Days by moonlight Read online

  number of writers I’ve slept with who couldn’t tell a clitoris from

  a bottle of mouthwash. I’m talking about something else: the

  place words come from is the same place death comes from.

  Professor Bruno was impressed.

  – It takes one poet to understand another, he said.

  But Mr. Flynn rose from his chair and shook his head.

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  – No, he said, this is exactly the kind of crap that drives men

  to drink. Young John Skennen was what my parents called a

  scamp or a scallywag. And scamps give people something to talk

  about. Also, the man had children with dozens of women. That

  and the fact nobody knows how he died or even if he died. That’s

  why people around here talk about him.

  To me, he said

  – Don’t pay any attention to these two, young man.

  – Daddy, said Ms. Flynn, you are so simple-minded! It’s a

  good thing you’re lovable.

  As Mr. Flynn shuffled a short distance away, his kimono moved

  like a billowing piece of night, its painted birds chuffed and slimmed

  as if they were preening before sleep. From a glass-fronted credenza

  he took a bottle of greenish liquor. To me, he said

  – It’s asparagus wine. My own invention. Something to drink

  when academics come by.

  – Don’t drink it, said Ms. Flynn. It’s foul.

  – Foul but bracing, said her father.

  It was both of those things. It tasted as if asparagus had been

  recovered from a septic tank and soaked in grape juice. It was

  potent, too. After I’d politely drunk a second offering, I didn’t

  quite feel the nausea I’d felt on first tasting it. And, to be fair to

  Mr. Flynn – who was pleased I’d agreed to a second draught – it

  did help the time pass. I remember very little about the discussions

  that followed. Ms. Flynn and Professor Bruno went on talking

  about John Skennen, with Ms. Flynn agreeing that the professor’s

  portrait of Skennen – the one in his manuscript – was almost

  certainly accurate. Naturally, this made the professor happy.

  – What are you going to call the book? Ms. Flynn asked.

  – I was thinking Persephone’s Beau, or, John Skennen in His Own

  Work. Do you like it?

  They then went on about the difficulty of titles. But the next

  thing I really remember is being woken by Professor Bruno, who

  was anxious that I hear the conversation about Pioneer Days.

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  Though Ms. Flynn described the festival as “typically Cana-

  dian,’ judging by her account, it sounded unique. From what I

  got, the town of Nobleton decided sometime in the 1950s to

  celebrate the “pioneering spirit,’ the current that had passed

  through the men and women – Europeans, mostly – who’d

  founded the town in the 1800s, carving it out of the scrub, shrub,

  and rock. The people of Nobleton decided that, during the third

  week of August, every summer, the citizens of Nobleton would

  hold a competition to see which group could build a house fastest,

  using only the means available to the earliest pioneers.

  The town was divided in two. Those to the east of King Street

  competed against those to the west. The winner received bragging

  rights and the Nobleton Cup, a trophy that was kept in Bill’s

  Barber Shop (if won by the east) or Mona’s Hair Salon (if won by

  the west). That said, the biggest reward was the considerable

  amount – around $25,000 – won by whoever had bet on the

  winning team while coming closest to the actual time it had taken

  to build the house. And, of course, every year before the compe-

  tition began, the previous year’s houses were burned to the ground

  in a spectacular bonfire.

  A change to the competition came in the late 1960s, when it

  was deemed wasteful to burn the houses down. There were, after

  all, any number of poor families in Bolton County who could benefit

  from free housing for a year. And so, in an inspired moment, a

  raffle was created, the winners of which would occupy the houses

  built during Pioneer Days. At the end of a year, the houses were set

  afire as usual and other tenants were chosen for the following year.

  An ethical wrinkle in the proceedings formed in the late

  1980s, when it occurred to the organizers of Pioneer Days that

  the down-on-their-luck families who’d won occupancy of the

  houses might come to feel attachment to their abodes. This was

  especially the case with families who had young children – chil-

  dren being inclined to treasure their homes. So, in another

  moment of inspiration, the committee decided to allow families

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  to save their raffle-won homes from burning, if they were able,

  using whatever means they could.

  At a stroke, this decision resolved tensions and increased

  the house burnings’ popularity. To begin with, the buildings and

  burnings were moved to a dale just outside Nobleton in which

  two wells were dug. The wells, generous and deep, gave the fami-

  lies a fighting chance to douse the flames. And then: those who

  felt it was wrong to give unfortunate people homes they hadn’t

  earned (Conservatives, mostly) were appeased when they saw

  that few of the poor families had the wherewithal to actually save

  their houses. This failure created the kind of amused pity (in

  those who believed in self-reliance) that tempers resentment. As

  well: the sight of log houses burning while families tried to save

  them was a close approximation of true pioneering distress. So,

  the spectacle provided onlookers with a living lesson in history,

  the past and present intimately touching. Finally: when, in the

  1990s, families began to take up the challenge and practised

  dousing big fires during the year – some of them becoming expert

  – the people of Nobleton began to wager on the time it took to

  build the houses as well as whether or not a family might or

  might not save their home.

  The house burning was now the centrepiece of Pioneer Days.

  Aside from the spectacle of unfortunate families trying to save

  their homes, there was the increasingly more generous prize

  money for the individual who guessed, first, how quickly the

  houses would be built (if they had to be built), then if the house

  (or houses) would survive, and, finally, how long it would take to

  save the house(s) or, alternatively, how long it would take the

  house(s) to burn down.

  – Has anyone been hurt? I asked.

  – Quite a few, said Mr. Flynn. It’s barbaric, but everyone’s

  got such good intentions that no one minds.

  – That’s not true, his daughter answered. Four or five deaths

  in all these years. And the ones who died weren’t poor. They

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  were drunk and trying to influence the outcome. The whole

  thing’s part of life’s rich pageant. And at least it’s not as stupid as

  Coulson’s Hill’s Indigenous Parade!

  – It’s barbaric, Mr. Flynn repeated. It’s a Hell created by town

  council. Good intentions gone nuclear.

  – Oh, Daddy, you’re just being fashion
ably pessimistic, said

  Ms. Flynn. Good intentions are at the heart of love, too, you know.

  – Yes, said Mr. Flynn, but love done by town council is not

  anything I’d want to experience.

  – He’s got you there, Bridge, said Professor Bruno.

  Despite Brigid Flynn’s enthusiasm, the idea of watching houses

  burn was unappealing to me. And although I don’t like to disappoint

  the people around me, I would have preferred to remain in the

  Flynns’ guest room, transcribing Professor Bruno’s conversation

  with Ms. Flynn. But Professor Bruno himself asked me to come.

  – Do you know, he said, I haven’t been to Pioneer Days since

  I was a teenager. My family loved going to them. I admit I used to

  hate house burnings, but I suppose this’ll be the last one I see, and

  I’d prefer to see it through the eyes of someone who’s never been.

  On hearing this, I agreed to go with him, my respect for the

  professor bringing an obligation, despite my feeling that our jour-

  ney was being waylaid.

  It was five o’clock when we set out. The sun was bright but

  the world had already committed to evening: lengthening shadows,

  a hint of orange to the light, a satisfying coolness to the breeze.

  From somewhere, we caught the smell of lamb cooking on a

  barbecue. We drove through Nobleton – Ms. Flynn driving with

  the windows down – past pedestrians who were all heading in

  the same direction we were. There were so many people that

  Professor Bruno wondered if we’d find a good place to sit. I only

  understood his anxiety when we got to Kiiskinen’s Dale, a gentle

  expanse about a half-mile across, surrounded by grassy hills, as

  if it were the bottom of an almost perfectly formed bowl. It wasn’t

  so much that there were bad vantages from which to watch the

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  houses burn. With binoculars, one could see clearly from any of

  the hillsides. It was rather that, depending on wind direction,

  this or that declivity could be hospitable or unaccommodating

  or momentarily either. It was best to be where you could quickly

  move away from wind-blown smoke. With wind direction in

  mind, people made for this or that hillside.

  Wind direction was naturally a concern for the participants

  – the poor families – as well. Though the dale was protected

  from major winds by the hills around it, currents of air sometimes

  swept through, fanning a fire and driving the bucket-carrying

  hopeful away from their burning homes. The only ones unper-

  turbed by the winds were those who bet on the event. Wind

  currents added a further element of chance, making the outcome

  even more difficult to predict, making it more difficult to cheat,

  and making things tricky for the firemen who kept the spectators

  at bay while themselves being prepared to intervene, should there

  be any danger to human life.

  This year’s house burning had a heightened local angle to

  it. A Nobleton family – the McGregors – had managed to save

  their burning home for three years straight. No other family

  had ever gone beyond two. Their home had suffered great

  damage, of course. A quarter of it was not much more than

  ashen pillars that would not fall. The whole of it had been black-

  ened and charred. But the McGregors, struggling tenaciously

  and with a modesty that made them crowd favourites, lived in

  a single room, bereft of most of their possessions. This unprece-

  dented display of heroism and dignity had already brought

  about a change in the house burning’s rules. It was decided

  that, should the McGregors save their home a fourth time, they

  would have a new house built for them so that, in the year to

  come, they would not have to live among the ashes, should

  they choose to remain in Kiiskinen’s Dale.

  You could see the crowd had real affection for the McGregors.

  A microphone was set up and, before the burning began, there

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  was an interview with the family members – mother, father, three

  sons, two daughters. The spectators cheered their every response,

  especially those of the father – Malcolm McGregor, an unem-

  ployed cook – who spoke, humourously, in a bad Scottish accent.

  – Och! he said, we’re after doing what we done these past

  few years. Ye can’t keep a Scotsman down!

  His words done and the cheering stopped, the two families –

  McGregors and Ainsleys (the novices) – were taken a distance

  from the homes they’d lived in for a year while flammable things

  were put at strategic points inside and outside their houses and

  then set alight.

  This, as far as I could tell, was the end of reason. There was a

  prolonged, almost soundless moment as the McGregors (seven

  of them, from ages twelve to fifty) and the Ainsleys (eight of

  them, from ages six to thirty-five) were held back until their

  homes caught proper fire. Nor did it take long before the fire was

  frightening. It was so frightening that I felt a late-blooming admi-

  ration for the McGregors. It seemed incredible that they should

  have willingly endured this terror for four years running. All to

  save their home and the meagre belongings they’d gathered in its

  blackened room.

  Although I felt that reason had gone, there was still order.

  The McGregors, the more experienced, ran to their home. Father

  and sons began by shovelling sand on the outside of their house,

  suffocating the flames with help from the buckets of water brought

  by the mother and daughters. They were impressively efficient,

  breaking their windows to let the smoke out before entering their

  burning home to put out the flames. After only fifteen minutes,

  it seemed certain the McGregors would have their new home.

  But then, a bit of bad luck changed their fortune.

  The Ainsleys, inexperienced as they were, did not really know

  how to go about it. They went to their well as individuals, rather

  than forming a chain to carry the buckets. They depended solely

  on water to douse the flames. Also, though there were eight

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  Ainsleys in total, their three youngest – aged nine, seven, and

  six – were too young to participate. That left them with five: two

  willowy girls (eleven and twelve), a thin young man (fifteen), and

  their malnourished, exhausted parents. After fifteen minutes, it

  was clear that they would lose their house and whatever belong-

  ings had been left inside. This must have been clear to their six-

  year-old girl, too. Breaking away from the crowd, unseen by the

  firemen – who were naturally absorbed by the conflagration –

  she ran to what had been her house and disappeared inside.

  Now there was real alarm, the plight of children being of

  some concern to most Canadians. A number of people streamed

  forward along with the firemen. All had only the safety of the

  Ainsleys’ six-year-old in mind, though, from where I stood, it

  seemed impossible that she should survive.

  (Here, I passed one of the most unpleasant moments in my

  life. I rose to
my feet, ready to intervene. But then it was as if I

  couldn’t move. I felt bound by circumstances. I was part of a

  ritual I did not understand, so, naturally, neither did I understand

  my place. Was it up to me to save the child or were there others

  there to save her? Would I get in their way if I acted? I was help-

  less, and this helplessness brought me back to my early childhood,

  to myself and my mother watching my father speak before a

  congregation that rose and fell at his words, as if my father

  controlled the tides, while I could do nothing but struggle with

  the desire to be elsewhere, to escape my own passivity.)

  What saved the girl – and the doll she had gone to rescue –

  was the McGregor family. The sons of Malcolm McGregor,

  seeing the girl run into the burning house, ran in after her. The

  rest of the McGregors and the Ainsleys, seeing the young men

  run into the house, devoted all their attention to the Ainsleys’

  home. They shovelled dirt on it. They brought buckets of water.

  For the minutes – it seemed like hours – the girl was inside, the

  minutes – it seemed to take forever – before the firemen came

  rushing from the hills, the McGregors’ home was allowed to

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  burn away. More: by the time the sons of Malcolm McGregor

  carried the Ainsleys’ youngest from her burning home – the

  girl’s Barbie doll smoking like a censer – there was little of their

  own house left to salvage. The last portion of the McGregors’

  home burned brightly on its square of ground.

  From this point, the spectators collectively exhaling as girl and

  doll were rescued, everything passed as if time were elastic, some

  actions happening as if in slow motion, others too fleeting to catch.

  The McGregors, seeing their home lost, now helped to save the

  Ainsleys’. The crowd cheered the final collapse of the McGregors’

  home, as if a matador had delivered a coup de grâce. Or were they

  cheering the rescue of the Ainsleys’ home? Either way, at the end

  of the proceedings, the general mood changed. Once it was certain

  the Ainsleys were safe, a chorus of boos came from all around.

  – What’s happened? I asked Professor Bruno.

  – The McGregors lost their home, Ms. Flynn answered.

  Everybody’s disappointed.

  She said this as if she were stating the obvious, but it wasn’t

  any more obvious to me than it had been to Professor Bruno. I’d