A Man in a Distant Field (16 page)

When he eased the skiff up to the planked dock at their home, Declan asked if there was anything else that he could do to help. Mrs. Neil told him that Lucy had left some liniment made from willow bark which she would use to wash Tom's arm and that Lucy herself would be coming by in the next few days to collect more skins for curing (a deer hanging around the garden had finally been shot).

“She has fine knowledge of plants and medicines,” Mrs. Neil said, “and I know she will give Tom something to drink which will help to ease his pain, too. If he is too bad tonight, I will do as I did last night and give him a measure of rum in a cup of warm milk. That will have to do. Come and join us for a cup of tea before you continue on to your own bay, Mr. O'Malley. Martha will have seen us and will have the kettle boiling for it now.”

There was tea waiting and four children quiet at the sight of their brother's arm in its sling of clean cotton. Declan carried Tom to his bed and returned to the kitchen while Mrs. Neil removed the boy's shoes and settled him under his blankets. He was surprised to see there was a violin on the table, a bow resting against it.

“Who is the musician?” he asked, and was told it was Martha. The violin had been sent by her uncle as a gift, and an elderly man at Irvines Landing had given her some lessons.

“He's blind, Mr. O'Malley, but he plays any tune you could care to hum,” Rose said. “He taught Martha to play quite a few songs and sometimes the two of them play at dances. When my father lets Martha go.”

“Could ye favour us with a tune yerself, Martha?” Declan wanted the tense atmosphere in the kitchen to relax a little. Clearly the children were unnerved by their brother's injury, by Rose's mention of their father.

Martha smiled and lifted the violin to position. She drew the bow across the strings, playing scales. Then she thought for a moment and began to coax a melody from the violin. Declan listened carefully, realizing it was a song he knew. He hummed along, and then quietly began to sing, finding in his own voice the tempo of Martha's playing.

Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows,
And fair is the lily of the valley;
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne
But my love is fairer than any.

He stopped as Mrs. Neil entered the room. Martha stopped too. “Oh, don't stop,” the woman asked. “It was so lovely to hear you sing. Martha learned that melody but we never knew there were words for it. Continue, please?”

The girl's eyes met his own, and he nodded. She drew out the first notes, waiting as he found his place in them, and they resumed the song.

Come over the hills, my bonny Irish lass,
Come over the hills to your darling;
You choose the rose, love, and I'll make the vow
And I'll be your true love forever.

It was a song that contained Declan's own longing for Eilis, his loneliness, the yearning he had for the days of marriage and husbandhood. The great tender plea of the lover to the beloved, the summoning of garden flowers and love, the sorrow of family
members ...“It's not for the parting that my sister pains, / It's not for the grief of my mother.” He sang for their potatoes, the green of their corn on early summer mornings, the sweetness of her kisses. Each time Martha thought the song had ended, he found another verse until finally he had run out of lines to express the fierce pain of loss.

He took up his cup and drank his tea, glad for a moment not to have to talk. There was murmuring in the room and Mrs. Neil clapped her hands, telling him what a treat it was to hear such a song in her kitchen. Rose's face glowed the way it did when she heard the verses of Suibhne. And both the woman and the girl knew something of what the man had been given and lost, something of the bleakness of his solitary life at the edge of the water, the woman knowing his grief and the girl having knowledge of the poetry in his soul without understanding the price that had been paid. Martha played a short dance tune which the boys danced to like dervishes in the darkening room.

“Will you sing again, Mr. O'Malley,” and he sang to them of Ireland's lamentation, “The Wild Geese”—“How still the field of battle lies! / No shouts upon the breezes blown! / We heard our dying country's cries ...”—and then the most ancient of airs, “The Hawk of Ballyshannon.” In each song, there was something of his own life: the rocky pleated earth of County Mayo, the long stretch of Killary Harbour heading to the Atlantic, seabirds' plaintive cries over the foggy water. And after he finished, he accepted more tea, and then, looking at the climb of the moon over Oyster Bay, he begged his leave, thinking of Argos and his cold fire.

Leaving the Neils, Declan tried to suppress his anger at Tom's injury. A song, however deeply felt and offered, seemed little comfort to children who'd witnessed the violence of one parent, the helplessness of another. He brought to his mind the memory of the canoes approaching the rocky island. What he
had liked best was the way the canoes moved in the water, not in it but of it. He remembered the currachs in his part of Ireland and thought there was a similarity. But the canoes were more stately—this would be due to the weight, he supposed, thinking of the cedar trees that grew around World's End; even hollowed out and shaped, they would be extremely heavy. But buoyant, like the currachs in Killary Harbour, on their way to take up lobster pots. And the canoes had vision as well, one raven eye on each side of the prow. They would know where they were, in time and space, and where they were bound for.

Work on the poem was going well, and fishing had been good, too. One day he had gone out early and caught enough young coho to pay a month's rent. It was lonely work and frightening when the weather changed, but each time Declan's line pulled at his hand to tell him a salmon had reached for a spoon was as exciting as the first time. Such beautiful fish, those bluebacks; even their fight had grace. He learned to kill them quickly and then lay them in the fish box, covered with a damp sack. If he caught a number of them, he'd layer seaweed in between to keep them fresh. He'd pull up kelp from the area where he fished and cut off the long tails of weed from the bulb. He loved the clean smell of the seaweed, the way it kept the fish cool.

One morning he was coming back from a new fishing spot, kelp beds north of where he'd fished in the past, when he noticed activity in a clearing close to the water's edge. A couple of men were standing next to something big, a log Declan thought, and one of them waved to him. He could see it was Alex, the son of Lucy and Simon whom he'd met briefly at the Neils. He decided to see what they were up to and nosed his skiff to the shore.

It was not a log, he could tell that now. Or it had been, but was now on its way to becoming a canoe. Rough bow and stern, the inner log hollowed out and contoured. The men helped Declan secure his skiff, and Alex told them something in their own language. They said a few words in reply and, turning, smiled at Declan and shook his hand.

“I've explained to them where you live,” Alex told Declan. “Charles is my son and Albert is my sister's son. They are fine carvers. This canoe is for them, but I'm here to help. We are from a carving family. My father comes with us when he feels strong enough.”

They all turned to the canoe. Declan asked Alex how long they had been working on it and was told all winter.

“Winter is the best time because the wood stays damp. If it dries out, it can split. We've got the shape now. See the adze—that's the tool we're using right now. We each have a couple because you need different ones for different tasks.”

The area where the men worked was near the water, with logs set up to support the emerging canoe. Light filtered through the high branches of neighbouring cedars and the air was fragrant with their resins. Curls of wood scattered about the ground, and a small circle of stones contained a fire. This was where the men took their breaks: a lard pail steamed on a flat rock to the side and some clamshells had been discarded below it. The men worked quietly, companionably, each stroking the wood with an adze in long, smooth movements. The craft was not as big as the canoes Declan had seen approach the burial island. He guessed it to be twenty feet in length, with a generous prow extending from the bow; he could see that it was carved as a separate piece and fitted on with pegs. But essentially it was a log, the width of a big cedar. It seemed narrower even than the canoe he had placed on the bluff. As if reading his mind, Alex told him that in the next few days they would be steaming the vessel, filling it with water and
putting in heated stones to create steam which would expand the gunwales, helped by sticks and canvas; this would prevent waves from splashing in and give the boat ballast and stability.

Declan was amazed. How had they figured out to do that?

“We've always known,” replied Alex. “Our people have been building these canoes since the beginning of time. We have different tools now, don't need to use bone and slate the way the old ones did, but the way to build canoes hasn't really changed. My father showed me, his father showed him. That's how we know, eh.”

In the forest behind the work site, a raven klooked. Another answered, and then another.
One for sorrow, two for mirth, three a message
,
four is a birth
. The men said something in their language and laughed. One of them made the sound of the raven in his own throat, very skillfully, and then an unseen raven called back, a note of inquiry in its reply. Charles turned to include Declan in the joke, touching his arm and laughing. Back and forth between birds and men,
klook, klook
. One man made a
tok
sound by moving his tongue against his palate. A shadow of wings brought three ravens to the trees right beside the canoe.
How many generations of men have built canoes on these shores
, Declan thought,
and how many generations have kept them company?

Five is for riches, six is a thief, seven a journey, eight is for grief
. After the birds departed, the men assured him that he would be welcome when they steamed open the canoe. They were set up a camp fairly near his place, around the point; it was a fish camp and they'd be spending several weeks there. When the right day came to steam, they told him, they'd stop at his cabin and bring him to the work site with them. Waving goodbye, he returned to his skiff and the journey home.

They came so quietly up the bay that he wasn't aware of their arrival until Argos whined by his side as he sat in the doorway of his cabin writing a letter to his brother in Sydney. Alex stayed in the canoe as Charles came to see if Declan was able to accompany them to their work site for the steaming of the canoe. He quickly damped down the fire in his stove and made sure there was food in Argos's bowl. Taking his waterproof jacket and a few provisions, he went with Charles to the canoe.

Alex smiled in greeting and indicated where he should sit. He was handed a paddle, an elegant piece once painted, the design faded now but faintly showing the ovoid eyes and a claw. Without further ado, they headed to open water, the three men paddling in a relaxed way which Declan observed for a few minutes and then tried to fit into. He felt wonderful, paddling in a canoe so like the one he had placed on the bluff and dreamed within. It was as though his time in the old canoe had prepared him for this, the feel of the waves through cedar, the worn thwart beneath him. The men were silent, stroking the water with their paddles. Occasionally one would point with the tip of his paddle and the others would follow with their eyes, seeing an eagle on a snag or an otter at the mouth of a small creek. There was a fine mist, not rain exactly, but soft on the face and hair, and it carried the salt of the spray. At one point, Declan laughed out loud for the pleasure of the experience. Alex reached across and touched his arm, saying, “You never thought you'd paddle an Indian canoe, eh?” Declan was warmed by the observation.

They reached the work site and beached the canoe. Albert lifted out a large basket and took it to a level area under a tree. He then set about making the fire. Alex and Charles gathered driftwood and began stacking it on the beach for another fire, which they started with dry cedar sticks they took from a cache in amongst the trees. The cedar burned hot, snapping quickly, and soon the driftwood blazed. Declan joined them in selecting
rounded rocks which they placed carefully in the fire, many rocks, and then the men returned to work on the canoe. Declan took the lard pail to a nearby creek and filled it with fresh water to boil on the campfire for tea. The men were easy to be around. They talked a little in quiet voices and their silences were comfortable. They drank tea, resting their tin mugs on their knees, and warmed their hands over the low flames.