The Place Page 7

  “I watched a Turk drag a body off the field last night,” said Jake, drawing his head down again. “I could have shot him, but I couldn’t do it. Shooting a soldier is one thing. Killing a pallbearer is another.”

  “You are a compassionate sniper, Jake. It is a rarity. Most are ruthless.”

  “I hear they pray to their Allah five times a day.” Jake motioned to the Turkish lines. “Is that true?”

  “Oh, indeed it is, Jake. They call it Salat. The second pillar of Islam. They must pray to Allah, God by any other name, as ordered by the one whom they consider the only true prophet, Muhammad. They kneel, always on a blanket or a piece of cloth carried for that reason, before dawn, at midday, late afternoon, after sunset, and before midnight. The true Muslim must do so wherever he is, facing Mecca, their holy place. It is one reason why they make good runners. They always know their directions.” Michael pocketed the red badge and looked thoughtful. “I’ll sew it on tonight,” he said.

  Jake nodded, knowing he would. “I look to the stars to find my place, too. It gives me a kind of strength just knowing she may be watching on the cliff above the tickle on our island.”

  “We should all have a place to look to, Jake. Someone waiting for us above a tickle.”

  “Do you think they are right? I mean about praying five times a day on a blanket, and Jesus not being the true prophet of God and all that stuff?”

  “Don’t have an answer for that, my young friend. I read somewhere there are well over one billion of them who believe it to be true. They all agree how to worship. No exceptions. There are over two billion Christians worldwide. Of that number, somewhere around fifty per cent of us, Catholic and Protestant, can’t agreed how to worship our Allah. It makes for a strong argument, eh?”

  Michael turned to leave. “Good night, Jake. Don’t shoot any pallbearers.”

  “I won’t, Mike. Keep yer shoulders down. We snipers always aim fer centre mass.”

  9

  Michael was lying on his bunk in the dugout waiting for orders. There was only one officer present, a captain who looked young enough to be Michael’s son. Resting his hands behind his neck, he settled back, thinking about what Jake had said about his love waiting for him above the tickle. His thoughts went back to Ruth again, as they always did just before he dropped into sleep. He wasn’t sleepy now. Michael preferred to have Ruth in his head when he was wide awake. He could control her image then, not like dreams over which he had no control at all. A lot had happened since that first sweet kiss by the stile, with the fence between them.

  Years went by, and the two lovers grew up. Their first blush of flirtation had matured into a bond of love that nothing would break. Not even different religions. For six months, nearly every evening Michael walked up over the ridge and down the forested trail from the community where he lived to the one where Ruth lived.

  They met secretly for the most part, and only a few friends in both places knew about their relationship. In sylvan glades known only to young lovers, lying on scented green mosses, they kissed and fumbled with buttons. By the edge of the sea, on secluded sandy beaches where great seas rolled right up to their feet, they walked with no light between them. In empty night sheds and in secret diverse places, they made their love.

  Michael could still smell her hair, the intoxicating scent of her body emanating from loosened clothing. But despite all of the secret discoveries and all of the kisses and the God-given urge to delve further, they never had sex. Michael the Catholic, who believed in the freedom of integration no matter the church pew you sat in, conformed to the rule of No to the ring, no to the bed. And on that rule, Ruth the Protestant agreed.

  So they revelled in their love, which was strong enough to cling to the bonds of the heart and wait for the bond of one flesh. Then one evening, when they emerged from a copse of woods they thought was their secret alone, Nate Osmond was waiting for them. Standing on either side of Nate, blocking the trail, were two of his friends.

  Nate’s face was red with fury. His eyes dripped with hate for Michael. The two youths flanking Nate had greasy grins on their faces. There was no grin on Nate’s face. He stepped forward until he was eye to eye with Michael. The two youths stepped to the side, still facing Michael and Ruth, as if the move was premeditated. Nate leaned forward and hissed these words into Michael’s face: “Black Mick, the Cat’lic, by God! And steppin’ bold as ya please out of the woods with my girl. Grab ’im, b’ys! Pin his bloody arms behind his back!”

  It happened so fast Michael had no time to defend himself. He twisted and pulled, but the youths were strong and their hold on him held. In the struggle, Ruth’s hand was torn from Michael’s. She stepped back into the melee now and yelled at Nate: “Your girl? Why, you . . . you . . . bloody whelp! I wouldn’t be your girl if we were the last man and woman alive!” One of the youths seemed ill at ease and dropped his grin. The other one seemed to be enjoying the confrontation.

  “You’ll never be my girl now, that’s fer damn sure. I hear you’ve been courtin’ and ruttin’ like a dog in heat all over the place with this black Cat’lic. You’re nothin’ more than a damn harlot. I wouldn’t ’ave ya now if you were the last woman alive!”

  “Why, you cowardly, prejudiced son of a bitch,” said Michael, struggling to get free and still showing no sign of fear or anger. “May the curse of Lazarus plague your loins till your hat covers your entire family, and the love of Mary the Virgin never be yours. You can call me whatever your illiterate mind can conceive of, but if you ever call Ruth a derogatory name again I’ll cut out your lying tongue.” Michael spoke matter-of-factly, still without anger.

  “Hold yer prate, you! And don’t be foulin’ the air ’round here with none of yer Cat’lic idol talk.” The youth who seemed to have had second thoughts about it all slackened his hold on Michael, and Michael, alert for an opening, almost escaped their clutches. Nate saw the hesitation in his cohort and roared at him, “Loosen yer grip on him again and you’ll answer to me! And you wouldn’t want that, now, would you?” The youth appeared to be suddenly afraid and gripped Michael’s arm all the harder. Michael stopped fighting his captors.

  “Let him go, Nate Osmond! Tell them to let him go!”

  Ruth was screaming and crying, pleading with Nate, her arms around Michael, trying to pull him free, her face next to his. The boys holding Michael strained and cursed. Nate drew his left hand up over his right shoulder. Michael, knowing what was coming, turned his head aside. And Nate backhanded Ruth across her left cheek.

  She screamed once in shock and pain before collapsing against Michael’s body and sliding unconscious to the ground at his feet. For an instant Michael didn’t fathom that Nate had hit Ruth instead of him. He burst into a rage for the first time as he looked at the blood streaming down Ruth’s face.

  The reluctant youth had finally had enough. “You said we was just goan to scare the Cat’lic a bit. My God, you’ve struck Ruth! And she’s bleeding somet’in’ fierce. You’ve lost yer bloody mind, you ’ave.”

  “Hold on to ’un. ’Tis his turn now, and not wit’ the back of me hand, either.”

  Nate curled his hand into a fist. But the youth let go of Michael’s right hand and stepped away. And Michael slammed his fist into the mouth of the other youth, who was still clinging to his left arm. Blood gushed from the boy’s lips. He released Michael and whined something incoherent between crushed, bloody teeth. Michael dropped to his knees beside Ruth, who didn’t appear to be breathing, crying her name and pleading a prayer.

  “O Blessed Mary, mother of mothers, breathe your sweet breath on my heart, Ruth, the faithful one.”

  He placed his face close to hers and felt her breath, slight as a bird’s, and knew she had fainted from Nate’s attack. His knuckles had opened a cruel gash in her cheek. Michael was mad now.

  “You Judas bastard! I’ll lay you out!” he roared, his voice ringing throug
h the woods. Michael was rising to his feet when Nate kicked his head. Michael twisted completely around, and he fell upon Ruth’s still body.

  “Hey! Wot goes on here?” said a voice behind them. A man rounded a bend in the trail and was suddenly in their midst.

  Nate saw him first and quickly cried to him, “I caught the goddamn Cat’lic in the bushes on top of Ruth tryin’ to have his way with her!” And when Ruth’s father came near enough to see his daughter’s bleeding face lying beneath Michael’s, he gave him a kick of his own.

  The Catholic squirmed with misery on his bunk in Gallipoli, hating this part of the memory. The sounds of war thudded and boomed above him. There was war between his community and Ruth’s after the incident in the woods with Nate. No guns were fired, and no one died. Wounds were inflicted, though, deep, indelible wounds that a lifetime would not heal.

  When Michael regained consciousness he was lying flat on the ground. He had not been out long, but long enough for Ruth’s father to have his daughter back on her feet and cradled and crying in his arms. Michael felt a lump the size of a saddleback’s egg behind his ear, and there was an agony of hurt in his side. He was sure one of his ribs was broken and was puzzled as to why. Nauseated and groggy, he struggled to his feet.

  Ruth tried to get out of her father’s arms and cried, “Oh my God, Michael! What happened?” Her father held her close, preventing her from going to her lover. Blood stained her cheek, but the bleeding had stopped.

  Michael staggered toward Ruth. “Ruth, my heart, are you all right?”

  “Michael, what have they done to you?”

  “We’ve done to ’un what he deserves, chil’, after what he has done.” Her father’s voice was trembling with anger. “And there will be more done to ’un afore ’tis over. ’Tis the dungeon in St. Johns fer ’un when the law is notified.”

  “What are you talking about, Pop? The law? Done? What has he done?”

  Nate, who was standing nearby and nervously listening, saw an opportunity. “Tricked and beguiled her, he has, sir, wit’ his fancy Cat’lic words and such.” Nate was getting excited now. “Saw ’un on top of her, we did. And she with a great gash upon her pretty cheek from the blow that put her down. Isn’t that right, b’ys?” He turned to his two buddies, one of whom was still grinning, the other looking as if he wished he were somewhere else.

  “’Tis as Nate says,” he said, his voice quiet, his head down.

  Said he who was still grinning, “We come upon ’em be the trail, and she was out like a light on the ground, her face bleedin’, and the Cat’lic was upon her. Trying to ’ave his way wit’ her, he was, till Nate knocked the daylights out of ’un.”

  “You’re a pack of bloody liars. Layabouts, the lot of ye. It was Nate who struck Ruth, not me.”

  “Me? Now why would I be strikin’ Ruth?”

  “Because you’re jealous to see her with me,” said Michael, and instantly he saw his mistake.

  Ruth’s father was furious. “With you? You’ve been courtin’ that Catholic, Ruth?”

  “I . . . we was going to tell you, Pop. I didn’t want you to hear about it this way, but now you know. Yes, I have been seeing Michael. But we have done nothing wrong. And Michael is telling the truth. It was Nate who struck me down. Jealous, he is. Forever trying to walk out with me. You are nothing but a liar and a bully, and I hate you!” Ruth’s last words were spat at Nate.

  “She’s lyin’, sir! ’Twas the Catholic who struck her. Would have violated her proper if we hadn’t come along when we did. Isn’t that so, b’ys?”

  The quiet one nodded his assent. The other one assured Ruth’s father that it had happened just as Nate said. He still had a grin on his face.

  “He is lying, sir. They are all lying. Ruth is right. We have been seeing each other, but nothing more. And I’ll tell you something further, sir. I love your daughter, and if she’ll have me, I intend to marry her.”

  Ruth’s father was perplexed. He wanted to believe his daughter, and he had no special liking for Nate, who was well-known as a bully. But the thought of seeing Michael on top of his daughter clouded his judgment, and now Michael had said the wrong word—marry.

  “Marry ’er! My daughter marry a bloody Catholic? Marry against our faith? You must be out of yer damn mind. ’Twill never happen. Tell ’im ’e is mad, Ruth!”

  “If he is mad, than we are mad together. I love Michael with all the veins of my heart, and yes, Michael, I will marry you.” Ruth quickly pulled out of her father’s arms and ran to Michael’s side. Michael, still favouring his sore ribs with one hand, cradled her with his other arm.

  “I’ll disown ’e, daughter! I’ll not allow a Cat’lic to darken me door. I’ll see ’e dead afore that happens.”

  “Why don’t you believe me, Pop? I always thought you loved me.”

  “’Tis nothin’ to do with love, daughter. ’Tis to do with my God.”

  “Your God is the same God I worship, sir,” said Michael. “He is the epitome of love. The blood of Christ is a fountain of peace whether the nave you kneel in be Catholic or Protestant.”

  “I told you ’e talked queer,” Nate burst out. “Blaspheming, ’e is. Got Ruth mesmerized, like I said. Tried to rape ’er. Struck her down, too, ’e did. The law will deal with ’un.” Not understanding Michael’s Christian logic, Nate still wanted to pursue his accusations.

  “He did not try to rape me! And it was you who struck me down, Nate Osmond, and not Michael,” Ruth yelled. She noticed Michael holding his rib cage. “Someone kicked him in the ribs, too.” Her eyes were still flaring at Nate.

  “It was me who kicked ’un in the ribs,” Ruth’s father said quietly.

  “You, Pop? Kicked a man who was already down?”

  “I seen the Cat’lic on top of you, your face bleedin’, Nate yellin’ rape. Me anger got the better of me.”

  “His name is Michael, Pop, not the Catholic.”

  Michael shook his head. “Your blow hurts me the most, sir. Your eyes were deceived by a planned attack upon me. I am innocent of any abuse toward your daughter.”

  “The law will get to the bottom of this,” said Nate, leering.

  “Aye. Indeed they will,” Michael replied. “I dare say the magistrate, if ye can get him to come, will take a dim view of a false charge with the supposed victim herself denying all of it. You may very well find yourself charged with beating a woman.” He glared at Nate before continuing. “Under British law you all can be charged with perjury, the lot of ye, for knowingly laying false charges against an innocent. Never mind kicking a man already unconscious. It is you who may end up in St. Johns Keep and not me.”

  Michael stared long and hard at his accusers. Upon hearing this, the reluctant youth fled down the trail. And the other one, the grin finally gone from his face, ran after him. Nate cursed and yelled for them to come back, but to no avail. Ruth’s father, looking contrite, bowed his head. Nate had lost all support for his accusations, but he tried once more to save face.

  “Send fer the law on the next schooner, sir. I’ll back ’e up. And so will the b’ys after I haves a word with ’em.” He was on shaky ground now, and he knew it.

  Michael pointed to both men. “You’ve got it wrong Nate. You are making it sound as though Ruth’s father is the accuser and you the witness to a non-existent crime, when in fact the opposite is true. And I gather the other two will need some persuading—or bullying—to corroborate your lies.”

  “Why, you . . .” Nate exploded, stepping toward Michael, his fist raised.

  He was interrupted by Ruth’s father. “Hold yer ground an’ yer tongue, Nate! There will be no more fightin’. Can’t quite get me ’ead around what really ’appened ’ere, but I believe me daughter now. Never knew ’er to ever tell a lie. The trut’ will out one day. It always does.”

  “But she and ’e—”

 
“Hold yer prate, b’y! Afore I change me mind and send fer the law to come. Not fer the Cat’lic, but fer you!”

  And Nate, seeing further argument was futile, stormed down the trail. He savagely kicked at stones on his way and tore loose handfuls of alder leaves from their overhanging branches edging the trail, which he crushed in his hands before flinging them over his shoulder in disgust.

  “I’ll be waitin’ fer you at ’ome, daughter,” was all that Ruth’s father said. He walked away without looking back.

  “Can I still walk you home, Ruth? Everyone will know about us now.” Michael was staring after her father.

  “Only as far as the stile, Michael.”

  The Catholic was startled out of his trance of memories when the young officer in the dugout called his name. Two more officers had gathered around the table. Michael sprang to his feet, approached the table, saluted, and said Sir loudly as he awaited his orders. Inside the dugout, it was always night. Day or night, outside the dugout the brutal struggle for Suvla Bay and the Dardanelles raged on.

  10

  The Culler

  The man with the red hair whom everyone called Redjack hadn’t always been a fish culler. He didn’t mind his red hair at all. His name was really John, but he was called Jack. It was a common practice in Newfoundland. He came from a generation of hard-working fishermen and followed in the footsteps of his ancestors. He was a man never satisfied with his lot, and unlike the fishermen around him, he was forever seeking an easier, better way to earn a living. He lived in a small, isolated outport on Newfoundland’s coastal mainland, population less than one hundred souls, women and children included.

  The nearest place was more than twenty miles away through dense forest, bog-land, and barren, through and over which there was no road. They were as isolated as if they lived on an island. But they were within rowing distance of rich fishing grounds where shoals of codfish gathered in seasons of plenty. It was the only reason the Place existed. But no matter the season’s voyage of fish caught, little or no money changed hands between fisherman and merchant. Jack loved the feel of money in his pocket, and to get it, every fall after the fishing was done, he went logging for cash.