Yes, finally a cliché that he could use. Death gave poignancy to life. It was the shadow in Arcadia.
A field through which a river ran, white clouds, wheat in stooks â all was made more precious by the presence of evening: a touch of crimson,
deepening shadows, the time of day when it was not possible to tell dog from
wolf. Lowther had lived a long twilight. From the moment his father had told
him that he, Lowther, would die at sixty-three, Lowther had lived in
anticipation of night, and now night had come. It was not to be mourned.
Certainly, the passing of Lowther's spirit was sad for those who had loved him. But death was nothing and there
was nothing beyond it that was of concern for those who remained.
     In the eulogy he delivered, Father Pennant did not (of course) say that there
was ânothing in death that is of concern for the living.' He shared his thoughts about Arcadia before going on to recall his most
precious memory of Lowther, a man he had not known for long â five months, was it? â but whom he had come to treasure. For at least two weeks, Lowther had been
baking bread, dozens and dozens of loaves. At times, every surface in the
kitchen had been whitened by flour. Lowther had thrown out many of the loaves
he'd made. Others, they had eaten. These had been wonderful, but Lowther had been
unsatisfied with them. Father Pennant did not understand Lowther's sudden passion for bread until, one evening, as they sat down for supper,
Lowther brought out a loaf that tasted familiar and smelled of yeast, molasses
and burnt walnuts. In order to apologize for his bad mood in the days after he'd failed to die, Lowther had perfectly duplicated Harrington's brown bread, Father Pennant's favourite. And Lowther, having gotten the recipe right, had baked a further
dozen of the loaves. There were eleven of them still in the rectory's freezer, and Christopher Pennant did not know if it were best to eat them or
to preserve them in Lowther's memory.
    Â
Lowther's funeral came quickly and went quickly by. Because Lowther had kept to himself
for the most part, the funeral was not well-attended. Heath was there, of
course, as were a handful of people from Sarnia and a man from Petrolia whose
name was Tully. There were some ten people in all, if you included the altar
boys.
     The day was sunny, so the stained-glass images were brightly lit. The saints,
Zeno and Zenobius, went about their business, laughing or raising the dead, in
what looked like jewelled surroundings. The saints on the other side were in
darker, but still striking, tones. There was a cheerfulness to the funeral,
though Father Pennant was distraught at Lowther's death. At times during the mass, a wind blew through the church, carrying the
smell of freshly cut grass.
     Despite his efforts to think about his friend and to maintain seriousness,
Father Pennant found his mood lightened as the service progressed so that, by
the time he rose to give the eulogy, it was as if Lowther were there with him,
and it would have been embarrassing to say too much or, worse, to be pompous.
As a consequence, Father Pennant gave a moving eulogy, one that was pleasing to
those who had known Lowther well. Â
     At the cemetery, Father Pennant spoke a few warm words, commended Lowther's spirit to the care of the God Lowther had so fervently believed in. He and the
others then left the place where, spiritually speaking, there was no trace of
Lowther Williams.
     Father Pennant was exhausted after the funeral. He was emotionally drained.
However, he'd invited Heath Lambert to dinner and so, that evening, he had to tidy the
rectory and prepare a meal for two: grilled pork, mashed fingerlings with green
onions, and black pudding. It was all prepared as Lowther might have, but
Father Pennant used a cookbook from England and a calculator to convert the
weights and volumes.
     The two men ate at seven o'clock. The setting sun was reddish but the spirit of the day had not dissipated.
They spoke of Lowther. Though Heath had known him much longer than Father
Pennant had, there were details of Lowther's life to which he had not been privy, details Lowther had confessed to the
priest but that Father Pennant was loath to share.
     Happy to talk about his truest friend, Heath wondered whether he or Father
Pennant had known Lowther best. Clearly, Father Pennant knew more of the facts
or, at least, Lowther's angle on the facts. But a man is more than the incidents that make up his life
and more than what he judges significant or worth hiding. Heath Lambert felt
that, were Lowther with them, he could predict Lowther's behaviour. And this, as Father Pennant himself admitted, was beyond the
priest. Though they had been close over the months they'd lived together, Father Pennant had never â or never with any certainty â been able to say what his friend would do. Moreover, he still had a number of
questions about Lowther. One of them concerned the sheep. After describing his
encounter at Preston's farm to Heath, Father Pennant asked
     â How did Lowther make the sheep talk?
     â I don't know that he did, answered Heath. I don't know that he had anything to do with it. After you saw Mayor Fox walk on
water, Lowther felt pretty guilty. He thought it was his fault you got such a
shock. I don't think he wanted to put you through that again. He'd be the one to do it, I guess, if he changed his mind. I don't know how, though.
     â A hologram, maybe?
     â No, he'd have needed my help for that. And let me tell you: that was a costly business.
Those gypsy moths were an expensive gift, if you know what I mean. And it took
a lot of work.
     â I was upset when he told me the moths were an illusion, said Father Pennant. I
kind of knew before he confessed, but being sure was still a bit ⦠unpleasant. It doesn't make you feel good to be fooled.
     â I'm with you there, said Heath. I'd have been pissed too. But it was one hell of a thing to pull off. Felt like
solving an equation.
     â I thought the whole thing was diabolical, said Father Pennant.
     â Diabolical? said Heath. I could get used to being lord of the moths. They'd make good wallpaper.
     Both of them laughed.
     Father Pennant had put out a small white plate filled with olive oil: a white
circle that held a yellowish circle. Beside the plate of oil there was another
plate on which there were rough slices of the bread Lowther had made. Heath
took a piece of bread, dipped it in the olive oil, shook a few grains of salt
over it and ate.
     â Well, Father Pennant said, Lowther must have done the sheep thing somehow.
Sheep don't go around talking.
     â It would be good if they did, said Heath. Human conversation isn't always entertaining. You'd want to talk to the really smart sheep, though, the ones who'd thought about things.
     â I don't know about that, said Father Pennant. The best thing about sheep is there's probably no sheep philosophy.
     â That you know of, said Heath.
     There really was something impish about Heath Lambert. He was good company and
Father Pennant could see why Lowther, a believer, had been close to Heath, the
atheist. Of course, atheists were themselves believers and, inevitably, ended
up on the same God-driven sledge as the faithful: He is, He is not, He is, He
is not, ad infinitum. It was no surprise at all that Heath and Lowther had been
close, when you thought about it.
     â You knew Lowther's mind better than I did, said Father Pennant. Let's say he did make that sheep on Preston's farm. What was he trying to tell me with all that talk about Nature?
     â You got me there, said Heath. I don't know. He was someone who really loved the earth. Every little detail about it.
Mushrooms, insects, lice ⦠there wasn't anything Lowther didn't love, but he managed to love God too. I don't think there was any difference between God and Nature, in his mind. Then
again, maybe he really did think Nature isn't enough and he was trying to warn you, for some reason. Of course, if Lowther
didn't have anything to do with this sheep, maybe you did see God. That'd be bad luck, as far as I'm concerned. You look in the Bible. Once God speaks to you, your life's pretty much ruined, isn't it? Not too many happy prophets, are there, Father?
     â No, said Father Pennant, that's true. Thank you for your thoughts, Heath. Most of what you said sounds exactly
like Lowther's thinking. There's one more thing I'd like to ask. Lowther left me to take care of his money. What do you think he
would have wanted me to do with it?
     â I think he wanted you to do whatever you thought was best. He told me so. He
trusted you, even if you only knew each other for a little while. He trusted
you more than he trusted me, I can tell you. He thought I'd waste the money on the greenhouse I'm building. And he was right. I would spend it on my greenhouse. But you should
do what you think is right.
     â You mean give it to charity?
     â If that's what you think is right. About the only thing we know for certain is that he
didn't want to put his money in a greenhouse. Â If he had, he'd have left it for me.
     The day was done. The sun torched the last of the clouds. An evening breeze
blew through the rectory, playing with the tablecloth and the cloth napkins.
     â That was a great meal, said Heath, rising.
     â I'm glad you liked it, said Father Pennant. You should come around more often. I
enjoy talking about Lowther.
     â Listen, Father, said Heath, before I go I want to say something and I don't want you to take it the wrong way. I used to say this to Lowther all the time.
I really don't know why someone as sharp as you would believe all that mumbo-jumbo the Church
tells you. Even if you leave aside the whole question of God, there's no reason someone like you has to live on his knees, if you know what I mean.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not the kind of atheist who hates people who don't believe what he does. I just wanted you to know how I feel, since we're likely to spend some time together and I don't want to hide anything.
     â So you think the earth is enough?
     â No, I don't. I think there's plenty we don't understand, plenty, and if the earth was enough we wouldn't have to go looking for it. What I think is: there's enough mystery in this life without dragging incense and holy trinities into
it.
     â I know what you mean, said Father Pennant, but I'm beginning to wonder if there's any real mystery or if the mystery's all in our heads. Maybe the earth
is
 enough, Heath. Anyway, if I were going to lose my faith in God, I wouldn't replace it with faith in chance and nothingness.
     Heath laughed and shook his finger as if to say no.
     â That's exactly the kind of thing Lowther would have said. We're going to have to keep this conversation going.
     The men shook hands and Heath walked from the rectory.
     Though he lived outside of Barrow and he was, more or less, an atheist, Heath
and Christopher Pennant would become close friends during the priest's short stay in Barrow. This was in part because each was bound in the other's memory with memories of Lowther, and they would inevitably speak of Lowther
when they met. But it was also because they were â as they discovered â temperamentally suited and had a number of interests in common.
The weeks following Lowther's funeral were among the last that preceded Elizabeth's marriage to Robbie Myers. September 30th approached like the date of a final
verdict.
    Â
A week before the wedding, members of her extended family began to arrive in
Barrow. Her aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents all came to wish her the
best. The house she had lived in for most of her life, the house she would be
leaving if she married Robbie, became a noisy and convivial world of Dennys,
Youngs and Constables. It was a diverse but, at least over the short term,
pleasant gathering of people. There were those who could not eat cheese and
those on diets who ate nothing but fruit. There were those who would not sleep
in soft beds and those who would sleep anytime and anywhere. There were any
number of odd personalities and quirks of behaviour so that, at times, one
wondered what it was that linked them all. But then, as if in answer to that
very question, one noticed that most shared some physical feature or other: a
nose, hazel-green eyes, ears that stuck out, body types. Depending on how one
looked at it, âfamily' was a word for a funhouse mirror in which Youngs, Dennys and Constables were
changed and distorted or it was a word for what persisted despite the
distortions. It was also, of course, a thing that held an intimation of her
parents. As such, there was nothing more precious to her.
    Â
Along with the influx of family came Elizabeth's closest friends. They organized her bridal shower. They forced her to her own
hen party, which was held on Ladies' Night at a strip club in Sarnia. The men were all nicely built, but the last
thing Elizabeth wanted to do was to touch any man's package for luck. Her friends, who had set it up so Elizabeth could feel Donny
the Horse for herself, were disappointed when she refused â this after they'd plied her with vodka and tonic. But they themselves manhandled the unfortunate
Donny until Elizabeth felt sorry for him and wondered if a penis could bruise,
a consideration that made her think of apples and, because the man was
monstrously endowed, the arm of a shaken baby.