The Bay of Love and Sorrows (37 page)

He was shot, in the back of the head, just as the mayor’s family had been, and left to die, for the villagers were too frightened to offer help,

He fell face down in the stream — called “Ah-ron” by the locals. His body was set afire to destroy the evidence. The rat, as judge, was shot, as well

But one piece of identification remained. Someone rifling through his shack found under the floorboards a picture of his son, the date, and the name of the country.

The ambassador was informed in May. A computer search was undertaken. His parents were both dead. He had no living relatives — except a son out of wedlock. External Affairs in Ottawa wrote to the Department of Vital Statistics in Fredericton. His name was discovered,

Laura McNair was informed of this by her chronically unfaithful husband. This information struck her very hard. For she thought the man had already been dead for fifteen years.

“His name was Michael Skid. Those townspeople who stole his wallet and rings, rifled through and burned his shack, were never brought to justice — “

It struck Tom Donnerel and Nora Battersoil hard as well. It took them a week to tell Owen what had happened. At first he seemed unconcerned about it: “I’m sorry. It is terrible — but I didn’t know him — “

But as time went on he became solemn, whenever it was spoken about, and on more than one occasion was seen in the den looking for old pictures,

“He has died,” he said one night, when he found a picture of Michael Skid from the summer of 1974, “He is gone.”

There was a few months of red tape before the remains of Michael Skid were brought back home.

The funeral was attended by Bobby and Joyce Taylor, by Gail (Hutch) Taylor, her children, by Laura McNair, Sergeant John

Delano, Amy (Battersoil) Holstein, Tom Donnerel and Nora Battersoil and their son, Owen, who was now doing his master’s in history at unb.

Owen found himself attracted to Gail Hutch’s oldest girl — Sarah — now eighteen, starting her first year of university. While the older people were at the grave they managed only to think of life, and walked along the August path, talking about what courses she should take, Owen saying that he would help her when she arrived in the city at the end of the month.

They walked down to the shore and Owen was happy and talkative. But suddenly at the rocky red cliff near the path, where Michael had once liked to come to read, Owen heard an echo, felt in his heart a deep overwhelming presence in the sunlight, and in grief began to cry.

“They murdered him —” he said.

“Here,” Sarah Taylor said, holding him as a mother does a child. “Have no fear — and I’ll give you a hug.” And she reached up, in the promise of young womanhood, and bravely — quite bravely — kissed his startled eyes.

The body of Mr. Skid was laid to rest very close to the grave of Madonna Brassaurd.