my arms, and for the first time in my life I felt the blessing of love. What was it they said about the colour of Jake’s hair? The colour of fir boughs burning! Looking down at Jake’s son, Templar, cradled in my arms with hair the colour of his father’s, his small eyes twinkling blue as shallow waters rising out of dark depths, for the first time I saw what they meant. I did have a charm.

  Fir boughs were the choice of branches to spread on the flakes for drying codfish. Some said the scented branches gave the best of flavours to the sun-cured cod. But after the dry winds of summer and autumn had passed, the boughs of the fir branches on the flakes wilted and died. Now the once fragrant green boughs turned a blassy orange, reddish colour. The strength was gone from their stems. They shed their twigs, and their days of drying fish that was spread heads to tails were done. But on a cold October evening, after the fish was harvested, the fishermen gathered the blassy boughs into huge piles and set them alight. The flames licked at the brazen boughs, leaping like orange and red waves. The scent of them, tinged with the residue of a season of salted cod on their twigs, perfumed the air. And oh my God what a sweet tincture was that colour of firs burning! And because of my hatred, I had missed it all.

  Leaning over Templar, I wept for the loss of it. A tear fell from my cheek and fell onto the child’s. Templar puckered his pink lips at the touch of it. His eyes squinted, and I thought he was going to cry. But then his beautiful face broadened, and he beamed a great smile and chortled, as if he knew the tear on his cheek was one of joy. And that hair, like his father’s, the colour of fir boughs burning indeed, invoked within my dormant memories the flush of my innocent youth.

  It was more than the colour of the boughs burning. The burning of them brought a feeling of a hard-wrought season behind us. A feeling of accomplishment on an island of toil. It was as if the burning of summer flake boughs in autumn symbolized a celebration of yet another voyage of fishing behind us. The red and orange made a welcoming hue of warmth. I saw it now in Templar’s hair. A blend of comfort and a need for sharing that went well beyond the colour and which—God forgive me—I had let slip past me as sure as the years. Wasted with my hatred.

  The man Jake called his father had always been in my life. Tobias was his name. Everyone called him Tobe, except me. I called him Toby early on. My name was Rebecca, and Toby called me Becky then. Toby was the tallest, strongest, and the most handsome boy in the Place. His black hair, always worn long, matched eyes just as dark. And though he doted on me for as long as I could remember and was considered a charmer by the other girls, I didn’t like him at all. He had a mean streak in him as wide and as plain to me as the white quartz vein running right down to the water’s edge on Mineral Point. Some government geologist years ago was investigating the coast and reported seeing iron among the quartz. No one else saw it. It was just a rusty stain in the vein.

  Toby had a way of intimidating and a subtle way of bullying so clever the parents in the Place rarely noticed. Chores relegated to Toby were usually doled out to the other boys behind his father’s back. And because of his size and dominance, those chores were often meted out with severe arm-twisting and punches, accompanied by threatening stares. He was rarely told on by the other boys, and certainly not by the girls, most of whom who were sweet on Toby. And if he was confronted about strong-arming, his charm saved his day. Besides, everyone knew Toby was a hard worker. Trained by his father at a very early age in the art of the family’s subsistent fishing, Toby learned the hard way. His father was a fair man but showed him little favour. All boys in the Place were expected to row a punt almost as soon as they walked. And by the time he was ten years old, Toby could pull his weight on the oars, the head ropes of nets in the summer, and the heavy trawl lines of fall. His big frame was fashioned into muscle, and boys his age and older feared him.

  At the age of just thirteen he was seen keeping a “bone in the air” while splitting cod. A good splitter was the talk of every fishing village. Anyone could gut and pull liver, and only a strong arm was needed to “head” the cod. But a bad splitter could ruin the season’s voyage of fish. An experienced culler, who determined the price paid for cod, would lower the price paid for fish when sound bones were extracted improperly. A cut too deep left the fish open for sunburn during the curing process. A cut too shallow left a waste of flesh on the bone. A cut too far down the tail could sever the tail itself. Tailless cod was frowned upon and wouldn’t fetch top dollar. A good splitter was the prize of every crew.

  And Toby was the best splitter in the Place. His skill with a splitting knife was something to see. With barely a snick of the curved knife in his strong right hand, the sound bone from the second fish was already flung into the air before the first one splashed in the turbid water below the stagehead. The way I saw it, though, you just had to be quick and strong enough to throw the sound bone high in the air, between fish, to give you a few extra seconds before it splashed down.

  Ignoring the whetstones used by the other splitters, Toby used a piece of quartz he had hammered out of Mineral Point, and he spat on the stone regularly to whet his knife. Even I, who rejected his advances, couldn’t help but marvel at his skill with the splitting knife. Still, with all of that, his streak of dominance shone through with every opportunity that came his way. And at every chance he got he tried to court me.

  Toby gave me my very first kiss. It was one I’ll never forget. We were walking in the pleasant summer evening with the sun down over the hills up the long bay before us. The path we were on led toward No Denial Rock. Everyone in the Place knew the reputation of the vaguely couch-shaped rock and how it had gotten its name. It was said any boy who stopped with his girl beside the rock would never be denied a kiss—or more. It was a place revered by the boys. A place to boast of conquests. Few of the girls liked the rock. With good reason, I hated the rock and what it represented all the days of my life.

  I can still see the wicked grin on his broad face as he stopped me beside the rock. He had been holding my hand all the way along the path after we passed the last of the houses, and I hadn’t resisted. Toby pushed me hard against the rock and forced his entire body upon mine. His muscled chest was as hard as the rock against my back. One hand was behind my neck holding me to his face. His other hand was pressed into my buttocks. He kissed me on the mouth so forcefully I could feel the press of his teeth as he forced his tongue between my closed lips. My first kiss was not the gentle experience my girlfriends and I had whispered about.

  With a strength born of fear and revulsion, I tore free of him and ran cryi
ng back down the trail. Toby’s laughter followed until I dipped below the hill. He didn’t follow me, and I never allowed him to hold my hand again, though he never stopped trying. But others had let him, and when asked about it, they would clam up and only say No Denial Rock should be beaten into sand. A few more years went by, and I filled out. The prettiest girl in the Place, the boys called me. It made me feel good. But I never walked the path with any of them, and I had never been kissed since that first bruise on my mouth from Toby.

  Then one warm spring day, with the sun glinting on the calm harbour waters, a jaunty two-masted schooner came bustling around the point and entered the tickle that separated our island from a smaller one. We heard shouting aboard, and men scurried over her deck. Her sails came clattering down, and the schooner slipped into our harbour and tied to a wharf. Her bulwarks creaked as they rubbed against the worn wharf lungers. Painted bold and white on her shiny black hull was the name Plunging Star.

  It was ever a big event when a schooner came to our harbour, especially the first one after a long winter. Just about everyone in the Place flocked down over the hill to the wharf to talk to someone different and to hear the news from the broad world outside our small island. There was hand-shaking and back-slapping and even a few hugs as the schoonermen and our islanders greeted each other.

  That early spring morning was so life-changing for me, I can still recall the banter between schoonermen and the friendly people of our Place:

  “Fine time along, eh b’ys?”

  “Oh, more fair than middlin’, I’d say. The ice is keepin’ off the land and givin’ us a wide bert’ be the shore.”

  “Bloody ice! Keepin’ a man from fishin’. White dirt, we calls it. Any seals on the go?”

  “Bedlamers, mostly. A few ragged jackets. Not worth the lead of killin’ ’em, as ya know.”

  “We’ve a few pelts tied and soaking be the wharf. We’d sell ’em to ’e fer a few shekels.”

  “Naw, b’y. Seal pelts are a dime a dozen this year. Price of fur is way down, the merchants say.”

  “What’s the row upalong about this year 1899 being one of change fer the better?”

  “Haw! Fer the better, ya say? Don’t count on that, b’y. Way I hear it, the New Year, 1900, will be down the hole. For as we all know, nineteen is the outhouse number.”

  The men aboard the schooner, on the wharf, and those gathered on shore laughed uproariously at this remark. A man standing on the wharf with a smokeless pipe in his mouth changed the subject with a question directed at the schooner’s skipper.

  “Got any baccy aboard the Star?”

  “Aye, sir, I have. Boxes of plugged English baccy right from the port of Liverpool. Barrels of flour and sugar. Kegs of blackstrap molasses and yeast. Brin bags of white beans by the hundredweight. Tubs of butter from English cows, hogsheads of salt, skeins of oakum, and even knurls of wool. And as ye well know, salt by the ton fer the curing of yer fish. Come aboard, match yer name on the ledger with the owner of this vessel, sign yer name or make yer mark beside yer name on the book, and you will receive all the provisions allotted to you fer the season. Need a long arm fer the flour barrel now, I expect!”

  “An’ that we do, sir. ’Tis switchel tea, too, without sugar. And a smear of butter on thin slices of bread fer the young ones only. The winter has been a hard one fer this island, Skipper.”

  “Aye, I know. ’Tis been a hard one all around the coast.”

  “Lamp oil and candles aboard?”

  “Barrels of oil to be measured out to ye be the gallon. Slow-burnin’ candles be the dozen.”

  “Powder and shot aboard, Skipper?”

  “Kegs of it, sir. Jest sign on the barrelhead and you’ll be issued yer fair share as determined be my instructions.”

  “Aye, me fair share. And the weight o’ lead below me name priced as gold. Grey gold, we calls it.”

  “’Tis not me as determines the prices of power and shot er anything else aboard, sir. I’m merely the skipper o’ this vessel and delivers her cargo as ordered be her owner, the chandler, sir.”

  And just like that the jovial mood of first schooner in harbour was gone. The men slowly took turns going aboard the schooner to sign their names on the chandler’s ledger. The schooner’s windlass creaked, and the loading boom swung the scant provisions onto the wharf with its rigged gantry.

  Sitting on the rocky ledge above the wharf where the schooner was tied, I watched the men jump from wharf to gunnel as they boarded the vessel. I knew all about the truck system between fish merchant and fishermen. Heard the figures argued every fall as my parents pored over the paper given them after a full year’s voyage of codfish, caught, dried, and delivered, without a cent of money changing hands. My father’s name was still a red line on a ledger, still owing for the bare necessities of life for another hard season of work. Harvest time for us was seen as nothing more than a time of earning for the merchant.

  All morning I had noticed a man who kept aloof from all the others on the schooner, not taking part in any of the talk between the men on wharf or deck. He wasn’t a tall man, neither was he short, and he looked strong-built. Most of the time he was leaning against the taffrail of the schooner. He didn’t aid with the off-loading of cargo, nor with the longest job, the strenuous off-loading of salt. There was nothing striking about his figure but for one thing. It was his full head of red hair.

  I had never seen a person with red hair before, and this man had a head covered with flaming red hair. He even had a full beard of the same rich colour. The man chewed tobacco and at intervals spat the brown juice into the water as if it were a grand thing to be doing. I hated the way men spat tobacco juice. I couldn’t help staring at him, though, and once I was shocked to see him staring back. I abruptly rose to my feet and walked back along the winding path over the hill to home.

  When I had finished the chores around our house that evening, which were relegated as mine alone and which I did without complaint, I decided to go for a walk on the path that led up over the hill to the lookout. My father stretched out on the daybed near the wood stove, napping as he did every evening after supper. My mother was seated in her rocker on the opposite side of the stove, and though she was slowly darning socks, she was near sleep herself. Her rocker moved slower and slower and finally stopped creaking. Removing my apron, I crossed the kitchen without saying a word and entered the porch. Closing the kitchen door behind me, I walked past the firewood stacked against the water gully, which had been replenished by my own hand earlier that day.

  Though the sun was down, the twilight was brilliant. The western hills framed our bay adorned with evening splendor. I wore neither sweater nor shawl. The evening was unusually warm, and there was no wind, which was probably why the schooner master had decided to spend the night in our harbour. And though I hated the wind, it was a calm night that I was to curse for the rest of my life.

  I stepped away from the low, unpainted stoop of our house and headed up the path. The evening air was filled with the freshness from the sea, and I breathed the welcome spring air deep into my lungs. Yellow flowers, which had burst forth in the morning light and sprung up from the grass beside the path, now hid their beauty with the evening’s close. It was good to be alive on an evening such as this, with the cold of winter already forgotten and the promise of summer full in the air. I walked up the path with a spring in my step, a lilt in my voice, toward No Denial Rock. Past the rock, the path led to the cemetery and the high barren bluff just past it, which gave a panoramic view of the sea reaching away from our island. The lookout was where I was headed this evening. Judging by last evening, and the cloudless sky, I knew there would be a crescent moonrise very soon. I loved to watch the moon slide up over the lip of the sea.

  I saw no one as I walked up but heard laughter and the sounds of merriment coming from the harbour where the schooner was tied, and I knew those of my
age were there enjoying the visit with the schoonermen. The dog out on the point across the harbour was barking. I knew the dog had recently been released from its chain and was now free to roam the island. It was a happy bark. The sound of a young boy being called home by his mother came faintly on the evening air. It was followed by a door closing. All normal sounds that I knew well. Night was coming fast, but I had walked this path alone a hundred times and wasn’t afraid. There were no wild animals here save for the occasional fox.

  Approaching the hated rock, now a deep, elongated shadow on the left side of the path, I instinctively crossed to the right side. Backing the rock was a dense growth of stunted tuckamore infused with tangly alders. As I drew nigh the rock, a shadowy figure suddenly emerged from the tuckamore and stood on the path beside the rock. Startled, I was about to run, thinking it was Toby, though he hadn’t bothered me of late. It wasn’t Toby. It was the red-haired man from the schooner.

  “Well, hello, Rebecca. Allow me to introduce myself. Jack is my name. Fancy that, now! Meeting the prettiest girl in the Place here on this trail, and right alongside No Denial Rock, too.”

  “How come you know so much about me and this rock? You’re a stranger here.” I was hoping someone else would appear on the path, but I still wasn’t afraid.

  “Oh, the b’ys been talking ’bout you. And the reputation of the rock is well known ’round the bay.”

  I tried to change the subject. “How come you never gave a hand with the schooner off-loading?”

  “Haw! I’m not a common deck’and. I’m a culler. My job is one of grave responsibility. You know how important a culler’s job is, don’t you?” The red-headed man leered at me, and I realized then that he was standing much closer to me. I hadn’t noticed him move. Last light had gone from the day, and the sliver of moon I had hoped to see rise out of the ocean was still well below the top of our island.