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  We baited up and threw down the lines, and I sat back to enjoy the rise and fall of the boat, watching the bait and sud lines quickly disappear from sight on the way to the bottom. I prayed again, only this time it wasn’t silly and foolish like before. It was just a brief thought that appeared as I looked out over the never-ending waves while feeling with my line—

  “Put some fish under the forward part of the boat, just a few, please.”

  * * * *

  Well, sir, someone must have been listening, because just about then Sam’s line tautened like a Mongol bowstring and he half-straightened, straining with all his might against a line that seemed to be hooked in the anchor of a Bell Island ferry.

  That meant only one thing, a big fish—a very big fish.

  And big it was. He hauled in a fish that would make Guinness proud. And that wasn’t the only one. I could see the excitement that couldn’t be stilled in the quiet eyes and on the aged demeanour of the windburned face, and I simply felt happy.

  The rest is epilogue, as they say. Sam got twenty-four big fish that morning, prompting me to coin a saying that when you pair up persistence with mackerel for bait, even on a rough morning, you’re bound to succeed. I haven’t seen it on a matchbox cover yet, so I suppose the saying hasn’t caught on.

  I got five, but as every inshore fisherman knows, the fellow in the forward part of the boat always gets more fish, anyway. Besides, I had prayed for the fish to be forward, not aft, and if your prayers get answered the way you want, you really can’t complain.

  Time was getting on, we had exhausted the mackerel, and twenty-nine big fish was as good as you could ask for under the circumstances. It would be a fair bit of work for an older man to split and clear away. Sam looked over the water—I had sensed the wind rising myself—and began to leisurely reel in his line.

  “’Tis time for us to get in out of this now.”

  * * * *

  I wasn’t unhappy with his decision. Sleeping in your own little bed is vastly superior to trying to catch up on sleep in the aft room of a small punt which is attempting calisthenics in an open sea. I rolled up, started the motor, and nudged her into the wind to ease the strain on Sam hauling the anchor.

  It seemed like it was going to be a pleasant trip home and I was getting all ready to put that part of my past behind me, when the wind suddenly came out of nowhere to turn the Ledge into something close to a raging maelstrom. The little punt rocked and plowed like a toy sailboat in a bathtub, and for the first time that morning, the thought struck me that we could actually drown.

  I had to express my fears to Sam in some way.

  “It’s getting a bit rough.”

  In all of that roaring motion with wind and spray drenching the boat, Sam had somehow gotten a cigarette from the package in his pocket into his mouth and was trying to light it with a lighter, using the top flap of his oil pants for a shield. His reply was mildly reprimanding as he blew smoke through the side of his mouth.

  “Me and your stepfather rowed in worse mornings than this.”

  Well, that certainly put drowning in perspective.

  * * * *

  That was one of the last times I fished with Sam. His legs gave out that following spring—he couldn’t climb up and down the wharf—and when I extended my annual invitation the next fall, he declined in the factual way his generation used.

  “I’m gettin’ too old, now, b’y. ’Tis time for a younger man to take over.”

  He lived a good few years after, splitting an occasional fish for me, maintaining good health and keeping in touch, watching me over the fence or through his living room window those nights I had to check the boat off the rocks or tighten her up on the frape if the wind came northeast.

  He died the way he lived, quietly, without fuss, and with his death the old generation was reduced by yet another incredible human being.

  I still maintain my presence on the grounds—well, if you consider Freshwater Cove part of the grounds. I have a somewhat bigger boat now, a yellow one with a heavier motor, and on nice days with lots of boats around, I’ll go way out—sometimes way, way out—because if the waves ripple either bit at all, you can put her on full throttle and be in out of there, sir, before a gull swallows a capelin.

  Mostly, though, I stay around Freshwater Cove, catching the odd small fish, enjoying the gentle rolling of the punt on the water, trying to hear the gurgle of the little brook that gives the cove its name, marvelling at the monstrous bald head of Gallows Cove Point, the striking geological precision of the Straight Cliff, the majestic sweep of Ram’s Horn Bight . . .

  It’s so beautiful in Freshwater Cove—so perfectly safe; no giant eighty-foot squid, no monstrous black-and-white killer whales . . .

  REVENGE OF THE FAIRIES

  Abie Dutton didn’t believe in fairies. In fact, he didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t see with his eyes. He didn’t believe in dinosaurs, either.

  “Just a bunch of big, old sheep bones . . . big, old sheep bones,” he would say, in a really irritated tone—and he didn’t believe in fairies.

  In fact, he scoffed at the whole idea of fairies, and laughed his head off every time somebody else came back talking about being mesmerized in the woods. When Abie heard that Jim Pat O’Donnell had spent the whole night on the other side of the style because the fairies wouldn’t let him climb over, Abie’s snarky comment was that Jim Pat was always “too bloody lazy to lift his feet, anyway.” And when the Muckler lost his splitting knife that time, Abie said something like “G’way, b’y, the Muckler is as forgetful as me old grandmother, anyway . . .” and showed no sympathy for the old man at all.

  No matter how late it was at night, after a card game Abie would never turn his coat inside out, and he never carried bread in his pocket or a bit of change no matter where he went in the woods. When the other men, aware of the presence of the little people, would respectfully step over a fairy path or avoid a fairy circle, Abie would simply barge right through whistling. He would even trample down the fairy caps1 that the wee people used as seats to rest, and not give a care in the world to what he was doing.

  This horrified the men who were with him cutting wood or trouting or setting rabbit snares, and they would say things to him like—“Abie, you’d better watch what you’re doing” or “The fairies aren’t going to put up with that too long, my son . . .” They would shake their heads in consternation and go about what they were doing, knowing that someday Abie was going to get himself into a whole lot of trouble.

  When his mother would plead with him to put a crust of bread in his pocket, anxious for his safety, Abie would thrust his arms out into his sleeves and smack his back pocket with a derisive sneer and stride out, leaving his poor mother in a terrible way.

  He wasn’t even afraid to face Aunt Sarah, who was renowned throughout the Bay for her intimate knowledge of fairies. She had seen them numerous times on her rambles during the nights and had even watched a complete fairy dance one bright moonlit night that previous May.

  “Not as all as fast as the lancers here, my dear,” she said. “More like one of those slow reels they does in Nova Scotia or Cape Breton. They goes up and down more . . .” She had a deep respect for the fairies, just like the respect you’d have for the reverend mother in the parish convent, which explains why they let her watch their dance and were cordial to her whenever she did meet them.

  Abie didn’t have that kind of respect. Once when Aunt Sarah tried to give him advice, he behaved terribly altogether.

  “If you meet a fairy,” his Aunt Sarah said, “take three steps backward and turn around three times with your eyes closed. That’s a mark of respect for them and they will pass you by and leave you alone.”

  This, of course, set off Abie in the gales of laughter, and he turned around four or five times right there in front of his Aunt Sa
rah as a way of flaunting her advice.

  “The fairies will take you, my dear, and you’ll never come back . . .” his Aunt Sarah said sternly, shaking her head. At which Abie walked off snorting with laughter.

  Sister Mary Dismas even took him aside one Sunday morning after Mass (her great-great-grandfather had come straight from Ireland before the famine) and tried her best to warn him of the dire consequences of his unbelief, but to no avail. Abie went on his merry way, saying unkind things about nuns and fairies and Irish great-great-grandfathers who believed such silly stuff.

  Now you may suspect that the fairies didn’t like this one little bit. It upset them terribly that Abie showed absolutely no respect for their paths and their circles, but it incensed them to no end that he trampled on the fairy caps, the only places in fairyland where they could sit after a long night dancing, and some of the older fairies had made loud protestations to Raguna III, the reigning fairy queen.

  They didn’t mind people simply not believing. They had kept up on developments in the modern world and understood that when people in the outports got educated and read books and newspapers and procured televisions and street lights and things that they would stop believing in anything they couldn’t see, like angels and spirits and ghosts and whatever. So they weren’t particularly upset by disbelief. I mean, nobody seemed to be believing in anything anymore. But to be treated with such scorn! Such contempt! As if they had never existed.

  No, they didn’t mind at all that people didn’t “believe.” They were happy enough in their own world rolling Jackie Lanterns across the bogs when it got dark, having their wee dances at all hours of the night, sipping honeyed nectar while lazing on their fairy caps, and, of course, playing the odd trick, like leading somebody astray in the woods for a little bit before they put them on the right path and hiding things for a few minutes and stuff like that. But they never took babies. Queen Raguna herself was clear on that in the first ever fairy interview on radio.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Never babies. It was terrible how they started that story, you know. In County Cork, I believe it was, in my great-great-great-grandmother’s time. They wanted to make us look really bad because they thought we were siding with the authorities in the rebellion, which, horror upon horrors, we weren’t. . . . Oh, no, never babies. . . . We’ll lead the odd big one astray, just to teach him a lesson about minding where he’s going in the woods and such. And we’ll take a splitting knife or axe or whatever for a few minutes to make sure people won’t be forgetful about laying sharp things like that around where there are small children. . . . But heavens no. Never babies . . . never babies . . .”

  And on that point she was very strong.

  But, as I say, to be treated with such contempt and scorn. Such ridicule. To be treated as if they didn’t even exist. That was unbearable.

  So it was widely agreed among the fairies that Abie should be taught a lesson. Since the matter was of such import—punishing a human—only a decision from a full meeting of a council of elders of the whole island could approve such a drastic step, given the ramifications that could ensue if the human world chose to retaliate. So to debate the appropriate course of action, invitations were mailed to seventeen extant fairy circles to send a representative to Goose Marsh Fairy Circle for deliberations—Abie being in their jurisdiction—to be held on the first full moon in August after sunset, weather permitting.2

  The weather was extremely favourable on the appointed night, a great big round moon beaming down the fullness of its light on the open fairy hills on the souther side of the Goose Marsh, so the representatives of all seventeen fairy circles gathered in a supreme circle on designated fairy caps, with Queen Raguna III occupying the place of honour on a large fairy cap to the north of the circle, as befitted her rank as reigning queen and host of the gathering. A battalion of the Queen’s bodyguard, the Royal Elfin Sprites, armed with the new magic wands and looking very smart in newly painted yellow wings and royal purple colours, milled about directing people to their fairy caps and keeping a watchful eye for the appearance of members from the Burin Peninsula circle, in the event that they should crash the meeting.

  She very quickly began proceedings.

  “Honourable members of the Supreme Council. You all know why you are here. We have been living on favourable terms with the humans in Newfoundland ever since we first arrived here from Waterford, and the humans in turn have given reciprocal respect. Whether it’s carrying a crust of bread in the pocket as demanded by Ordinance 745 when proceeding past fairy country or turning the topcoat inside out as demanded by subsection 32 of Ordinance 846 when proceeding at night during monthly festivals, humans to date have been diligently and meticulously co-operative. So we are not at war with the human world . . .”

  At this point various expressions of affirmation could be heard, such as “Hear, hear . . .” “True, true . . .” and “That’s right, that’s right . . .” There were shouts, too, of “Don’t lose it, maid” and “Heave it outta ya, Raggie . . .” and “Way to go, girl . . .” from younger members who were now developing a new Newfoundland language and who had been imbibing too much fermented nectar.

  “. . . No, we are not at war with the human world. But . . .” and here she assumed a stern, almost angry tone, “. . . we are at war with Abie Dutton . . .”

  Here there was a great thumping of magic wands on tree stumps.

  “. . . So I ask for suggestions for dealing with what we can only describe as a very obnoxious human being . . .”

  Here there ensued a general murmuring and nodding of heads as the gathering attempted to conceive of some plan, a collective sound that abruptly ended when a little, wizened old fairy, Oberjaun by name, strode to the giant fairy cap that served as a podium. All eyes followed his movements because Oberjaun had developed quite a reputation as a wise and knowing fairy. He had already published one book on “Analytic comparisons of diverse Miscellania in Fairyland: Divergent genetic compilations of Irish Fairies” and was highly respected on both sides of the Atlantic for his thorough knowledge of the involvement of Irish Fairies in the Atlantic fish trade of the 1600s. (They were particularly good at moving the schools of fish from one mark to another, to torment fishermen they didn’t like. Which explains why one fisherman could be loading the boat while another twenty feet away wouldn’t be getting a nibble.)

  He mounted the podium with ease and began to address the assembly.

  “Fellow fairies. I will be brief. I recommend that I be given authority to lead Abie Dutton astray in the woods and subject him to the Twelfth Compendium of punishment before returning him to the human race.”

  A collective gasp greeted the request, resounding throughout the assembly. The eighth and tenth compendiums were harsh enough, but to approve the Twelfth Compendium. . . . Well.3 The last time in living memory that was approved resulted in Sir Humphrey Gilbert being lost at sea and never being heard from again, although there are some fairies to this day who assert that something must have gone wrong with the spell because Sir Humphrey was not supposed to be drowned, only lost for a while.

  After some deliberation, the Twelfth Compendium was reluctantly approved and Oberjaun was given the authority to punish Abie Dutton as directed, but not to go beyond that. It was further stipulated that the term of punishment was not to exceed one calendar year from date of implementation. If Abie did not mend his ways by that time, a further meeting would be convened to accept a report and decide if further action was warranted. Some of the older fairies were concerned that the spell might malfunction as they thought it did in the case of Sir Humphrey and that real harm would come to another human, something they could only view with abhorrence.

  Since there was no further business, the fairies agreed to adjourn the meeting, an adjournment that was duly noted in the minutes. Queen Raguna then formally declared a night of dancing, honeyed nectar was provided in but
tercups, and the night ended on a festive note, as is demanded of fairies in Article 3 of the Fourth Covenant. Oberjaun left the dancing early to prepare for his meeting with Abie and to review all the chants necessary for the various punishments he was about to inflict.

  What happened after is recorded in the third book of Assizes of Compendia and is available to fairies worldwide at the appropriate flick of a wand. It was made available to the author upon provision of thirteen crusts of stale bread deposited on the Second Fairy Hill at dawn on the summer solstice, the twenty-first of June.

  Oberjaun accosted Abie in a wood-path the next morning, disguised as a tourist, complete with sunglasses, sandals, Bermuda shorts, and matching shirt. Abie wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the sudden appearance of one so short, since Hayward Little and all his cousins in Bunion Cove were just as short as that, and, he thought wickedly “Just as pore-lookin’,” noting the fairy’s crooked stance and the wizened-looking face. Their conversation was recorded verbatim in Oberjaun’s new magic wand, which along with casting spells to make people mesmerized and having things disappear and return, was now equipped with those new chip implants for data retrieval. Oberjaun spoke in the Newfoundland dialect of Notre Dame Bay, with which he was most familiar, and got right to the point.

  “How’s she goin’, Abie Dutton? I’m from Fairyland. And I think it’s time for a spell.”

  “I think I’ll take one meself,” replies Abie in a jaunty tone, and he rested his axe by a big spruce stump as he sat on a old dry “whiten.”

  “From Fairyland, eh!” Abie continued, smirking, as he eyed the little creature in front of him. “You must be one of those little fairies I hears people talking about.”