The Deserter (22 page)

The sun climbed above and then passed its zenith. Thomas spoke to the Chief: perhaps he should go and see how they were doing? But the Chief gave him to understand he would not be welcome at the sacred birthing place. He must wait here, as was their custom.

He went for a walk, then returned quickly in case they were coming back. The sun began to drop, and finally settled low over the western trees. Thomas started turning in circles. He felt he was going crazy. Why wouldn’t they let him see her? “Why is it taking so long? Why?” he kept asking everyone and no one.

He walked aimlessly among the wigwams. The tension building in his head was almost unbearable. “Something’s wrong,” he said to himself. “I know it, something’s wrong.”

At one point as the dusk began to settle, he thought he could hear Little Birch calling him. He heard her, he knew he did, and he grabbed One Arm. “I must go.” But the Chief shook his head. “Every father like this. You no different,” he said in surprising English. So he had been picking up words, thought Thomas, diverted for a moment. But he soon gave himself to his worries again. Why was it taking so long?

Then suddenly he sensed a commotion. He put down the pipe they had given him to calm him. Two women were coming down the trail. He heard the distinct crying of a baby. His! Yes, his baby! He ran up to them and looked down at the bundle they carried. His child!

He chucked it under the chin, bent and kissed it. It looked perfect. So why were they all so solemn?

“All right? Baby all right?” he repeated in Micmac. Full Moon nodded, tears in her eyes. “Baby good. Healthy boy. Very good.” The others nodded. “Baby good.”

Then Full Moon gave the boy to the midwife, and turned to go to her wigwam, crying.

“But...” Thomas looked around. The midwife turned to the group that had gathered. She spoke to two young men who set off at a run.

“Where is Little Birch? Is she all right?” No one would respond.

Before long the two men marched back. In their arms they carried the lifeless body of Little Birch.

Thomas stood like a statue, turned to cold stone. They brought her near. He stared down and then reached out and touched her pallid cheek. Her body was cold. His beloved Little Birch was gone.

***

Thomas lay as one dead in the wigwam of Full Moon. His brain teemed with nightmarish thoughts. Little Birch crying and naval floggings and Chiefs who lay dying, and moose killings and cougar attacks and all sorts of dread images. Then, he would be enveloped in a uniform greyness where no thoughts arose, no hope flowered. A dull grey throbbing pain suffused his brain and his whole body.

From time to time Full Moon would shake him and offer food. He would turn away; how could he face life? He didn’t want his cabin, he didn’t want his brook, he didn’t want the New World. He just wanted to die.

Why had the Good Lord done this? What had He intended by this awful death of Little Birch? Thomas had heard from Tongue that she had not felt any pain. The bleeding, it just had not stopped, no matter what any of them did. She had drifted off, calling his name. Yes, he had heard that in the depths of his being.

He only vaguely remembered the ceremony as Little Birch was laid to rest. Through his tears, he had seen her mother place the implements she would need for her journey to the stars. He did remember going back into their tent and retrieving the saucepan which he had given her, and placing it on her bier. But as they walked away from the burial place, his heart was so torn in pieces that he felt he could not ever again bear such pain. It was worse indeed than when she had cauterized him. Worse than he could ever imagine. And again, he just wanted to die.

Once he awoke to find the gruel just beyond his nose on the bearhide mat. But he couldn’t eat. Stomach and mind were both empty, and no nourishment for either could he ingest. Occasionally he gave himself up to a low moaning. No future, no reason to live, he wanted to end it all and join his wife among the stars. But these thoughts would evaporate too, and dull, grey gloom would envelope him again in its awful embrace.

He vaguely saw from time to time One Arm come in and go out. Even Tongue himself peered in under the lifted flap of the low entrance.

Time meant nothing, daylight flooded the wigwam and faded again as night and the sounds of night covered everything. How he longed to die! And be finished with all this struggle. He repeated over and over that the one purpose of his whole life had been Little Birch, and now that she was gone, he could see no reason to survive. He found himself in a dark and immense cavern, where shadows were thrown on the walls as if on canvas sails, and these shadows moved, insubstantial, as though part of the wall of sail and yet each retaining its individuality — did that come from the shapes? Or from some curious blossoming of their souls?

As he was moving forward, he was stopped by a wide river, entirely black, as though running with ink. He let the water lap at his feet. Should he step forward into it? Should he try to swim across? Hearing a shout, he turned.

The
Buowin!

They hailed each other in Micmac fashion. The
Buowin
waved for him to come back.

Thomas felt he did not want to leave the verge of this lake, or was it a river?

The
Buowin
came forward and stood beside him. They remained in silence, and then the
Buowin
took one of his hands. “I will show you wonders,” he said, speaking oddly in faultless English in this visionary story. His voice was firm, but his grip even firmer.

He turned and, pulling Thomas, led him back over what seemed a rocky surface, but slippery, covered in slime. He managed to keep his footing, and after a long travail, they came upon a layered mountain. Ahead of him, the
Buowin
began to climb.

Thomas watched him, and then for some reason followed. Each layer was populated by figures in many different modes of costume.

Thomas found that the higher they climbed, the easier it got.

They arrived at a wall of burning flames.

The
Buowin
said, “We must walk through this.”

“I cannot. I cannot ever.”

“Hold my hand.”

“No, we shall never make it.” Thomas felt the heat. Any attempt to make a passage through would be doomed.

The
Buowin
tugged at him, as they faced the wall of flames. “You must have faith...” said the
Buowin
in tones oddly used by his clergyman at the castle, “
and I will bring you though the fire
,” quoting the Good Book.

In the centre of the flames, eyes shut tight against the heat, he felt a need to take in what was happening, and he opened them. All around in a purple glow, green streamers danced such as they had done that night he and Little Birch had seen the northen lights.

From out of the heart of the dancing colours, he heard, “I am here.” The voice of Little Birch! “I will always be here for you in the dancing lights.”

From the depths of his being he heaved a great sigh, as she echoed again: “I will always be here in the dancing lights.”

He turned to the
Buowin
who had disappeared. “Where are you?” he called aloud. He felt a hand on his chest, and a voice answered: “We are here.”

He lay back on the hides of the wigwam, and opened his eyes. The
Buowin
squatted next to him. Little by little, he began a Micmac chant. Oddly comforting. After a while, Thomas heard the shake of a rattle. Thomas found himself rocking to the gentle rhythm. The thrumming of some stringed instrument set up another rhythm. Was Tongue himself working that? Then Thomas smelt a sweet fragrance. He opened his eyes again. Herbs had been dropped into the coals, fanned alive by Tongue. Full Moon and One Arm had brought his baby near, with Brightstar; but inside, Thomas was alone with these two Elders.

After a time, Tongue began to translate the
Buowin,
“Thomas, the time has come for
Bilodua,
the Evil One, to leave you. Look. See. You can feel
Bilodua
is going.
Creator
is coming to help you. He will dissolve the darkness, Thomas. He will lift you up.”

In the silence backed by the low humming of the
Buowin
, Thomas did indeed feel the blackness begin to dissolve.

“Thomas,” went on the
Buowin
in Micmac, “you have a son, you must name him, you must give him the right name, you must give him life, you are his father, you must live and be strong to take care of him.”

The words struck a loud chord in his soul. Why had he not been focussed on his son, that miraculous gift? How tight had been the embrace of that evil spirit.

“Thomas,” Tongue went on, “your son is calling. Little Birch is speaking. She is begging you. Listen...” After a silence, Tongue continued to translate the crooning of the
Buowin
, in tones Thomas associated with Little Birch. “Please, Thomas, get up, take our son, love him, care for him. He needs you, you are all he has. Little Birch says, care for our son, our child we have made together.”

Thomas felt himself respond, as though from a long distance away.

“Thomas, Thomas, live strong, be of good courage, lead our son. Make him strong and good as you are, Thomas,” Tongue went on. “That is what Little Birch is saying.”

The words entered Thomas and he could not help but feel their truth. He saw their light, he heard Little Birch in the windy trees and in the shaking leaves, in the words of courage, in the phrases of hope. He knew that Little Birch, with all her strength, would want him to do just that, just what she was begging through her medium of the
Buowin
. He sat up slowly.

Tongue watched him with his big serious eyes. The
Buowin
lifted his weathered hand and placed different herbs on the coals. The wisps flickered with an eerie green light. The smell began to intoxicate Thomas.

“Yes, Tongue,” he said, “thank you. I will take the challenge, I will love my son.”

He lifted his eyes to the heavens and said, “Thank you, Little Birch. I swear on the body of my son, I shall do as you wish. I shall be everything you ask.”

And with that, he came out of the wigwam and took his baby in his arms, and stood looking around, as if he had been born again.

My great grandfather fought in 1805 under Admiral Nelson in the Battle of Trafalgar. When his man o’war, the
Bellerophon,
came to the New World, he jumped ship and built his new home in the Gaspé. His youngest son, my grandfather James, was born in 1835, and my father, Eric, also a youngest son, was born in 1893.

To commemorate these three ancestors, I write this series of largely fictional accounts of a family that helped found a real English community on the shores of the Gaspé Coast, and lived and farmed there for two centuries.

I could not have written this book without the encouragement and support of my wife, Joan, and the help of many friends and relatives. The input from them and those whom I name below, kept me on track; but, of course, any mistakes are my own.

Roger Pelletier, director of the Micmac Interpretation Centre near Gaspé Town, read my manuscript with great care and made very many helpful suggestions. At his museum I learned much of the Micmac ways of living and hunting, seeing actual wigwams, snares, and even deadfall bear traps. On one tour, I absorbed additional lore from a young interpreter, Peter Shaw, who still goes moose hunting every autumn with his Micmac grandfather. As Roger pointed out, my Port Daniel band is slightly less Europeanized than were many Micmac in the early 1800s, but we both preferred to show how they lived not so long before. I was very sad to hear that he took his life shortly afterwards.

Danielle E. Cyr, professor of linguistics at York University, lives in the Gaspé during the summers and produced, with Manny Metallic, the Micmac dictionary. She helped me with the native dialogue and other larger concepts. Finally, she read the completed manuscript and gave valuable suggestions.

Gilbert Sewell, who lives across Chaleur Bay in Pabineau, is one of the very few Micmac Elders who knows and understands the old ways, and indeed lives by them. He took Joan and me into his woods and shared many of his secrets. By observing him, we both became richer and we thank him.

Raymond Garrett, historian of the Gaspé and the foremost genealogist of the Garret and Almond families, provided me with a wealth of information. With James’s first two children, I have presumed that for propriety’s sake, he and Catherine might have chosen to adjust baby John’s birth date to appear in records as younger than Mariah. But of course, this saga is fiction, relying only on facts to build a good story.

Elton Hayes, my cousin and a former breeder of racehorses, is wise in the ways of the Gaspé. Every week we got together with Gloria, his wife, to eat her dinners and swap ideas, which often found their way into the book. Elton has helped me with (and played in) three of my films.

Cynthia Dow, a distant cousin, was director of operations for the Gesgapegiag Band, one of the three Gaspésian communities on Chaleur Bay. She wrote her McGill University thesis on the Micmac, and gave help.
The Metallic Migmaq-English Reference Dictionary
by Prof. Cyr and Manny Metallic (and Alexandre Sévigny) and the
Talking Micmac Dictionary
, a 6,000+ word Internet resource (
http://www.mikmaqonline.or
g) for the Mi’gmaq/Mi’kmaq language, provided instant and helpful resources.

David Cordingly’s exciting book,
The Billy Ruffian
(Bloomsbury, 2003)gives the complete history of the
Bellerophon.
From it I learned the captains’ names and how the
Bellerophon
made its first trip to North American waters in the spring of 1813, and came back the next year. Cordingly writes such a readable and compelling narrative, replete with battles and twists and turns, that I urge everyone, whether interested in naval history or not, to acquire it.

I have been lucky with readers and editorial advice. First and foremost, Dr. Rex King and Pamela Ranger, both novelists of no little talent, followed the story step by step and gave many helpful suggestions throughout the long process of revision. Diana Roman, M.A. (Oxon), a striking young lawyer (at O’Melveny& Myers) with an intellect to match her looks, read this with an acute eye and wisdom. Nicholas Etheridge, retired diplomat and good friend now living in Victoria, has a splendid eye for the sweep of a book. He attended, and lives next to, St. Michael’s University School where I filmed
Ups &

Downs.
Also the New York playwright Oren Safdie, whom I am fortunate to call a friend (actually, ever since he was a little boy) was a great help as was my sweet cousin, Jennifer Hayes, who moved back to Shigawake after earning an MBA.

For help in Shigawake, I must credit Germaine Fitzgerald, who turned up each day to cheer me up, run errands, and mainly cook good meals. Our snowshoeing together through untamed wilderness “back behind” helped me understand more of how the Micmac walked and lived. Her father, Oswald, a lumberjack for fifty years, allowed me to use his personal recollections for background. For other revisions, I must thank profoundly the brilliant Cambridge-educated novelist and friend, David Stansfield, and Lynda Robinson who helped make the “Reading Guide” and corrected the French. And for those readers who are curious about the “Oh happiness bird,” it’s the white-throated sparrow (also called the “O Canada bird”) heard all along the Gaspé Coast; the moose bird is a jay.

My cousin Ted Wright, the master researcher and fisherman-crab-trap maker, lives all year-round in the home built by my great grandfather and improved by successive Almonds. An absolute wizard of an intellectual, he knows so much about the history of the period, the British Navy, and so many other facts that were eluding me. He talked me through the chapter on oakum, and every morning would provide sage advice and imaginative speculation on what might have happened on this coast two hundred years ago.

I also wish to acknowledge now, rather than later, Doctors Noel Bailey Merz and Selvyn Bleifer, and others too numerous to name, for keeping me alive, and Edie Azaar, my Pilates teacher, and Emily Hinds and other trainers, for keeping me fit.

Here would be the place to thank my good friends Lynda and Harry Boyd, who continue to provide me with sanctuary in Toronto, and have made me feel at home in their Forest Hill home. Harry and I have been friends for six decades, from the time we played on opposing teams during the Oxford and Cambridge hockey game, and afterwards professionally together on Cortina d’Ampezzo’s hockey team. His wildly busy wife, Lynda, associate director of all Advance Placement studies in Canada, still found time to make my visits painless — and full of cheer with her sharp, dark, and surprising sense of humour. Beverly Mitchell and Bernie Leebosh have graciously accepted Joan and me in their Westmount home through these many years since I sold my old mansion atop Mount Royal behind McGill University.

Apart from my wives and partners through the ages, I want to thank ongoing friends: Rick Klein and Mark Rosin, who have given me much friendship and sustenance over the past few decades. And also in Montreal, I want to mention my very dear Nina Safdie, and her partner Roch Carrier who continues to guide my career and inspire me with his prodigious output, no matter what august position he occupies.

The Bank of Montreal, which opened its doors less than a decade after this saga began, has accompanied me for almost eight decades with countless loans and lines of credit — even through those perilous years of film-making — and must also be acknowledged as a constant and reliable financial companion.

A N
OTE ON THE
S
OURCES
: In an old cardboard box in the basement of the New Carlisle Courthouse, I found documents to verify that Thomas Manning served on the
Bellerophon
, and other such details. For my belief that he came ashore in Port Daniel, and his subsequent relations with Micmacs, I have oral traditions dating from the 1930s.

Finally, any success this book might have is due to McArthur & Company, whose leader Kim McArthur I call Miss Whirlwind. She, with Devon Pool, director of publicity, Kendra Martin, head of production, and Ann Ledden, VP of sales, make up the most splendid team any author could wish for.

Shigawake, Gaspé Coast June 2010

***