â Do you believe in God? Father Pennant casually asked.
     â Yes, very much, answered Lowther.
     Which was good enough for Father Pennant who, reassured, spent the rest of the
evening reading
Memoirs of a Midget
(a novel he chose for its unusual title) before falling asleep in his room, his
sleep haunted by passages from Debussy's
Sonata for Cello
.
At least part of the reason for Father Pennant's enchantment with Barrow was that, without being aware of the extent of his
distaste, Christopher Pennant had tired of big cities. Ottawa, his home, had
become impersonal and oppressive to him. It made him lonely just thinking about
all that tar and concrete. The only things he missed about Ottawa, now that it
was behind him, were its many old churches and its river, which, at least in
his imagination, had constantly promised elsewhere.
     This longing for âelsewhere' had been a long time coming. Christopher Pennant had always imagined that the
city would be the place he'd be most needed. After seminary he had devoted himself to those whom the city
had decimated: the poor, the addicted, the downtrodden. And he had felt his
work was necessary. But that which had driven him to the priesthood in the
first place, the spiritual presence of God, had grown more faint. It wasn't that Ottawa itself was godless. It was, he imagined, that any place that
covered the earth with tar and concrete was a place where His presence was
bound to be muted. And Father Pennant had come to resent this mutedness. He'd begun to suffer from it. So, when the parish in Barrow was offered to him,
Father Pennant, though he might have preferred a smaller city to the country,
hoped that southern Ontario would be a way back to the feeling of closeness
with God, a way back to the fount of his own spirituality.
     His first moments in Barrow were enchanting because they suggested that his
hopes were not misplaced. The dun hay that covered the fields like rotting
mats, the crocuses, chicory and dandelions, the songs of the birds, the clouds
so solid and white it was as if they were being held up from below: everything
brought relief and joy. These feelings in turn brought him a kind of grateful
curiosity about the town itself and he tried to learn as much as he could about
Barrow and the land around it.
     Founded in 1904 by an oil baron named Richmond Barrow, the town was,
originally, a settlement for those who worked in the oil fields of Lambton
County. Over the decades its importance had receded with the oil, but as Barrow
was not far from Sarnia it became something of a suburb: near enough by car but
still far enough away to maintain its independence and personality.
     Along with its history, Barrow also had its mysteries. First among them was its
haunted house. Barrow Mansion, the oldest house in town, had been the site of
two murders. During the first, Richmond Barrow was stabbed to death by his
wife, the former Eleanor Miller of Oil Springs. Years later, Richmond's son, Clive, was stabbed by
his
wife, the former Eleanor Burgin of Strathroy. After a century, the two deaths
merged in the minds of the town's inhabitants, some forgetting that
two
 Barrows had been murdered, though there was general agreement that the name âEleanor' was a bad omen and that the mansion was haunted.
     The first sightings of the town's ghosts came shortly after Barrow Mansion had been turned into a museum, in the
1950s. After that it was easy to find men and women who swore they had seen âMr. Barrow' wandering the mansion's corridors. By all accounts, the ghost was as baffled as the townspeople. It
sometimes wandered the mansion with (according to witnesses) a knife or a fork
or garden shears protruding from its chest. These ghostly apparitions were
traumatic for those who experienced them, but they were a boon to the town
itself: the mansion attracted the curious and the skeptical, all of whom came
from places like Wallaceburg or Timiskaming or even Saskatoon to see the house
and its spectral occupants for themselves.
     No doubt, Barrow's reputation for âprickliness' came with its ghosts. The people of Barrow, most of whom were of English stock,
were neither gregarious like hard-oilers from Petrolia nor voluble, like the
inhabitants of Bright's Grove. They were quiet, not much given to talking with strangers. They were
not unfriendly to those who came to see the mansion, but they were cautious and
their caution was taken, by those who'd come to see the ghosts, for âattitude.' And yet the townspeople were capable of great warmth and generosity. On Barrow
Day, for instance.
     Barrow Day was a celebration of the town's founding. All visitors were welcome. The day began with masses said in the
town's churches. Then there was a parade, a banquet and, finally, a fête in a gravel pit to mark the end of the festivities. Those who found
themselves in Barrow on June 15 were almost inevitably overwhelmed by the
generosity, passion and drunkenness of the townspeople. On Barrow Day, when
something of Barrow's âearth spirit' surfaced, the town's mood belied its reputation for reticence and reserve.
     Barrow Mansion and Barrow Day were two of the town's mysteries. There is a third, but one can't talk about Barrow without first mentioning an aspect of the town that is less
than mysterious but that was, for Father Pennant, just as affecting as ghosts
and parades. That is, the physical beauty of the land on which Barrow lay.
     Barrow was the quintessence of southern Ontario: low hills, thick scrubby
woods, farm fields sprouting corn or grain, grey barns, farmhouses, maples,
elms, weeping willows, apple orchards, the dark brown earth, alfalfa for the
cows, acres of grazing land for sheep or horses; the smell of it: sweet, acrid,
nasty, vegetal; robins, blue jays, scarlet tanagers, cardinals, hummingbirds;
thistles, pussy willow, clover, Queen Anne's lace, dandelions.
     The land around Barrow was that aspect of the world one would willingly
worship, if one were a pantheist, say, or a pagan, as opposed to a priest.
On his second day in Barrow, Father Pennant rose at five. Lowther had been awake
for some time and had prepared a breakfast of apple-cinnamon pancakes with back
bacon. He had grated the apple himself and had timed it so that the bacon was
hot when Father Pennant sat down, but there was little sign that the kitchen
had been used. Everything had been cleaned up by the time Father Pennant ate
and, shortly after he finished, it would have been difficult to show he had
eaten at all. His dishes had been washed, dried and put away.
     The early service was well-attended that morning. There were at least
twenty-five people at the low mass, most of whom came to get a look at the new
priest.
     After the mass, few stayed to talk. Those who did did not stay long. The day
and the world called. But Father Pennant had the impression he'd been deemed acceptable. No one had been unfriendly or dubious or overtly
critical. He had made a good beginning, surely. But just to be certain, Father
Pennant spoke to Lowther, who'd attended.
     â How was it?
     â It was good, answered Lowther. Your voice doesn't shake as much as Father Fowler's.
     â That's not a ringing endorsement, Lowther.
     â No, Father, but this was low mass. It'll be different when you sing.
     There were a number of visitors to the rectory that day. It was sunny and warm.
You could feel summer approach. Which, perhaps, explains why two women brought
mounds of Jell-O in which the preserved remains of the previous summer's strawberries and raspberries were suspended. Another parishioner brought
cherry pie and an angel food cake so airy it clung to Father Pennant's front teeth as soon as he bit it. There were plans for an official welcome. It
was to take place the following Sunday. But those who came to the rectory on
Father Pennant's second day were the ones who could not resist seeing him sooner. Here was the
man to whom they would confess the darkest things. It was important to feel him
out. Mrs. Young, for instance, after she had watched him eat a piece of her
macaroni pie, quietly asked what he thought of adultery.
     â It's a sin, answered Father Pennant.
     â Yes, but I wonder where it is on the scale of things. Is it worse than murder?
     â No, said Father Pennant, but all our sins are interconnected. One is the road
to another.
     â I never thought of it that way, said Mrs. Young. I'll be sure to tell that husband of mine what you said.
     Then, looking at him meaningfully, she asked
     â Did you like the macaroni pie? It's my mother's recipe.
     The morning was busy and then, following the afternoon mass, there were even
more people to meet, more food to sample: a pear cake, a honey and plum
cobbler, an apple crumble. In a matter of hours, Father Pennant had a strong
sense of his parish. It was as normal as could be. And here again, he felt
fortunate. It would be a pleasure getting to know those who'd been too shy or too busy to approach him early on.
     The day's only sour note came from an old woman named Tomasine Humble. Her hands
constricted by arthritis, her thin body like a knotty stick under a thick
yellow dress, her white hair held stiffly in place by hairspray, she was not in
a good mood, or perhaps she was in the best mood her ailments permitted. When
someone asked if Father Pennant had enjoyed a piece of cake, he'd answered
     â Yes, very much.
     But Tomasine had muttered
     â Not on your life.
and smiled when he looked at her inquisitively.
     When someone else mentioned the good weather they'd been having, Father Pennant answered that he was looking forward to exploring
the countryside in spring, to watching the gardens bloom. Tomasine Humble then
said
     â Not much point in that. You should be taking care of souls, not gardens.
     â I can do both, surely, Mrs. Humble.
     â We don't know what you can do at all, she'd answered.
     â Well, I hope I won't disappoint you.
     â You'll disappoint me. There hasn't been a priest yet who hasn't disappointed me.
     â Perhaps I'll disappoint you less?
     â I live in hope, young man.
     With that, she had turned away, her point made, apparently.
     Despite Mrs. Humble's warning that the soul, not the earth, was his proper domain, Father Pennant
spent the last hours of his first afternoon exploring the countryside around
Barrow. He was driven about in an old Volkswagen by Lowther, who also acted as
his guide. Everywhere the earth was coming back to life: here, a scarlet
tanager, like a tongue of flame, alighted on a telephone wire; there, at their
feet, a shrew scampered for cover. The earth, which has only two words, intoned
the first of them (âlife') noisily, with birdsong, the gurgle and slap of rushing water, the suck and
squelch of the ground itself. Not that its other word (âdeath') was banished. As they walked in a field, Father Pennant spotted a small
clearing over which bleached animal bones (ribs, skulls, backbones and limbs)
were strewn. Among and through the bones, young grass grew. It was like an open
ossuary.
     â What's this? asked Father Pennant.
     â I'm not sure, said Lowther. Maybe someone dumped the remains of animals they didn't mean to trap. Poachers, most likely.
     The most impressive thing they saw that afternoon, however, came as they stood
by George Bigland's farm admiring the violets and thistle. They were on their side of the barbed
wire when Father Pennant saw, in the distance, a dark sheep. It was followed by
others and still others until, after a while, it was as if a wave of sheep,
baaing and crying out, were subsiding in their direction. The sheep, their
fleeces dark with dirt, seemed aware of Father Pennant's and Lowther's presences. They pooled about on the other side of the fence, hundreds of them.
Then, curiosity satisfied, they dispersed, going off here and there to eat the
short grass.
     Lowther was an ideal guide to the fields. He knew the names of all the birds,
grasses and wildflowers. As Father Pennant was himself an amateur naturalist,
his respect for Lowther grew. It grew immeasurably when he discovered the sheer
breadth of Lowther's learning. Lowther seemed to have read everything and his memory was
extraordinary. He could, if asked, recite reams of Coleridge and Shakespeare,
Dante and Hopkins. He was modest and self-effacing, but there was also
something slightly disturbing about him. Why should such an evidently talented
man be satisfied working at the rectory? How did he support himself? What was
he after, exactly? It troubled Father Pennant to think this way about a man
with whom he felt a kinship, but it was like finding a gold ring in a back
garden: you had to wonder to whom it belonged.