Finton Moon
GERARD COLLINS
St. John's, Newfoundland and Labrador
2012
© 2012, Gerard Collins
We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF), and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador through the Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing program.
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Cover Design by Todd Manning
Layout by Joanne Snook-Hann
Printed on acid-free paper
Published by
KILLICK PRESS
an imprint of CREATIVE BOOK PUBLISHING
a Transcontinental Inc. associated company
P.O. Box 8660, Stn. A
St. John's, Newfoundland and Labrador A1B 3T7
Printed in Canada by:
TRANSCONTINENTAL INC.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Collins, Gerard, 1963-
      Finton Moon / Gerard Collins.
ISBN 978-1-897174-90-6
      I. Title.
PS8605.O465F55 2012Â Â Â Â Â Â Â C813'.6Â Â Â Â Â Â Â C2012-901096-0
For Norma,
Healer, Inspiration, and Goddess of Weekends
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
Sylvia Plath
It is believed by experienced doctors that the heat which oozes out of the hand, on being applied to the sick, is highly salutary. It has often appeared, while I have been soothing my patients, as if there was a singular property in my hands to pull and draw away from the affected parts aches and diverse impurities, by laying my hand upon the place, and extending my fingers toward it. Thus it is known to some of the learned that health may be implanted in the sick by certain gestures, and by contact, as some diseases may be communicated from one to another.
Hippocrates
That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Contents
The savvy reader understands that this is a work of fiction and, as such, the people and places represented in this novel are products of my imagination. Darwin isn't a place I've lived, but it has characteristics, foibles, and a certain
je ne sais quoi
that are common to all small towns.
Likewise, Finton Moon`s family is not my family, but, rather, like all families has its share of good fortune and misery, arseholeishness and kindness. A family of any other kind, as Frank McCourt writes, is “not worth your while” in literature.
And, while I'm at it, the school represented is not a school I've ever attended, the teachers not like any I've ever had, and the clergy far removed from any I've known personally.
However, the burgeoning disillusionment with certain institutions, the endless search for answers in a confusing world, and the unmitigated sense of wonder and love of life are all mine. Those, I own and did not make up.
GC
A few days after his eighth birthday, Finton Moon scaled the large, burly spruce at the edge of his parents' property and nestled into the sturdiest branch. High above the earth, as the morning sun arose, he felt safe from the clamour and concerns of daily life and the need to adapt to his ill-fitted surroundings. The branch yielded to his body and bent to the wind as the climber surrendered to the comforting bough.
In the distance, his mother yelled: “Finton Moon, where the hell are ya?” Her shrill voice stung his ears. “Get your arse home!” she called. “It's time for mass!”
He closed his eyes and went invisible, became but a breath upon the wind. Now and then, he opened one eye and watched various family members scouring the propertyâhis mother usually enlisted one of his brothers, either Clancy or Homer, to find him. At last, he lay back and smiled, drew a deep, calming breath and shut his eyes. The tree spoke to him in creaks and groans, telling the tale of supple saplings in another time.
“Finton!” Elsie Moon shouted from fifty yards away, coming closer to his tree. His eyes came open in a state of alarm, and his body jerked upright, the involuntary maneuver causing him to slip. As he grasped for something firm to ease his fall, a painful explosion seared his left elbow. The ground was hard and unforgiving. At the base of the tree he sat, dazed and relieved, gripping his arm and hoping it wasn't broken.
He whimpered only once, then swallowed the pain. The last thing he wanted was for them to discover his place. There were other trees, sure, but not like this one. So he sat, with eyes closed, rubbed his arm and whispered a prayer. As the world went dark, he grew lighter of mind and body, and he drifted skywardâfar above the burly spruce, beyond the clouds, and into another dimension.
He reached a great height, far above the earth, then slowly descended towards a lush, grassy surface and, from every direction, a celestial object mesmerized him. High above, shooting stars. Across the horizon, a blazing comet. Suspended in the air and all around him, dazzling orbs of every hue. Far below and gently approaching was his Planet of Solitudeâa prominent, white apple tree kept him transfixed with its soft, green leaves and fruit-bearing branches bent low. When he'd finally landed, he found a spot beneath the tree and leaned back to gaze in wonder at the indigo sky. He'd been there before, in dreams and visions. But never before had he felt so alone. Never had it looked so stunningly real. As he scanned the vast plane, a prayer came to mind.
When he awoke, he was bent over near the spruce at the edge of his parents' property, holding his arm. But the pain had subsided and, upon examination of his elbow, the only sign of injury was a small, dark bruise.
“There you are,” his mother said as she stepped through the high grass and crossed the boundary between meadow and woods. She was wearing her Sunday clothes, including the white, silk scarf he'd given her last Christmas. “Where did you go?”
“I've been here all along,” Finton said. “I didn't hear you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Just bruised.”
“Well,” she said skeptically, “it's time to go to mass.”
He nodded and patted the tree trunk, then followed his mother home.
1960 (Darwin, Newfoundland)
