Days by moonlight Read online

  – And because you’re a Methodist, you reconcile these oppo-

  sites with love, don’t you?

  – As a matter of fact, I do. Wilderness and civilization meet

  in God like lust and courtly love meet in desire.

  – Well, there you have it! It’s always love with you people,

  isn’t it?

  I thought for a moment that Reverend Crosbie was going to

  slap him. There was something inadmissible about his smirk.

  But, instead, she got up from her chair and said

  – By “you people” I assume you mean those of my faith as

  opposed to those of my gender. But yes, I’m afraid it’s about

  God’s love for us. And since I don’t want to quarrel with you, I’ll

  leave you and Alfred on your own. You should try to relax, Alfred.

  You’ve been through a lot.

  Professor Bruno, finally aware that he’d been too familiar,

  apologized. But when the reverend had gone, he again made a

  case for my vision being of a sexual nature rather than a spiritual

  one. His arguments seemed to be the same as those he’d already

  made, so, as politely as I could, I tuned them out. I thought,

  instead, of how bittersweet it was that, in my vision, I should be

  saved by my feelings for a woman who no longer loved me. I had,

  in effect, saved myself by loving.

  Yes, but that wasn’t the whole story. Reverend Crosbie had

  been right to point out that the wolves may not have attacked me

  because they felt I was one of them. Despite my love for Anne

  and the purity of my longing – or, maybe, because of these things

  – I rarely admitted my part in the death of our relationship. I

  had ignored her needs, preferring my own concerns, preferring

  my drawings and botany, my rereadings of Wodehouse, my friend-

  ships at the lab. I had not been wronged. I was no innocent. I’d

  been as selfish as John Stephens in my evocations of love.

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  I, too, was self-interested, a kind of predator, however prissily

  I hid my claws from myself.

  That night, in the Methodist guest room, I couldn’t sleep. I went

  over my vision again and again, trying to understand what I’d

  seen and why I’d seen it.

  Professor Bruno was in a bed on the other side of the room.

  His clothes were neatly folded on a wooden chair beside him.

  His snoring was constant but low and comforting. The night

  light at the foot of his bed was in the shape of a crucifix. It was a

  dim yellow glow.

  My bed was beneath the window. Just above me as I lay down,

  there were curtains that I pulled aside to look up at the night

  sky. Far above me, Ursa Major, the great bear, had begun her

  nightly search for her cub while, just beyond her, her child was

  almost encircled by the sinuous curve of the dragon, Draco. I

  stared at the constellations for the longest while, until it suddenly

  struck me that they were beautiful, that each was a story in itself,

  that beauty is both order and story. I’d never thought of it that

  way, and I wondered if this is what Professor Bruno meant when

  he used the word beauty. More: it occurred to me, as Ursa Minor,

  the cub, came to life in my imagination and fled from the dragon,

  that there is beauty because God or the universe or my own

  psyche is merciful, that beauty is compensation for the oneness

  I remembered but could no longer feel.

  Not much compensation, though.

  Not enough.

  I let the curtain go then, with the hope that, at the end of my

  days, I might feel the dissolution again. And I fell asleep thinking

  of a field of wheat – stems bowing, leaves rustling – that I’d run

  through, long ago, as a child, while my father delivered a sermon

  at a church in Alma, Ontario.

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  5

  DAWN APPROACHES:

  BARROW, TORONTO

  We woke to the smell of fresh bread, its yeasty tang in the air.

  The professor and I had visited all the towns we’d

  meant to and then some. We’d interviewed the people we’d

  planned to interview and, on top of that, Professor Bruno had

  spoken to the man who’d been John Skennen. Given all this and

  my ongoing wonder about what I’d experienced, I was ready to

  go home. When, over breakfast, the professor and Reverend

  Crosbie spoke about my case, I listened but I kept out of it. I

  needed time to understand my situation for myself, and the best

  place to do that, I thought, was at home.

  But as we were getting ready to go, the professor said

  – I know it’s out of the way, Alfie, and we really should be

  getting home, but I’d like to visit John in Barrow. He’s here now,

  cleaning the way to the clearing. But he won’t talk to anyone

  while he works. He’ll be in Barrow by two in the afternoon.

  Reverend Crosbie says he really wants to speak to us. I’m hoping

  he’s changed his mind about my manuscript. I might want to stay

  in Barrow tonight but I promise we can leave for home early

  tomorrow morning. Do you mind?

  I minded, but I said

  – No, Professor.

  It would be an hour and a half to Barrow, and the drive itself

  would allow me time for reflection. Besides, I thought it might be

  good to speak to John Stephens, helpful to talk to someone who’d

  gone through what I had. So, after eating breakfast – soft-boiled

  eggs from chickens that ruled the reverend’s yard, bread fresh

  from the oven, grapefruit marmalade made by the Benedictine

  monks from down the road, and back bacon from Mennonites

  two streets over – I packed the car: our car, brought back (by

  Michael) and left for us (with an open invitation to supper in

  Marsville taped to the dashboard) when I was in the “sacred

  grove.’ And we got ready for the drive to Barrow.

  Before he got into the car, Professor Bruno thanked Reverend

  Crosbie for her hospitality and again apologized for his “reckless

  debating style.” The reverend shook his hand, bid him safe travels,

  and closed the car door for him. But she held me back a moment.

  – You’re not religious, she said, but do you believe in God?

  – I don’t know what to believe about God, I answered.

  – Well, despite what Professor Bruno said, I think you’ve

  had a religious experience, not a sexual one or a Marxist one.

  The kinds of people who have these experiences sometimes lead

  complicated lives afterwards, Alfred. I don’t want to alarm you

  but things may be different for you from now on. I want you to

  know that you can come back to Feversham any time. You’d be

  welcomed by any of the congregations. I know it won’t mean

  much to you, but, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve been blessed

  by our Lord and if you have it in your heart, please pray for me

  so I might one day know the Lord as you do.

  She then kissed my right hand so earnestly, I was embarrassed.

  – Thank you, I said. I’ll be sure to come back if I need advice.

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  When I got into the car, Professor Bruno put his hand on

  my arm.

  – Listen, Alfie, he said, I hope the
reverend didn’t try to sell

  you any more mumbo-jumbo. I don’t like to bad-talk people, but,

  my goodness, these sinister ministers practically squitter their

  garbage at you. It’s God this and God that, Love this and Love

  that. What a load of stinking socks! If I were you, I’d take this

  whole Feversham business for what it was: a brain fart that made

  you think of edible hands and sexy wolves. No need to give it a

  second thought.

  I could see that he was worried about me, and that made me

  wonder if I was behaving strangely.

  – I’m sure you’re right, Professor. I’ll put it out of my mind.

  But I was constantly reminded of Feversham. The world

  itself seemed to be pointing at it. Not at the town but at the

  experience I’d had there. As I drove along Highway 4, the beauty

  of the land – my country as much as it was John Skennen’s –

  overwhelmed me. Driving into Priceville was wonderful: a grey-

  tar, two-lane highway, a dip in the land so that we looked down

  onto a handful of houses encroaching on the wilds. To one side

  of the road, a row of firs, windbreak for a rough green field

  lying fallow, beyond the field a low-lying, plain brown farm-

  house, beyond the farmhouse a forest of maples, oaks, and

  pines. To the other side of the road: a field of dried grasses –

  grey green, pale yellow – with a row of maples, perpendicular

  to the highway, stretching on for miles. Above us, the late-

  summer sky trafficked in clouds with, here and there, an opening

  for the infinite blue. The world smelled of gravel, dried-out

  grasses, pine, old wood, and various scents carried on the wind

  but gone too quickly to be identified.

  I’d seen fields like these all my life and I’d driven past similar

  towns. Most had left little impression, only vague memories of

  gas stations and telephone poles. But now, as we drove to Barrow,

  the land folded itself into me. I experienced a milder version of

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  the oneness I’d felt in Feversham – a ceasing-to-be – as we

  passed Orchardville, Minto, Gorrie, and Wroxeter.

  – Are you feeling okay? Professor Bruno asked.

  – Yes, I’m fine, I answered.

  – Oh, he said. I wondered if you were thinking about

  Priceville. Wretched, awful place. They drove Black people from

  their homes so white people could take the land. For years, they

  even used a Black person’s gravestone for home plate on a base-

  ball diamond. Idiots. Fervent racists. Sometimes I wonder if

  there isn’t some foul spirit that haunts the province. The land is

  beautiful, though.

  It came to me then that those possessed by a spirit might not

  know who or what it was that possessed them, possession itself

  being so ecstatic. Was the spirit behind my own ecstasy sacred

  or malign? How was I to know? As Reverend Crosbie had said,

  it’s a wise soul that knows God from Satan.

  We stopped for coffee at the Tim Hortons in Seaforth. I’d

  have preferred the drive-through, but Professor Bruno wanted

  to drink his double-double in “civilized fashion” – which was the

  first time in my life I’d heard Tims referred to as “civilized.’ It

  made me wonder what an alien species would make of our civi-

  lization if Tims were the only thing left of us.

  – That’s a fascinating question, said Professor Bruno. Do all

  the Tims survive or just one?

  – Do you think it makes a difference, Professor?

  – Of course it makes a difference, Alfie. If your alien species

  comes upon a single Timmy’s in the middle of a wasteland, they

  won’t know what to make of it or us. This lone Tim Hortons

  would be a mysterious artifact. But if all the Tims survived, like

  Canadian industrial cockroaches, they’d think we were insanely

  fond of plastic and bad coffee.

  – But if that’s how you feel, Professor, why did you want to

  stop at Tims?

  – I’m Canadian, son. I am fond of bad coffee and plastic!

  184

  For some reason, I found this joke of the professor’s moving. I

  thought of the places we’d been, of house burnings and Indigenous

  parades, of good intentions and savage politeness, of stories and

  dreams. Were these, too, what was meant by “country”? It was easy

  to be at one with a world of autumnal trees and washed-out skies.

  It was something else to be one with a people’s worst impulses,

  ideas, and behaviour. And yet, the Tim Hortons in Seaforth was

  where I first felt that when all is accepted, all is transcended.

  Though I said nothing about this feeling, I think something in me

  gave it away, as if I were covertly broadcasting transcendence.

  An old man, his hands knobby and cramped with arthritis –

  so much so that he could barely hold his paper cup – looked

  over at our table. He looked over at me, his white eyebrows bushy,

  his face pink.

  – Young man, he said, are you the healer?

  – A healer? You mean a doctor?

  – If I meant a doctor, I’d have said a doctor! I mean a healer.

  Someone that’s got the touch.

  – My young companion has no idea what you’re talking about,

  said Professor Bruno. He’s not from an age of healers.

  At a table behind the old man, there were a number of the

  old man’s contemporaries. They were casually dressed, the men

  wearing baseball caps, jeans, and T-shirts, the women in blouses,

  slacks, and comfortable shoes. One of them spoke up.

  – Maury’s right, she said. There is a healer in town.

  – A Black one? said someone.

  – You don’t see too many Black healers, said someone else.

  – Or men healers, said a woman.

  – I hope you’re not pc, said a man named Bill, but I just don’t

  think Black people are sensitive enough.

  – Now come on, Bill. You know it’s hard to be poor and sensitive.

  – I didn’t say there’s no reason. I just said they’re not sensitive.

  Professor Bruno, a man with no time for racism, was immedi-

  ately annoyed.

  185

  – You’re wrong about Black healers, he said. There are more

  of them than any other! Most of the Black people I know have

  healing powers, and Alfie here is no exception. It’s too bad you

  spent your time insulting him, instead of asking for his help.

  – Who insulted him? No one meant any harm.

  – I didn’t insult him, said Maury. I just want him to help with

  my arthritis.

  – Well, I won’t let him, said the professor. You hicks have shown

  him no respect, and, besides, why should he work without money?

  – How much does he cost? Maury asked.

  – A hundred dollars a session, said Professor Bruno.

  – A hundred bucks? someone said. You got to be kidding!

  Things escalated from there. At the mention of money, it

  seemed all the patrons came to our table or leaned in to hear

  clearly. Most thought I was a fraud, a quiet fraud, and weren’t

  afraid to say so. Not to me, exactly, but loud enough so I could

  hear. Particularly interested were two barrel-chested men
with

  long salt-and-pepper hair. They were, or had been, members of a

  local motorcycle club, and dressed the part: leather vests, blue

  jeans, black T-shirts, and, in one case, a blue-and-white bandana

  around his head. They were portly and I was sure I could outrun

  them, but I was almost certain Professor Bruno could not.

  As for the professor: he was spooked. It wasn’t like him to

  call anyone “hick” and I don’t know how he’d settled on a price.

  But Maury, the man who had first asked if I were a healer, agreed

  to pay me a hundred dollars.

  – What are you going to pay him for? asked one of the beefy

  men. Give me the money and I’ll touch your hands for you.

  – Prob’ly get the same result, said the one in the bandana.

  – Now listen, said Professor Bruno. This has gone far enough.

  Alfred August Homer does not go around touching everyone

  who’s got a problem. You’ve got to make an appointment.

  – Now that you named a price, said a woman, I think it’s only

  fair you help him.

  186

  – That’s right. Maury’s got his money out. You can’t turn

  him away.

  Maury had, with some difficulty, extracted his wallet from a

  back pocket. He’d stood up, one hand using a tabletop for support,

  and then gently patted himself until he came to the square protu-

  berance. His hands were so gnarled and his arthritis so obviously

  painful that the extraction was slow and it was followed by the

  equally slow pulling out of twenties from the black-leather billfold.

  Watching him try to maintain his dignity while doing this simple

  thing made me ashamed to take his money. But it would have

  been insulting to refuse it after all his effort.

  – If it doesn’t work, I said, I’ll give you your money back.

  – You better, said the man in the bandana.

  Everybody else nodded, even Professor Bruno, who now chose

  to stay quiet. We were surrounded by a posse of excited or tense

  older people. The air was florid with perfumes and baked goods.

  And yet, despite it all, I was completely at ease: no shaking, no

  nerves, no fear.

  Maury’s hands were distressing to look at. They were pale.

  Each of the joints and the knuckles was so badly swollen it

  looked like his hands had suffered a disastrous pearling. Nor

  could he lay his hands out flat. They curled up as if they were