Days by moonlight Read online

  Nature. It was mostly about shores and stars, but I admired his

  composure, his repeated efforts to keep me focused.

  But then he got stuck on the difference between the Latin

  word Natura and the Greek word Phusis. The distinction was

  something he’d taken from a German theologian. Both words are

  translated as “Nature” but, according to the theologian, the Greeks

  made no distinction between the human and the natural worlds,

  while the Romans viewed themselves as separate from Nature. I

  remember all this clearly, not because it was interesting but

  because (at least in my mind) Professor Bruno kept repeating the

  words Natura and Phusis as if they had some special force. He

  shouted the word Natura, for instance, as I drove through a stop

  sign and crossed the median.

  35

  Under normal circumstances, I doubt I’d have understood a

  thing. But, despite my light-headedness, the professor’s words

  did reach me. They may even have kept me awake. Because, as I

  drove, I became convinced there really was no difference between

  myself and the world drifting by – ochre farm fields, greyish tele-

  phone poles, pale blue sky, trees in clumps of four or five, yellow

  signs showing where intersections were hidden.

  At times, I felt such exhilaration that I imagined I could not

  die. And I drove on with little more than a vague feeling I was

  heading north, as we went past Strange, Happy Valley, Kettleby,

  and Ansnorveldt. I had never had such a strong sense that – as

  my father might have said – I was dust and my return to dust

  would be a great arrival as much as it would a departure. I felt

  indistinct from the ground on which we were driving.

  It’s a wonder we survived the half-hour drive.

  Another wonder is how I ended up in an emergency ward in

  East Gwillimbury. I held on to consciousness just long enough

  to get us to a hospital. But I must have passed out as soon as we

  reached the parking lot of Our Lady of Mercy Health Centre.

  The professor later told me he thought we were lucky to reach

  the place. And I agreed. It would have been terrible if I’d passed

  out somewhere along the road. It felt, though, as if I had been

  guided to East Gwillimbury – an otherworldly feeling, a feeling

  made stranger by my coming to on a gurney, blood flowing into

  me from a sack suspended on a transfusion stand. I was more or

  less naked under a sheet. They’d left my socks on.

  Our Lady of Mercy unnerved me. Because I have a fear of

  hospitals. Because, when I was a child, I spent months in Toronto

  Western watching my mother go through chemotherapy. Because

  the look and smell of hospitals remind me of being scalded by

  boiling water. I have no good memories of hospitals, and Our

  Lady of Mercy was not much different from others I’ve been in.

  There were panels of white Styrofoam on the ceiling above

  me. In a gap among the panels were tubes of fluorescent lighting,

  36

  darkened where their pins entered their holders. The light from

  the tubes was inconsistent – white, yellowish, blue. I had time to

  notice all this because I was on my own for quite a while. I didn’t

  want to make a fuss but, after what felt like an hour, I finally

  called out.

  – Can someone help me?

  – Oh, a nurse answered, you’re awake!

  The woman had a freckled face with high cheekbones and

  her hair was red. She seemed so surprised, I wondered if my

  regaining consciousness was an unexpected turn of events.

  – You lost a lot of blood, she said, and since you’re here to have

  your tonsils out, we wanted to make sure your levels were good.

  – Why are my tonsils being taken out? I asked.

  – I guess there’s something wrong with them, she said. People

  don’t usually have them out otherwise.

  I admitted this was true. But I expressed my reservations. I’d

  never been bothered by my tonsils.

  – I think there’s been a mistake, I said. My tonsils haven’t

  given me trouble. I was bitten by dogs.

  – Well, there you go, she answered. The dogs probably made

  your tonsils worse. That’s how trauma works sometimes. But your

  gurney being in this place means you’re ready for a tonsillectomy.

  We don’t tend to make mistakes about these things, you know.

  – But the dogs didn’t get me by the throat, I said.

  She said

  – The doctors might have found you needed a tonsillectomy

  while they were treating your wounds. Wouldn’t it be better to

  have your tonsils out now, while you’re already a little injured?

  – Could I see the doctor? I asked.

  – I think it’s better we don’t disturb Dr. Flew while he’s getting

  ready to take your tonsils out. Don’t you agree?

  She was polite, but I felt she’d been encouraged by my tone,

  maybe thinking I was unsure about my tonsils. We went back

  and forth like this, each of us expressing our side of the matter.

  37

  And, to my surprise, I was suddenly engaged in a pitched battle

  of politeness, those kindly – but ferocious – skirmishes that are

  so common in our country: each side trying to polite the other

  into submission. I prefer these sorties to the open arguments

  that happen in the United States. But I felt that, the battle being

  for my tonsils, it was important that I win. So, I asked again and

  again if she was certain I’d been left in the right place, seeing as I

  did not want an operation if it could be avoided.

  Finally, she said

  – Mistakes do happen. I’ll look into it for you. Would you

  like that?

  I was relieved and, thanks to the blood transfusion, I felt

  more or less myself again. The only things missing were my

  clothes or, at least, pyjamas so I could walk around. Without

  them, I was trapped on my gurney and, after a while, I fell asleep.

  I woke when the nurses came for me. They were taking me to

  the operating room or, rather, to a place beside the operating

  room where the anesthesiologist would put me under.

  – I don’t need an operation, I said. I was bitten by dogs,

  that’s all.

  – You came in for a tonsillectomy, one of the nurses said.

  You can’t just change your mind.

  I insisted there’d been a mistake. I tried to get up from the

  gurney, but, in the end, what saved me from a tonsillectomy was

  chance. My gurney passed by a public waiting area on its way to

  the operating room and, despite my distraction, I saw Professor

  Bruno reading a book. I called his name as loudly as I could and

  he heard me.

  The nurses were just as suspicious of the professor’s words

  on behalf of my tonsils as they’d been of mine. But the weight of

  two testimonials must have instilled some doubt. So, they did a

  little digging around. They discovered then that my name was in

  fact Alfred Homer, as I’d repeatedly told them, not Arthur

  Helmers, and that they’d got my name wrong when I was admitted

  38

  to the hospital. The
other thing that saved me from a tonsillectomy

  was the discovery that Arthur Helmers had died from his infection.

  – I told you it was serious, one of the nurses said.

  For a moment, I wondered if they’d take my tonsils, anyway,

  as a precaution. But I was conveyed to a ward and, eventually,

  my suitcase was given to me.

  I’d have liked to leave at once but there were papers to sign

  and apologies to be heard. At some point, I was famished because

  I hadn’t eaten for hours. So, when one of the nurses gave me a

  pomegranate she’d brought for her own dinner, I was grateful.

  More than that, her kindness struck me as a good omen. I was

  reminded of my father’s idea that the beginning of a trip casts its

  shadow forward, that it influences the trip itself. I remember

  thinking that, despite the small misunderstandings we’d encoun-

  tered, the day had been a good one.

  I could tell that Professor Bruno, who sat with me in the ward,

  was pleased I was out of danger.

  – I hate to think what might have happened to you, dear boy,

  if we’d had an accident. I’m an old man. My death would have

  meant nothing. But you, Alfie, you still have your life in front of

  you. It would have been a tragedy.

  His spirits were further lifted when I was discharged. He

  joked that the dogs we’d encountered were like Cerberus, the

  three-headed guardian of Hades, and thanked me for protecting

  him from them.

  – The good news, he said, is that we’ve got past Cerberus.

  That’s a rare feat, Alfie. Only Hercules and Orpheus have done

  it! The bad news is that, from now on, we’ll be travelling through

  the underworld.

  He smiled and patted my shoulder.

  – God knows how we’ll get out, he said, but at least we’ll talk

  to the glorious dead!

  I was on the edge of sleep again, the stress of nearly losing

  my tonsils having tired me out.

  39

  – We’re going to Hell? I asked.

  – No, no, no, he said. The underworld is the domain of Hades,

  the unseen. No punishment involved! Unless you count an eter-

  nity of talk as punishment. Which I do not!

  I wasn’t sure what to think about Hades or what to feel about

  it. I certainly wouldn’t have minded talking to the dead, to my

  mother and father, above all. I had so many questions to ask

  them, so many things I would have liked to tell them.

  I closed my eyes while listening to the professor’s voice.

  And I fell asleep while waiting for more paperwork, for the

  right paperwork to be brought to me. The hospital wanted official

  reassurance that I wasn’t angry, I suppose. And I wasn’t. I was

  grateful that nothing irreparable had been done to me. Despite

  my bites and bruises and the threat to my tonsils, the thing that

  had unnerved me most was Our Lady of Mercy, the hospital

  itself. Not just its clean surfaces and sceptic undertone but its

  banks of lights, long halls, and peach walls: endless passages to

  unpleasant rooms.

  2

  THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN:

  NOBLETON AND COULSON’S HILL

  It sounds crass, but I sometimes find my province difficult to

  understand. This was especially true on my travels with Profes-

  sor Bruno. It was partly because our days were full of unexpected

  details, things I hadn’t seen before, and partly because my fellow

  Ontarians, while kind, were peculiar beyond what I’d remembered

  of them.

  In Nobleton and Coulson’s Hill we spoke to two people who’d

  known John Skennen personally: Brigid Flynn, a writer, and Peter

  Henderson, one of Skennen’s friends. Professor Bruno had corre-

  sponded with Ms. Flynn, an old friend of his, and as we were

  travelling in her vicinity, he wanted to spend a few hours with

  her. Mr. Henderson was a different story. The professor had

  neither met nor corresponded with the man. But he’d heard,

  through Ms. Flynn, that Henderson had been a friend of Sken-

  nen’s. And, in fact, she had arranged a meeting between Mr.

  Henderson and the professor.

  As we drove into Nobleton to speak with Ms. Flynn, we saw

  that the town was decked in red crepe, bright waves with troughs

  and peaks, stuck on the facades of the buildings. There were

  banners that hung across the main street, welcoming tourists

  and proclaiming the celebration of Pioneer Days.

  I was glad we’d come when we had. I’ve always loved parades

  and public celebrations, the feeling you have of being among

  friends though you’re with strangers. That said, Nobleton’s festiv-

  ities were unique. The townspeople – those we saw on the streets,

  anyway – carried the tools of the pioneers around with them. I

  mean, even those who weren’t dressed as pioneers. And it was

  amusing to see men in business suits carrying staves or axes or,

  in one case, a briefcase and a rusty adze.

  – What a lovely town, Professor Bruno said.

  I agreed with him.

  – Of course, I’m biased, he said. I grew up a few miles from here.

  I hadn’t known this about Professor Bruno. I’d always imag-

  ined him as coming from Toronto. It was there that I’d met him,

  there that he’d lived all my life. And the man was an academic,

  something I associate with universities and cities. Yet, for the

  professor, Nobleton was a homecoming of sorts. He knew the

  town well. And although it had changed in innumerable ways

  since he’d lived on its outskirts, the professor recognized a

  number of townspeople and understood Nobleton’s traditions.

  It was he who explained to me the significance – the subtle

  details – of the house burning we would see that night. And he

  insisted we stay to watch it.

  It was a pleasure seeing Professor Bruno in his ‘original

  element,” as he called it. I could feel him relax. He was suddenly

  delighted by the world around us, the usual world: bakery, bank,

  schoolhouse, church. There was nothing we hadn’t seen before,

  but, judging by the professor’s high spirits, everything was new

  by virtue of being old. Knowing that John Skennen had come

  from a similar town, I thought I understood why the professor

  42

  loved the man’s work. When he read a poem like “Johnson Grass,’

  which he’d memorized and often recited, he must have known

  the very fields Skennen wrote about. They were not as hypothetical

  for the professor as they were for me.

  When I was six, crick-side fields swayed on windless

  days, even. Johnson Grass, top-heavy, bowing

  while white elms let birds go in handfuls, like grain,

  and moths sewed their larvae up in birches –

  the fields and I, summer-long we shared our secrets.

  When I was eighteen, grasses stood up after

  hard rain – stern and dark from plunges in the mud.

  Not like grass at all – defiant, unbending –

  as shrews rose, wet and confused after the flood.

  I kept my own counsel then. Fields did not matter.

  Now I’m thirty-three. I have nothing to hide.
>
  I’ve worn out the wishes sung in churches

  and don’t long for paradises to profane.

  I’m through at last with all kinds of knowing.

  The fields, close again, think of me less and less.

  I enjoyed being in Professor Bruno’s world. It gave me a more

  complete view of him. I couldn’t help wondering, though, what

  had changed him from a farm boy to a literary scholar.

  – Back then, he answered, I hated farms and cows. My dad

  was a dairy farmer, you know. We had to get up at five in the

  morning to milk the cows. I was thrilled the first time I read a

  book on my own. It was Eagle of the Ninth! I read that book so

  many times my mother burned it, because she assumed I was

  doing something unhealthy. But Roman Britain was as far away

  from milking cows as I could imagine. And after she burned my

  copy, I read everything I could get my hands on. I haven’t looked

  back since.

  – Were your parents disappointed? I asked.

  43

  – I never thought about it, he said. Not till these last few

  months, anyway. Now, I suppose, I’m the right age to think about

  farms and parents. That sort of thing. And this book about John

  Skennen lets me do just that. I go back to my childhood through

  literature. There’s a lesson in that, Alfie: Londinium and Roma

  are never as far from Southern Ontario as you might think!

  I took the professor’s point, but his attitude brought up a

  tricky question: had he written this book to better understand

  Skennen’s work or to revisit his own past? A little of both, no

  doubt, but as it would have been unkind to suggest his motives

  were unclear, I kept this question to myself.

  Ms. Flynn was the most famous of the people I met through

  Professor Bruno. In fact, she was the only one I’d actually heard

  of. She and the professor had known each other since their twen-

  ties. “Well, that’s to be expected,” said the professor. Meaning:

  the two of them being around the same age and both being inter-

  ested in literature, a thing that interested very few around Noble-

  ton, it was natural that they should gravitate toward each other.

  Over the years, they’d flitted in and out of each other’s lives, and

  this, our visit, was a way for him to reconnect with an old friend.

  Before we entered her home, Professor Bruno warned me not

  to stare at Ms. Flynn’s father. When I asked why, he reminded