â Do you believe in evil, Lowther?
     â I believe men do unspeakable things, Father. I don't know about evil.
     â Evil is the other side of the sacred, said Father Pennant. If there's no evil, there can't be anything sacred either. I know that. I know it is God's will that evil exist, but I wish it were different.
     â I can see you're upset, said Lowther. Do you mind my asking what's wrong?
     â No, I don't mind, said Father Pennant.
     He told Lowther what he had lived through that day: the climb over Petersen's gate, his first vision of Mayor Fox, Fox's diabolical traverse of the gravel pit, walking on water and speaking in
tongues, and his â that is Father Pennant's â near drowning and long walk home. When he had heard Father Pennant's story, Lowther said
     â I'm sorry I didn't go with you, Father. I understand how you could interpret things as you did.
And I can see how much you respect and fear Satan, but there wasn't anything satanic about what you saw. Nothing miraculous either. Mayor Fox
should have told you himself, when he saw you so upset. He wasn't walking on water. If anything, he was walking on plastic. I know it'll sound strange to an outsider, but Mayor Fox crosses the gravel pit every
year. Several times a year, actually.
     There was a perfectly logical explanation for what Father Pennant had seen.
What he'd seen was a foretaste of Barrow Day. There were, deeply planted in the gravel
pit's floor, tall columns of thick, clear plastic, columns some thirty feet tall,
almost entirely invisible to the eye. There were sixty of them. They were
beneath the surface for most of the year, but in late summer, the water level
fell and you could see them clearly. The tops of the columns were flat and
oval, wide enough to accommodate even a large human. The columns were arranged
so that a man or woman of average height could walk across the pit with ease.
Naturally, when the water was high, as it usually was, you couldn't see the columns and so it looked as if someone were walking on water, though
they were actually stepping on the flat tops of the columns. More than that:
the words Mayor Fox recited were not an incantation. He hadn't been speaking in tongues. The words, gibberish really, had been written to
help whoever was walking across the water know when to step. The pillars were
not evenly spaced, so if you walked at the right pace and said the words with
the right rhythm, at every third word you could step down with confidence. The
timing was important. The words and their rhythm varied according to the height
of the person crossing the water. That was all there was to tell, in essence.
     No, there was more. This walk across the columns was a relatively new aspect of
Barrow Day. The columns had been fashioned and then (with great difficulty)
planted in the gravel pit by an artist. The artist, a Russian émigré named Anton Mandelshtam, had meant his âinstallation' to represent the freedom one has in a capitalist society. For instance, the
freedom to walk across a gravel pit without getting one's feet dirty, to walk above the land as if exalted. No one in Barrow understood
the ideas behind Mandelshtam's
Freedom
, but watching a man walk across the pit on glass pillars was, in and of itself,
entertaining. The installation was such a popular work that it was absorbed
into Barrow Day's festivities, and by the late eighties, the crossing of Petersen's gravel pit came to mark the end of Barrow Day.
     â I've done it myself, said Lowther. It's difficult. The tops of the columns are sometimes slippery. You have to pay
attention. When he was crossing the gravel pit, Mayor Fox wouldn't really have seen or heard you.
     Father Pennant did not know what to say. He believed what Lowther told him and
he felt he should have been comforted to learn that what he'd taken for diabolical was, in fact, a kind of civic duty. And yet, he was not
comforted.
     â You know, said Lowther, it's easy to mistake what we see for things we haven't seen.
     Lowther felt contrite for a trauma that was, after all, of his own making. He
had meant for Father Pennant to see Mayor Fox cross the gravel pit. He had even
hoped Father Pennant would be as stunned as he had been when he first saw the âmiracle.' So, in effect, the timing had worked out perfectly, where Lowther was
concerned. On the other hand, Lowther had lived in Barrow for so long he found
it difficult to think of the mayor's walk on water as anything that could permanently affect a man. Though he
regretted the extent of Father Pennant's shock, Lowther had learned something important about the priest: Father
Pennant was superstitious in just the way Lowther admired. The man believed as
fervently in darkness as Lowther himself did. There was now, as far as Lowther
was concerned, an unshakeable bond between himself and Christopher Pennant. No
more âmiracles' were needed, no more crises for the young priest to deal with. When Lowther's time came, he would be honoured to confess his sins to this man and to leave
the world with grace.
     But the effect on Father Pennant of this contact with a counterfeit âevil' was indelible, and it changed him. He was no longer the man Lowther imagined
him to be.
After his encounter with Mayor Fox, Father Pennant was wary of Barrow Day. He
was not as inclined to join the celebration as he was to observe it.
     Every year, harsher penalties were instituted, in an effort to limit the worst
offences: public drunkenness, public nudity, public fornication. And every
year, these things (drunkenness, nudity, etc.) happened just often enough to
bring on both Christian regret and a pagan longing for the next year's celebrations.
     Barrow Day began at eleven o'clock with memorial masses said in churches across town. At mass, the
townspeople remembered those who had died during the previous year as well as
Richmond Barrow himself, long dead but still illustrious. After mass, it was
traditional, whatever the denomination, to eat a slice of Barrow bread: a sweet
bread (or cake) made with flour, eggs, sugar, coconut, raisins and vanilla. The
centre of Barrow bread was where the coconut and raisins (dyed red) were baked
in the form of an
X
 above which there was a circle. That is, when one cut a slice of the loaf, it
was meant to look as if a red skull and crossbones were in the slice's centre. Though this required some skill to do well, virtually every woman in
Barrow could make Barrow bread and make it very well indeed.
     At one o'clock, the parade would begin. There were no more than two miles from one end of
town to the other, but the parade usually went on two or even three hours,
because half of the population was in the procession. Not that the spectators
minded the time it took their family and friends to walk from one end of town
to the next. It was during the parade that drinking began in earnest.
Officially, drinking was not permitted on the streets, but the men and women
watching the parade would all drink (much or little) a concoction of soda, rum
and dandelion wine: Barrow brew. A little Barrow brew went a long way. Father
Pennant â who politely accepted a mouthful from a pigskin â found it unbearably sweet. But it lifted the spirits of most who drank it, so
that the parade was the heart and soul of the day.
     The parade was not entirely about drink and good cheer. It was also fitfully,
strangely beautiful. This was largely due to the handmade and sometimes
breathtaking costumes worn by that half of the town that was on display. The
parade was also a competition, with âbest costume' elected by a panel of judges. And here, the unusual was prized above all. One
year, for instance, first prize was given to Rowland Briggs, a house painter,
whose costume made him look like a burning schoolhouse, complete with students
and teachers jumping from the upper floors. A year later, the prize was won by
John Walker, a garage mechanic, whose costume included an effigy of a school
principal hanging from a gallows while flames rose up behind him. Walker's outfit was considered a witty rejoinder to Briggs's costume.
     After the parade, there was a breather, a few hours during which people could
prepare for the banquet and dance that took place in the old fire hall. And
finally, at the end of the night, usually around eleven o'clock, almost everyone â adults and such children who were not asleep or a hazard to themselves â ended up at Petersen's gravel pit where the mayor would walk across the water and so mark the end of
the day's festivities.
     Father Pennant's first Barrow Day passed like a convulsive dream. It began early with Lowther
practicing âThe Song of the Birds,' a mournful piece that cast a spell on the day: quiet, as the sun rose in the
faded blue sky, no clouds, the morning smelling of a warm rhubarb compote
Lowther served at breakfast.
     At eleven o'clock, the church was filled to capacity, most of the celebrants his own
parishioners. He smiled at Robbie Myers and Elizabeth Denny â who, conspicuously, sat side by side â and nodded at George Rubie and George Bigland. For some reason, the brooch worn
by Ellin Machell, the librarian, caught his attention: praying hands carved in
a light blue stone.
     After mass, there were more faces and mingled voices.
     â How're you, Father Pennant?
     â Happy Barrow's Day, Father.
     â Father, have you met my cousin Don?
     Then they were all eating Barrow bread, a macabre kind of treat, it seemed to
Father Pennant, but delicious: the taste of coconut against the sweet raisins.
In the end, he sampled the Barrow bread of seven or eight women before
returning to the rectory, where Lowther had prepared roast chicken, dill
dumplings and, of course, Barrow bread. Lowther's bread was wonderful, but it was also a slight variant: in the centre of his
slices there were no skulls and crossbones but only a simple, puffy red circle.
     Father Pennant had been invited to be part of the parade but, wary as he was,
he chose to watch the procession from the sidewalk. Men and women he had seen
here and there passed by on trucks, on tractors, on the back seats of
convertibles. It seemed as if every institution in town had put one of its own
on the back of something that moved: Lions Club, Rotary Club, 4-H Club,
library, fire station, police station. People he had seen behind counters or
out in the street waved, smiled and waved, accompanied by recorded music or
followed by men playing bagpipes, which, as ever, sounded like small children
being tortured into melody.
     Most of the costumes were plain. There were
coureurs de bois
, frontier ladies, a handful of Laura Secords and a dozen (faux) Native
Canadians. But there were also a number of perplexing or curious disguises. Two
in particular struck Father Pennant as remarkable. The first made its wearer
look as if he or she were a large bear. Out of the bear's mouth a bald eagle sprang up with a salmon in its beak. The salmon flipped and
flopped as if it were alive and, at intervals, spat hard candy into the crowd.
The second costume, more grotesque, was worn by a man on stilts. He looked like
a gigantic and unpleasant beetle. The man's white face protruded from the insect's dark mandible. From the lower parts of the insect, balls of foil-wrapped
chocolate dropped. The chocolate was perhaps meant to roll to the children
watching the parade, but it was inevitably squashed by the people or vehicles
that followed, the warm chocolate oozing or spurting from the foil.
     Father Pennant stood in one spot all parade long. So, he was not aware of any
incidents that took place in other parts of town. He heard about some of them
in the bits of conversation he caught from those who passed by. For instance,
he heard about two or three drunks, the most unruly of whom seemed to be George
Bigland.
     â Only thing he ever does is drink and fuck sheep, said someone.
     â Yeah, it's a vicious circle, answered someone else.
     Also, Esther Greenwood, whom Father Pennant knew as soft-spoken and modest, had
exposed her breasts, as she had been doing for years in an effort to bring
attention to the various cancers that afflicted women in Barrow. When Esther
had first decided to bare her breasts, some fifteen years previously, she had
indeed brought attention to herself and her cause. But times had changed. Few
people paid attention to her, and the police, one of whom inevitably brought a
sweater to the parade, covered Ms. Greenwood up as soon as she disrobed. Over
the years, other women had bared their breasts in sorority with Esther, but not
this year.
     Two hours after the parade had begun it ended. People dispersed. Those who were
incapacitated were helped away. And for a moment Father Pennant saw the town
cleared (or at least clearing) of people. Plastic cups and paper plates moved
like little animals across the streets and lawns in the centre of town. As he
was walking back to the rectory, the street cleaners came. A small battalion of
men with push brooms began to restore order. It struck Father Pennant as an
oddly sinister sight.