Mercy (34 page)

I lift up a finger and point. She understands me, touches several fragments until I signal by letting the gesture drop. She picks up the next piece, handling it carefully so as not to disturb its design.

When Mary approaches again to examine his eyes, Carl reaches up impulsively, instinctively—as an infant would. His fingers brush one of her breasts. She doesn’t lean into him, doesn’t pull away.

“You want to know why I made all those scrolls?” she says quietly.

He lets his hand drop. “Do I have a choice?”

“Have you thought about what it would look like, Reverend? What would actually happen if you were to tear
out this bog?” He feels her settle beside him on the bed. “They’re felling the trees, nests and all, the eggs and fledglings smashed. The parents are circling and screaming overhead—”

“All right.” He folds his arms over his pounding heart. “I get the idea.”

“But the birds are just the beginning. All kinds of animals go down with the forest—least weasels, fishers, martens. Moose and black bear stampede for the borders, only to find nothing but farmland or road or town. Then come the stumpers, ripping up dens as they go. Cutters slash up the peat, and a million trails through the litter get sliced to ribbons, the lifelines of the voles and the mice, the shrews and the wood frogs and the hares. Of course, they don’t need those lifelines any more, because they fall under the cutter blades too, and get crushed or split nose to tail, and even the ones that somehow escape end up drowning when the bog water rises to fill the wounds. Next comes the giant vacuum, sucking up the centuries, all the old bodies—the birds and the beasts and, hell, a few people too. Not to mention the newly dead. Talk about your Apocalypse. Maybe not rivers of blood, but there’ll be plenty of it flowing all the same.”

He gives in to the picture, covering his face with his hands.

“Don’t touch, Reverend.”

“Could you please,” he says weakly, “please stop calling me that.”

“What,
Reverend?
Isn’t that what you are?”

“My name is Carl.”

“Okay.” She lays a hand on his heaving shoulder. “Carl.”

W
oo-hoo!” The time-bird gives the last of five big cheers as I ease the final fragment into place. Standing on the coffee table, the teacher looks down over the big picture on her floor. It’s all there, Preacher—your story, and mine, and even a few pieces of her own. The medium may be opaque, but like me, she’s acquired the knack of looking through.

She works quickly, holds up the roll of Scotch tape for my permission, then begins fixing strips along borders, reinforcing the whole. I hold out a splayed hand and she nods, tearing several short pieces on the tiny plastic teeth, sticking them to my fingers’ blunt tips.

Every panel secure, the teacher lays a large white sheet over my work and proceeds to roll. “We’ll take it to show Daddy, shall we, Clare? Show Daddy?” The narrative scrolls in on itself. Her hands nimble and strong, she ties it with one of your gifts, an unsuitably garish silk scarf.

It’s too long for the car—she has to prop open the hatch and fasten it down. “Okay, Clare,” she tells me. “Drawing
safe.” She scoops me up without thinking, and without thinking, I cling to her neck.

Carl drops into a deep sleep just before dawn, feels himself dragged up slowly on a line of soft, insistent cries. His eyes open stickily before he remembers they can’t, swamping him in aqueous light.

“Mary!” he yells. “MARY!”

“I’m right here.” A shadow separates itself and moves toward him, tall and sweeping as a walking tree. He scrambles to the edge of the bed, wincing as he blinks.

“Hey, can you see me?” She bends in close. Her face is watery. Light reaches down through her hair as if through a bed of shifting kelp.

“Yes.” He swallows hard. “I can.”

“Nice blue eyes you were hiding,” she says, straightening. “Probably even nicer when the whites aren’t red.”

“Yes.” He finds himself suddenly awkward. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“I’m just feeding Junior.” She moves away from him. “Want to watch?”

On the far wall the window is a square of gold. Beside it, something stirs—a smudge like a large grey cat.

“I can’t,” he mumbles. “I can’t really see that far.”

“So come closer.”

Mary lifts a chunk of something dark from a lucent tin plate and brings it up to her mouth. She leans out tenderly, the smudge rising to meet her in a kind of kiss.

Carl looks down at his clenched hands, watches the fingers separate, become distinct.

“Shit, Carl,” Mary says softly, “don’t you trust me yet?”

He lifts his gaze. The house is a marvel. With all the churches he’s toured, there’s been nothing to rival this brilliance. He stands up, his legs wobbly, as though they, like his eyes, are brand new.

Up close, Mary is lovely. Her bare, lined face, the bruise at her jaw, the astonishing black mass of her hair. She steps aside to reveal Junior, bobbing like a wave in her nest.

She’s bog-coloured—dead wood, live wood, lichen and moss—her plumage an illusive blur. At first Carl assumes it’s due to his vision, only the rest of her is sharp now—olive-green bill, inner lids sweeping clear across bright yellow eyes. A slight breeze through the window lifts a few plumes and he realizes why focusing is so hard. Each feather is semi-transparent, the pattern shifting, layers deep.

“Here.” Mary cuts a chunk of raw, powerful-smelling meat and holds it up to Carl’s lips. He accepts without question. Sticks his neck out and gives it away.

My sincere thanks to the Canada Council and the Manitoba Arts Council for allowing me the time to write this book.

I’m grateful to the following people for sharing their expertise: Monsignor Jaworski at Our Lady of Perpetual Help; Dr. Robert Wrigley at the Assiniboine Park Zoo; Jason Greenall and William Koonz at Conservation Manitoba; Diane Boyd and Carole Boily at the Grey Nun Archives, Saint Boniface; Doug Smith; the staff of the St. Paul’s College Library at the University of Manitoba.

Thanks to Matthew and his family, as well as to Vicki Hatt, for allowing me to observe and learn. And thanks to George Plumb, who built the Glass Castle in the Cowichan Valley.

Special thanks to my editor, Anne Collins, and to my agents, Denise Bukowski and Janette Shipston.

To family and friends too numerous to name, I offer my undying gratitude for your unflagging support.

Most of all, I’m thankful to—and for—my beloved husband, Clive.