â Save it for the motel.
     Could he really be drunk so soon?
     Her wedding was what gossipmongers would call a lavish occasion. The food was
still being cooked and put on the long tables. It seemed everyone in Barrow had
contributed something. There was more gelatin, more flavours and varieties of
gelatin, than you could easily keep in memory: red gelatin with bits of slaw
and carrots suspended within, a yellow gelatin with pineapple pieces, an orange
one in which something was suspended like smoke in a small sunlit room. There
were pots of potato salad with its yellowish mayonnaise and bowls of greens.
Beside the tables, at a slight remove, a barbecue pit had been dug. In it a
whole pig was roasting, its blackened corpse continually turned and faithfully
doused with a barbecue sauce that smelled of molasses, mustard and oranges.
Beyond the barbecue, parts of a cow were being cooked and roasted on a black
grill from which plumes of smoke rose. Also, there were drinks. Bottles of
alcohol: rum, gin, vodka, beer, scotch, rye and, though no one in town liked it
much, wine. There was also, of course, champagne and, as almost everyone had
had a glass, Elizabeth had one too. It tasted like a fizzy vinaigrette in which
someone had dropped sugar and pieces of apple.
     Finally, at its own table apart from the others, there was her wedding cake. It
was odd to see it here, in a field, beneath a white canopy. It was tall and
magnificent. All the affection John Harrington had for her had gone into its
making. The details, the florettes and silhouettes, were precisely done. You
could smell the marzipan from a distance away, as if the cake were an almond
censer. Impressive and elegant, it suggested great love and it was for this
reason that, seeing it here, in this still-green field, Elizabeth began to cry.
How inadequate and petty her feelings were, compared to the deep feelings Mr.
Harrington's patience and kindness were meant to celebrate.
     Her aunt Anne was beside her in an instant, holding her hand and wiping the
tears from her face, as if Elizabeth were still a child and homeless as she had
been at her parents' death. Though she did not want to upset Elizabeth further, her aunt also began
to cry, as quietly as she could, overcome by the thought of her child, and in
the end Elizabeth
was
 her child, leaving, happily married, as she imagined.
     â Is everything all right? someone asked.
     â Yes, yes, someone else answered. It's tears of joy.
     And before Elizabeth knew it, she and her aunt were surrounded by cooing
friends, all congratulating her on her happiness.
At some point, Elizabeth imagined she understood the meaning of the day. She and
Robert, at the centre of this maelstrom, were being made to feel the magnitude
of all this, the wedding and the reception. And it suddenly occurred to her
that a wedding was like a train wreck or an inner-city mugging, a fall from a
survivable height or a near drowning. It was a trauma that would â that was
meant to
 â bring them closer.
     After the meal, Elizabeth had at last gone in to change her clothes. Her
suitcases were packed. She and Robert were off to England, to the Lake
District, where Robert's family had come from three hundred years previously. Some of Elizabeth's people had also been English and had come from a place in Suffolk (mythic, in
her imagination) called Snape. But her English relatives, once they reached the
New World, had intermingled and intermarried, so that Elizabeth was more French
Canadian or Native Canadian than she was anything else.
     After changing clothes, Elizabeth and Robert danced for the guests. They danced
in the field, as the embers used to cook the pig darkened to black. For the
bride and groom's final dance, the band from Glencoe played something that sounded Celtic. And
it pleased her to dance. There was meaning to all this too: the association of
man and woman in dancing was itself a kind of matrimony, two and two, a
necessary conjunction, holding each other by the hand or the arm in concord.
For a moment, dancing with Robert, she was happy. Not that she suddenly loved
him, but she liked him, because he did not mind dancing, because he was not a
wilfully cruel man, because he loved his family and because, in the end, she
believed he loved her. And because she was happy, she stopped worrying about
their future.
     Around six o'clock, the newlyweds were ready to leave. Their time together as husband and
wife had begun. Elizabeth wanted a last look at the land that was home, before
she left for Pearson Airport in Toronto, so she quietly walked away while
Robert said goodbye to his friends. Somehow, a few of the sheep had strayed
from their pen. They stood eating grass at the periphery of her wedding, as if
curious about the goings-on, but not too curious. They kept their distance.
Elizabeth walked toward them, away from the reception, unobstructed now that
she was in normal clothes. The sheep were so used to humans, they scarcely
reacted to her approach: a little bleating, a shifting, as if to make room
for her, and then they were quiet, thoughtfully eating the grass and weeds.
     As she passed them, it struck Elizabeth that she had always loved sheep, but
she had rarely paid much attention to them. They were, simply, a part of her
world. She stopped, turned back and stood looking at the sheep for a while:
dirty fleeces, fat-looking flanks, delicate legs, almost invisible tails, the
smell of them, the weight of them in the mind so different from the weight of
cows, say, or dogs. In her imagination, it was as if one could pick a sheep up
with one hand, like raising a cloud. Not true, of course, not true. They were
beautiful and solid and having taken their beauty in, Elizabeth walked on
toward a rise in the land from which one could see all the way to Barrow, its
houses.
     Elizabeth was alone for no more than a few minutes before Father Pennant
approached.
     â It's beautiful, he said. Isn't it?
     Elizabeth looked out over southern Ontario, the land beneath them, oddly
misshapen squares of dark green, black and yellow. Here and there were
farmhouses and barns. To one side, there were the woods. And beyond, the crab
shape of a small town: Barrow. This was who she was. Had her parents lived, her
destiny might have been different. She might have had these feelings for
Strathroy or Ottawa, Windsor or Thunder Bay. But her parents had died and this
was the place that had taken her in, and she could imagine, finally, that in
death the land would take her broken body and care for it as it would for all
bodies that had walked the earth.
     â Yes, she answered. It is beautiful.
     â Sometimes, said Father Pennant, I think it's all we have.
     â I don't think it's
all
 we have, Father.
     â You're right, said Father Pennant immediately. You're right. There's more. Are you enjoying your wedding?
     â It feels a little strange to call it enjoyable.
     Father Pennant laughed.
     â I find weddings strange too, he said. No ⦠mysterious is a better word. They're mysterious. All the sacraments are, when you think of it. They're moments when the grace of God touches the earth. I mean, that's what the Church teaches.
     â You don't believe that? asked Elizabeth.
     â Yes, yes, of course I do. But it's still mysterious, however you describe it. I mean, you don't have to bring God into it. The very idea that two people choose to get married
in the first place is mystery enough.
     â Yes, said Elizabeth. It is mysterious.
     They spoke for a few more minutes, before Father Pennant wished her a happy
honeymoon. He was going to walk to Barrow, to work off some of the wonderful
food he'd eaten.
     â It's one of the finest weddings I've been to, he said.
     He walked away, wishing her all the best in the life to come with her husband
and â did they want children? â children.
     Elizabeth stood alone for a moment longer, thinking of Father Pennant's words about the world being all we have. Well, if that was true, if the land
was all â no God, no love, no others â she could still be happy because, in the end, everything came from the land,
from the smallest thing to, maybe, God Himself. Anything you took away, the
land would give back. Or so it felt to her, at that moment, and she walked back
to the reception, tired and content.
     Yes, she did want children.
     The next day, the very next day, the new life would begin in earnest. It would
have its problems, of course. She was not certain she could remain married to
Robert Myers, that she would be Mrs. Myers for long. But she put her doubts
aside as she returned to the field and to her various families.
Father Pennant went on his way back to Barrow. He passed through the woods, its
darkness a little intimidating, before coming out by the highway that looked
down onto Barrow. His thoughts were confused. Had he really asked Elizabeth
Denny if she didn't feel Nature was all? He should not have. (Nor should he have had the feelings
he fleetingly felt for her. For the briefest of moments, as he asked Elizabeth
about children, he had imagined the salt taste of her, the feel of her tongue
on his, the animal
there
-ness of her body.)
     Since the death of Lowther Williams, he had become so passionate about his
study of the land around Barrow that he sometimes lost sight of the world
beyond, of God the creator. Even now, at the thought of âGod the creator,' he felt an unexpected twinge of mistrust. Mistrust? Yes, âmistrust' was
almost
the word. Take the implications of Lowther's death, the implications of a âcompact' with God. He supposed that some would have taken Lowther's death as a manifestation of God's mercy or, at very least, His will. That is,
if
 they accepted that God had interrupted His infinite discretion to kill Lowther
himself. For a while, he'd preferred to think of Lowther's death as a coincidence â perhaps, even, an unconsciously made decision on Lowther's part, a suicide carried out unawares. Now, however, he admitted to himself
that, yes, it was possible for the infinite to concern itself with the death of
a being. Perhaps it was even right. Perhaps if Lowther or any of his male
antecedents had lived beyond the age of sixty-three, there would have been
catastrophic consequences. So, Lowther's death had been justified.
But if so, that made any âgod' who carried out the execution a caretaker, a gardener pulling weeds. And as it
was with Lowther, so it was with loaves and fishes and the parting of the Red
Sea. God, Âultimately, was useful. But why call Him âcreator'? Why should we say God created Nature rather than, as the ancient Greeks
believed, Nature created the gods, that âgod' was subject to Nature's laws and interdictions? It was easier to believe, easier for him to believe,
anyway, in the rules of Nature binding God rather than the other way around.
     Honestly, that sheep couldn't have done better if it
had
 been divine.
     Christopher Pennant knew, or felt, that his thinking was suspect, but he could
do nothing about his thoughts. He was again Âexperiencing the struggle for faith he'd experienced as a seminarian. And, yet, he was not unhappy. More than that: as
he walked home he was in the very best of moods, as joyful as if a storm had
passed and the world was restored to its entrancing self. The early evening sun
was still bright, though the clouds in the distance were reddish and darkening.
The air was clean and smelled of the woods, of the fields, of the world itself
over which a light breeze blew.
     He thought again of the sheep he'd encountered in Preston's field. He then immediately thought (again) of Lowther and then of Lowther's prayer book. The prayer book, which had once belonged to Lowther's father, had had every prayer crossed out but one. The one prayer left, a
perverse prayer for death, had itself been crossed out by Lowther, almost
certainly in the days when he had believed God had abandoned him. So, on the
dresser in what had been Lowther's room, there was an entirely useless prayer book. Useless? No, not useless. In
that it served as a memento of Lowther, Father Pennant could not bring himself
to throw it out. There, you see? There was an example of spirit (Lowther's spirit) adhering to a thing (the prayer book). You could use Lowther's prayer book as proof that the world was more than material, couldn't you? No sooner had he asked himself this question, though, than it was
dismissed. The only value the book had was in him, Christopher Pennant. It was
not in the book itself. Â
     The realm of the spirit was, decidedly, becoming strange to him.
     As he walked along the road to Barrow, Christopher Pennant was reminded of the
day, some five months gone, when he had walked into town for the first time. He
had been entranced by the world around him. He was still entranced, but there
was a difference. On this day, he was no longer certain he wanted to remain in
Barrow. Five months previously, he had been charmed by this, his first parish.
More recently, the thought had come to him that, perhaps, Barrow was not
enough. It was as lovely and as interesting as any town could be. Its
inhabitants were mainly good people. Its rituals were commonplace, save for
those that were not. And the life of the town was almost certainly enough to
sustain his interest, at least for a time. But what about the land? The land
was wonderful and absorbing, but there were other kinds of plants elsewhere,
other moths, other butterflies, other beetles. Having become adept at
cataloguing and drawing the world around him, it was natural, wasn't it, that he should be curious about Nature in other places?