The Diviners (49 page)

The Canada geese were flying south.

Memorybank Movie: Beulah Land

“Aren’t you even going to read the reviews?” Ella asks.

Walton and Pierce have forwarded a sheaf of the clippings on
Jonah
. Morag has glanced through them and laid them aside. They appear, on the whole, to be favourable. So what?

“I guess so, Ella. Later. I can’t work up any enthusiasm.”

“Well, what about the book club sale? Can’t you work up a trace of enthusiasm over that?”

“Yeh.”

But she can’t. Milward Crispin, faithful agent, has phoned from New York.
Jonah
has been taken by a book club,
Spear of Innocence
and
Prospero’s Child
are coming out in paperback, and a film option has been taken on
Spear
. Probably nothing will come of the latter, Crisp says, but at least there’s the option money. Things are looking up. Morag, meanwhile, appears to be looking down. She and Pique have been staying with Ella and Mort in Toronto for one month now, ever since Christie’s death. Ella has infant twins and is run off her feet. She keeps telling Morag what a lot of help it is to have her here, as Morag washes diapers or dishes, or holds one yelling ravenous kid while Ella feeds the other. In fact, Ella needs Morag here like she needs an attack of flu at the moment.
Two extra people underfoot, and Morag with all the verve of a collapsed balloon.

“Ella, I’ve got to get up off my ass and decide what to do. My God, it’s been good of you to have us here, but–”

“Now, will you kindly shut up, please?” Ella says. “So who’s complaining? Wait until Mort and I start glaring at you before you begin the guilt bit, eh?”

“Yeh. Okay. Sorry.”

That’s a christly bloody useless word, Sorry. C. Logan. Christie, tell the garbage–throw those decayed bones like dice or like sorcerer’s symbols. You really could see, though. What about me? Do I only pretend to see, in writing? What did I ever see about you, Christie, until it was too late? I told my child tales about you, but never took her to see you. I made a legend out of you, while the living you was there alone in that mouldering house.

Morag goes through the days like a zombie or a sleepwalker. In fact, sleeping is all she really wants to do. She finds she can sleep far too easily, even in the days. Insomnia would be almost welcome, to prove she is alive. She wakens each morning with the thought of her own death. When she rises, she coughs until she retches. Mort expresses concern, telling her to stop smoking and offering to let her have a prescription for a mild tranquilizer. She promises (hypocritically) to cut down on cigarettes, but refuses the pills, considering herself a perfect subject for instant addiction. Soon it will be time for Pique to go back to school. Where? Morag’s mind refused to grapple with the problem. The Black Celt evidently has her by the throat and has no intention of letting go. Morag Dhu.

The city depresses Morag further. She refuses to go downtown, certain she will find herself walking past the apartment block where she once lived with Brooke, or that she will meet Brooke on the street, even though he is probably not
here any more. Only once does she go downtown. She walks past the roominghouse on Jarvis Street where Jules used to live. What has she expected? That she could conjure him up?

Save me O God, for the waters are come in unto my soul. Psalm 69.

It is, however, not God who finally provides a solution of sorts, but the Goldenrod Realty Company. Or perhaps fate really does travel in strange disguises.

Late morning, and the twins are momentarily sleeping. Morag and Ella are having coffee. Pique is drawing with coloured chalks on large sheets of paper. Morag is glancing at the Classified section of the newspaper.

The Goldenrod Realty Co.

For Sale–Near McConnell’s Landing; 80-acre farm, river frontage, good well, four-bedroom log house structurally very sound, needs some interior decoration, half-basement, nearly new furnace, forced sale–Don’t Miss This Rock-Bottom Offer For Relaxed Country Living! Phone Steve Harchuk–

This ad strikes Morag like the spirit of God between the eyes. “Ella–I’ve decided what to do. I’m going to buy this farm, here, if I can afford it.”

“You’re
what
? Morag, you’re out of your head.”

“Let’s see, Mum,” Pique cries, leaping up. “Is it a real farm? Can I have a dog?”

“Listen, Morag,” Ella goes on, “you should excuse my shrieks of caution, but wouldn’t you be pretty isolated? Are you really going to learn to drive? And anyway, isn’t one supposed to–well–kind of shop around, some, before buying a
house, much less a farm? Let’s have a look–needs some interior decoration. That means it’s a mess inside. Oh heavens, Morag, I’m sorry. I have no right to discourage you. But–”

“It will be all right,” Morag says calmly. “You will see.”

On the way out to McConnell’s Landing, Morag stares out the bus window, experiencing profound qualms. What if the place is already sold? What if it really is a mess? What could she possibly do with eighty acres?

When she returns to Toronto that evening, she has made an offer to purchase and has left a cheque as deposit and proof of her earnest intentions.

Land. A river. Log house nearly a century old, built by great pioneering couple, Simon and Sarah Cooper. History. Ancestors.

Innerfilm

Outside, the blizzard rages and the snow piles up against the house and along the window frames. It is Forty Below. (Forty Below is the magic winter temperature figure. Only to prairie people? It means something more than temperature–it denotes amazing endurance and people say it with pride, almost reverence. They never say Forty Below Zero. Does it go that far down in southern Ontario?) Inside the little house, all is warmth, all is cheer. Morag, having put in an excellent day’s work on the nearly completed novel (which will in time prove to be her best thus far) is reading in her comfortable chair near the black woodstove which is crackling a merry tune (safely; new stovepipes). Pique is contentedly working on a piece of embroidery (who?
Pique?
). Well, then, Pique is contentedly–hm hm–making a miniature log house, the very model of this one, for a History project at school, this house being of such historical interest. In the half-basement, the nearly new furnace
is chonking away–a charmer, this furnace, no problems, ever. Morag is filled with a sense of well-being. The shed contains enough split wood for the winter. The basement contains shelves and shelves of bottled preserved plums, applesauce, pears, blueberries, chili sauce, crabapple jelly, and so on, the work of Morag’s hands, the produce of her garden. All is well. The bank balance is healthy. The friendly neighbourhood farmer is a bachelor (widower? yes). Although by no means an intellectual, he is a well-read man. Also handsome. And and

Memorybank Movie: McConnell’s Landing

Morag and Pique move in at the beginning of October. Despite Morag’s many forays for secondhand furniture, the house looks bare. The old linoleum is cracking, and the nearly new furnace turns out to have been nearly new twenty-odd years ago, and now exhibits odd traits of temperament, making Morag fear it will explode or else simply fail to operate. The bathroom has been installed upstairs, replacing one of the bedrooms, but the hot water heater has not yet been put in. Baths are icy. The walls many years ago were papered with hideous floral wallpapers, pink peonies and drooping lily-of-the-valley in what look to be funeral wreaths. The paper is shredding brownly off most of the walls. In the bedroom closets are piles of ancient newspapers and decaying articles of clothing thoughtfully left by the previous tenants. The half-basement is reachable only by a trapdoor and a hazardous ladder. Why did she not notice these things when she first saw the place?

The old grey pine barn, so beautiful from a distance, is now seen to be falling down. It also contains bats.

Four windows are cracked and have been patched with adhesive tape. The electric pump for the well gets frequent airlocks or otherwise loses its prime, making helpless asthmatic
noises. Morag makes calmly hysterical phone calls to the plumber.

The meadow from the house to the river contains grass about three feet high. A power mower will be necessary in the spring. Who will work it? Morag?

Pique is scared at nights. So is Morag, although she doesn’t let on. Pique announces that if a bat gets in her bedroom, she will die. Morag yells at her not to be so stupid; bats are harmless. Then feels self-reproachful, as she herself also feels that if a bat gets in anywhere, she too will die.

“Are there coyotes in those woods, Mum?” Pique asks.

“
We
say
kiy
-oot,” Morag says, with ludicrous pride and snappishness. “Only John Wayne says coy-
oh
-tee. And no, there are none in our woods.”

Are there?

A colony of mice is discovered in the small cupboard under the stairs. Pique, perversely, takes to these creatures and accuses Morag of murder when the colony, with great difficulty and squeamishness on Morag’s part, is destroyed.

Winter will soon be upon the land. Pique and Morag will obviously freeze in this broken-down old wreck of a place. No wonder it was so relatively cheap.

What have I done?

“C’mon, honey, let’s go and have a look at the river before it’s dark.”

They walk through the long grass. Pique, suddenly happy, begins to run, sweeping at the grasses with her outstretched arms. Across the river, the maples are trees of flame. The river carries on its ripples the last of the daylight.

“Hey, Pique, you know what? It’s going to be all right here.”

“Sure it is,” Pique says. “Who doesn’t know that?”

Oh. Pardon me. I thought you didn’t.

They look up to see an old man approaching. He has an exceedingly tidy grey beard. He is wearing crumpled brown corduroys and a blue plaid windbreaker.

“My name’s Royland,” he says. “From the place next door, downriver a little way. Didn’t come over sooner because I thought you’d likely want to settle in a bit first. Then I started wondering if maybe you needed a hand with anything.”

“Well, thanks. I’m–”

“I know your name, Morag Gunn. Stevie Harchuk told me.”

“This is my daughter, Pique.”

“Hi,” Royland says. “I’m divining a well tomorrow, Pique. That’s my job, finding wells. Want to come along, as it’s Saturday?”

“Gee. Well, sure. What’s it mean, divining?”

“You’ll see.”

A hoarse eerie sound from overhead, and they look. Very far up, the flock is flying in its V-formation, the few leaders out in front. Again the flock sounds its deep long-drawn-out resonant raucous cry that no words can ever catch but which no one who ever hears it will ever forget.

The Canada geese are flying south.

Memorybank Movie: Shadow of Eden

Three years, and the novel is finished, the last few final revisions completed one moment ago. It has been accepted, although no doubt it will be a full year until it is published. Three years of trying to get inside the thing quickly in the mornings after Pique has left for school, and of trying to get outside in the afternoons before Pique arrives home. Morag feels a massive relief at having it done, and at the same time the
emptiness that always follows the ending of a book. She packages the sheaf of paper, ready to return to the publishers, paces a little, considers phoning Ella, and decides that a letter will be cheaper. Finances are getting low. Pray God they hurry with the advance on royalties.

Dear Ella–

Just now finished the final touches on
Shadow of Eden
. I haven’t wanted to talk about it until now, but now I do. Maybe you and Mort could come up for a weekend? Bring the kids–Pique thinks they’re great, and would prevent their falling in the river. Let me know, eh? Any time.

Odd–the tales Christie used to tell of Piper Gunn and the Sutherlanders, and now this book deals with the same period. The novel follows them on the sea journey to Hudson Bay, through that winter at Churchill and then on the long walk to York Factory in the spring. Christie always said they walked about a thousand miles–it was about a hundred and fifty, in fact, but you know, he was right; it must’ve felt like a thousand. The man who led them on that march, and on the trip by water to Red River, was young Archie Macdonald, but in my mind the piper who played them on will always be that giant of a man, Piper Gunn, who probably never lived in so-called real life but who lives forever. Christie knew things about inner truths that I am only just beginning to understand.

I kept thinking about the tales Jules once told me, a long long time ago, about Rider Tonnerre. Which brings to mind a curious thing–something that must’ve come from Old Jules. Rider was called Prince of the Braves, Skinner said, and his rifle was named La Petite. In factuality (if that isn’t a word, it should be), those names pertained to Gabriel Dumont, Riel’s lieutenant in Saskatchewan, much later on. That’s okay–Skinner’s
grandad had a right to borrow them. I like the thought of history and fiction interweaving. The tale of how Rider got his horse, Roi du Lac, I’ve recently discovered, comes from a Cree legend–probably Old Jules didn’t know that. You wonder how long that story had been passed on.

Enough of this. I feel I’ve neglected Pique, to some extent, recently, trying to get this thing finished. And I mustn’t. Especially right now, because she’s feeling badly. My God, I meant to tell you this first, and didn’t, and now feel heartless even though I’m just as upset as Pique, or thought I was. Our beloved Flame (the Irish setter we got shortly after you and Mort were up here last, about a year ago) was run over last week. Royland, good neighbour that he is, buried the dog. I don’t think I could have. Pique won’t even consider another dog, and I guess I don’t really want one, either. Pique’s first real encounter with death, because Flame
was
a member of the family. Christie’s death didn’t really affect her, because she’d known him only through stories, and in that way, he’s never died in her mind.