Part 1 (1/2)
The Land of Look Behind.
by Paul Cameron Brown.
FOREWORD
The Land of Look Behind hopes to be something of a rear-view mirror, at once c.o.c.ked to reveal our innermost dimensions while transporting that, which by necessity, must lie beyond. Involving ourselves in any interplay with flickering images, of course, must be more than fireside watching and it is my hope the book will be seen not solely as a collection of short stories, although these do figure prominently in the narrative. Satire, ”beast fables,” and texts (single-page entries) mingle casually with the longer tales. Regardless of the genre, they hope to speak as a unit--to view the conflicting colours of a prism's radiation. Allow me to detail what you can expect.
On the subject of Indian myths, these are entirely of my own making.
They are an attempt to visualize the mysteries of creation through alien perspectives. Oral myths were Canada's indigenous literature. In this vein, the writer resorts to utilizing the spoken ballad form in some of his exercises. Some of the prose pieces reflect a mirror world where the gazer chances upon reality with a new breath of perception--much as the native people's world was to the arrival of the whites. Bewilderment with the natural world is the keynote here. For how many of us have wished, like the Indian, to clarify a particularly taxing bit of life--to elucidate its function into a more recognizable form?
On a larger plane, this is the issue before the book--the ”terrible algebra of our existences,”--explored with the urgency and sometime seriousness it deserves.
TO CROSS THE BAY
”I wouldn't try a crossing in weather like this,” warned the old man.
”It's a bad time of year, what with the wind and all. Worse still, the lake water is lethal by November. That means if you capsize it will be the chill that does you in.”
The old man stopped short, conscious of the look of defiance in the youth's eyes. Young fool biting the nose to spite his face, he thought.
The marina was closed for the season, but the island's residents made contact with the mainland one way or the other. Until mid-winter there was a ferry service, but that a.s.sumed a fair bit of discipline from a resident. He had to go and come when the province obliged. Young bloods off to escape the monotony of Wolfe Island were only marginally willing to conform their Sat.u.r.day festivities with an arbitrary ruling. No, it was too easy to keep a boat in tow at a friend's landing. Keep a bottle to ward off the night's chill. A bottle for tonic against the elements and a b.u.t.tress against authority. The old man knew if he did not avail this one a boat--a safe one at that--he would put his hands on a craft of some sort. Accountability, he thought. They mustn't care about their own lives. Still, there was a living to be made and it was a marina, albeit a closed one. He would still get a boat one way or the other, he mused again as he watched the light fade in the evening sky. He pulled his collar sharply. Yellow leaves were beginning to form a mat on the wooden stairs leading to the shed. He could just make out land's end against a funnel gray sky. Better to advise the young man of the dangers, suggest a daytime crossing. Perhaps even try a little reverse psychology.
The boy, if he could be called that, was growing impatient.
”I'll be all right with a life-jacket. The boat won't be overloaded.
Just the three of us. My cousin and her kid are going with me.”
The old man's eyes stirred from the damp reverie of the previous moment.
”I can't let you take a child out into that. The water's choppy at best. You know next to nothing about handling a craft if she takes on water or if it becomes turbulent. Why are you in such an all-fired hurry to get across anyhow?”
”Let's just say it's my business. My uncle supplies you with business during the summer months. He has a boat in tow here now. I'm responsible. It's still normal weather for this time of year. Now step aside and stop your glib patronizing and palming yourself off as an expert on the sea.”
”I can't stop you, son. I can only suggest, well that you await next morning and only take two across at one time. Many a person has received a cruel surprise out there. Why this area's full of tales dating back to the earliest times concerning drownings. Why from the time of the Loyalists up through my earliest childhood--all the time in between that--my family has run the marina and it seems someone is claimed yearly by this lake. The French didn't call it an inland ocean for nothing. Some even claim there's tides--real swells that will take a boat and . . . .”
”The French, the Loyalists. I'm not here to listen to a travelog. What do I care if a long list of idiots blundered to their doom. I'm now and intend to keep on living. What should I care about the past!”
”That may very well be, son, but n.o.body sets out to drown. Even on the calmest days a sudden storm whips up and . . . I remember my daddy telling of a group of early settlers up from the Bay of Quinte area crossing to attend a church service--full seven of them drowned after a heavy wind whipped . . . .”
”Church,” snorted the other. ”Well, I'm not going to any church that's for sure.” He broke into a snicker, his dark eyes flas.h.i.+ng above a set of stained teeth.
”Yes, I guess you're not. Your type will . . . .”
”My type, is it? My type is not so gutless as you, that's a fact. A little natural obstacle doesn't send me s.h.i.+vering to the nearest root cellar. This is near winter. You have to b.l.o.o.d.y well expect a little discomfort at this time.”
He had unnotched the first of several ropes securing the craft. The boat, a little three seater, st.u.r.dy, but otherwise quite frail was bobbing up then down as each successive dark wave hobnolled it against the current. It looked for all the world like a large, red currant fleshy against the wind. The young man checked the fuel, began to rev the motor before glancing toward the distant sh.o.r.e. A package of cigarettes emerged from his coat pocket. Blue gray puffs, sentinel like, climbed the air about his person. He spat into the water and proceeded to throw the match after it. Both whirled in the spray, then disappeared from sight. The old man sensed his growing uneasiness but that resilient pride checked any apparition of modesty.
”Put the fare on my uncle's account. I'll return the boat tomorrow morning.”