Scattered Bones (11 page)

At that very moment, Ernst Wentworth decided he had to take a stand. Sick onto death of the priest’s dirty tricks, he marched over to the Indian agent’s tent, and demanded a showdown. An astonished Bob Taylor promised that if Father Bonnald agreed, he would arrange a summit for later that afternoon. The little post office attached to the Hudson’s Bay Company store was deemed neutral enough territory. Ernst realizes that he must carefully prepare for what he has wrought, and so secludes himself in the lean-to attached to the rear of the church that is laughingly called his study.

He is so tired of being bullied. Domineering men, so much tougher, self-assured and cunning than he, despots each and every one, have oppressed him his entire life. The first of these was that huge, jowly man, his father, a successful barrister famous for the patronizing, scathing manner in which he cross-examined his prey.

At six months old Ernst fell out of his crib and bruised his forehead. He cried as though his heart, not his head, was broken. Douglas Wentworth decided right then that his son was a weakling, a judgement from which he never veered. Ernst’s mother was more sympathetic towards her third child, but she was so caught up in her multitudinous charities – the greatest moment of her life was when she was elected president of the Imperial Order Daughters of the Empire, Toronto branch – that she had little time for him. His two brothers, William and James, big, manly fellows, years older than he, were interested in only two things: playing polo and hunting down the opposite sex. They gave him about as much thought as they did the family’s cocker spaniel – an absent-minded pat on the head on good days, a bad-tempered smack on his ear on bad.

He was handed over to the care of a nanny, good-natured Betty Brun, a farm girl from Tweed, Ontario. She gave him the run of the family’s Rosedale home, a grandiose pastiche of brick and stone, soaring gables, peek-a-boo porches, wide lawns both front and back. A perfect place for a shy boy to play.

His idyllic time with Betty ended all too soon. At age seven he was packed off to Upper Canada College, where he spent a miserable twelve years supposedly having his character moulded by an assortment of tyrannical teachers. He was not the worst scholar, but certainly not one of the brilliant set, as brother William had been. He played lacrosse and tennis decently, but did not shine as brother James had. He did take up a hobby though, grew passionate about it, and this turned his young years golden.

The clouds of butterflies floating like coloured confetti over the vast garden at the family’s summer home on Lake Simcoe enthralled him. Here, at last, was something precious and beautiful that he could call his own. That he could master. He was judicious in the number and the kind of specimen he went after. And those he did net, he learned to mount properly. The corpse must be prepared quickly after death so as to remain soft and malleable. The pin must be thrust through very hard, very straight, right at the centre line of the thorax. The wings neatly, carefully spread. Twelve or twenty-four or thirty-six or even forty-eight of these beauties were then lined up in boxes and covered with glass. These were displayed on his bedroom walls. When every inch was covered, they were piled on the floor, one on top of the other, leaving only a pathway to the door. The maid complained that she spent more
time dusting his room than any other in the house.

Ernst picks up the glass case on his desk. It’s his very first collection. Each specimen is labelled neatly, printed in his childish hand:
Papilio Canadensis
(Canadian Tiger Swallow Tail), July, 1891;
Limenitis arthemis
(White Admiral), June 1893;
Chlosyne Harrisii
(Harris’ Checkerspot), August 1893;
Celastrina argiolus
(Spring Azure), July, 1894;
Colias philodice
(Clouded Sulphur), July 1895;
Nymphalis antiopa
(Mourning Cloak), August 1891. Wherever he has travelled this treasure has gone with him – an everlasting tribute to the wonder of God’s creation. Only, in this desolate place, it’s turned into a bitter reminder of the sacrifice he suffers to perform The Almighty’s work. Butterflies are so difficult to locate in the bush, and many of them are so ordinary looking, the pale Cabbage Whites, plain Brown Elfins, the ghostly Northern Cloudy Wing. He once came across a magnificent
Vanessa atalanta rubria
but such finds were rare. His heart broke when he realized that his passion was leaking away.

He returns the butterfly collection to its place next to the photograph of his parents. Both are gone now – his mother killed when she stepped in front of a tram as she was on her way to a meeting of the Women’s Christian Temperance Movement, his father dead after suffering a massive heart attack during a ferocious argument with Sam Hughes, the Minister of Militia. Lifetime friends and debating partners – they were at university together – the two quarrelled over whether the Lee-Enfield should replace the Ross Rifle in the trenches of the Great War. Wentworth was for it, Hughes against it.

Ernst has never grieved much for the senior Wentworths. After all, they had hardly bothered with him. But today he feels a certain nostalgia. Maybe he shouldn’t be so hard on them. The old man thought butterfly collecting an effete pastime, better left to fat ladies in large hats, but he always handed over the necessary funds for a deluxe net or the best kind of forceps. And his mother actually took the time to attend a presentation put on by the Toronto Lepidopterist Guild, during which he was named first place winner in the Young Collectors category. The trophy was even given a place of honour on the mantel in the living room.

In another, smaller, photo in place near the back of his desk, his young self stares up at him. Taken the day he was ordained an Anglican minister, he’s smiling broadly, his teeth gleaming as white as his brand new clerical collar. It was his parents who had decided that God was calling him to His service. Ernst hadn’t uttered a peep of protest. Now he wonders why.

Chapter Fifteen

Ernst jumps up
from his desk.
What is he doing daydreaming like this? Important decisions are about to be made concerning the fate of sick Anglicans. He must be in attendance.

He is in such a hurry that he hardly notices what a gorgeous day it is, hot, sunny with only a few clouds in the sky. Laughter bubbles up from the beach but he pays no attention. He heads eastward along the trail that winds past Arthur Jan’s storehouse, where the previous night the boys had been caught playing billiards. He notices that the door is open and thinks maybe Arthur is inside. That man makes Ernst nervous, he has such a confident, blasé air about him. But he is a loyal member of St. Bartholomew’s congregation – if he’s not away on business, he attends services regularly, he’ll even read the scripture if asked. Perhaps he can be prevailed upon to join Ernst this afternoon. Arthur is a persuasive man, a man with influence. Surely he can convince those in authority to do the right thing.

Ernst walks up the pathway and peeks through the doorway. It’s a dank, cavernous place with boxes scattered everywhere. Arthur and Bibiane Ratt are standing at the rear with their backs towards him. Arthur bends over and, with his left hand, pulls out from one of the containers a round, yellowish object. Laughing aloud, he begins to shake it as though it’s a maraca. Bibiane yells out Olay! while his hips sway to a rhumba beat. Ernst stands stock still, mesmerized, until it dawns on him that Arthur’s musical instrument is a human skull.

Arthur rummages through a pile of small utensils until he finds a toothbrush. He picks the skull up again and begins brushing the yellow teeth which dangle in the hole that was once a mouth.

“There, you beauty!” he sings. “Now you’re ready for your travels. Mr. Ratt here would like to give you a big, fat, farewell kiss.” Both men break out in wild laughter.

Ernst has no idea what to make of the scene he’s just witnessed, nor does he have a clue what to do about it. Should he say something? Suddenly, Arthur turns his head and from the corner of his eye spots the clergyman. He picks up what looks like an ancient spear and raises it above his head. Ernst thinks ‘By God, he’s going to throw it. An insect impaled!’ Spinning around, he darts out the door and makes for the path. Half walking, half running, he propels himself as quickly as his legs will take him. Finally, he plops down on a tree trunk, trying hard to control his panting. He is so ashamed that he hadn’t had the courage to confront Jan and Ratt that tears are welling up. For the umpteenth time, he wonders why a man with so little confidence would be called to service by The Maker. Well, he had no say in the matter, did he? He remembers so clearly the day he learned of his fate.

~•~

He was fifteen,
and had been taken on one of the rare visits to his father’s law firm. Wentworth, Dilly, Cruickshank & Smith occupied an entire floor of the ornate Wentworth Building on King Street. The intense clacking of typewriters and the ant-like industry of his father’s employees, mostly men who glanced up not a second longer than it took them to chirp, ‘Morning, Mr. Wentworth,’ always made Ernst uneasy. As usual he was instructed to pay his respects to the senior partner. Mr. Dilly, with his protruding belly, bald head, thin lips and many, many warts all over his face and head and, Ernst imagined, probably in other obscene places hidden by his clothing, so much resembled
Bufo Woodhousei fowleri
– Fowler’s toad – that the boy could hardly keep the necessary straight face.

“What a handsome fellow you’ve turned out to be, Master Wentworth,” cried Mr. Dilly. “So what does the future hold for you? Following brother Will’s footsteps into law – can always use another bright light in this office – or brother James into the military?”

Wentworth Senior cut in before his son got a chance to answer.
“Neither of these, I’m afraid. We think Ernst would be more success-ful
in a less taxing profession. The Anglican priesthood will suit him just fine.”

This was news to Ernst. At first he was indignant that his future had been decided without his opinion being asked even once, but, as he thought about it, not having to endure either the torture of working for his father or death on a foreign battlefield had its appeal.

He was pretty sure that he possessed the correct qualities for a religious calling. He loved the Anglican services; indeed he felt more at home in St. James Cathedral than his own living room. He made a point of assisting anyone he thought was in need, whether, as his father joked, they wanted him to or not. And he was good at the chitchat that the bazaars, tea parties, evening socials – the heart of church life – entailed. Jumble sales were his favourite. Yes, studying for the Anglican priesthood was probably a fine idea.

Ernst enjoyed his four years at Trinity College. The study of Hebrew, Greek and Latin was not so much a chore as a pleasure, and he found his biblical studies stimulating – he received some distinction for a paper entitled “Wisdom in the Book of Job.” His professors were often eccentric, but not vicious. And his social life was very agreeable; for the first time he was surrounded by like-minded companions and, to his amazement, he discovered that the opposite sex was attracted to him. One young woman took to calling him “Vicky” because, she said, he had the same wavy hair, plump cheeks and sweet smile as the Broadway actor, Victor Moore. Pretty soon he was Vicky to everyone.

One Sunday afternoon, towards the end of his third year, he was invited by his friend Walter Smith-Rowen to a tea party at the family home. There were a dozen young people there, pleasantly chatting away about nothing of import. During a discussion of the Broadway musical
Wonderland
, Ernst caught sight of a petite brunette with a heart-shaped face who seemed never to stop giggling. She wasn’t that much prettier than the other girls but she had a light-heartedness, a sparkle, that he found charming. His thought immediately of
Cupido comyntas
, Eastern Tailed-Blue, with its shades of heavenly purple and little spots of orange. He asked Miss Lucretia Hollingshead to accompany him to a choral concert the next evening. Six months later they were engaged.

Ernst would have been deliriously happy if it were not for one sour note – his future father-in-law turned out to be another tyrant.

Lawrence Hollingshead was a distinguished scholar of medieval literature, the author of the
Dictionary of Old English
, and the prestigious recipient of the Arthur Blodsworth Award for his translation of
Beowulf
. His wife had died of tuberculosis years before, so that he and his daughter lived alone in the ancestral home on Sherbourne Street – a Gothic pile of yellow bricks, all gables and gingerbread trim. Lucretia warned Ernst during his first visit that her father’s study was sacrosanct, and under no circumstances must he enter this holiest of places. Even the char hadn’t been allowed in for years.

At first, Ernst quite liked Professor Hollingshead. A short, portly fellow, with a head of thick white hair, bushy eyebrows, and a bulbous nose, he had welcomed the young man politely if not with great warmth. What Ernst soon discovered, though, was that the professor was full of disdain, not just for him, but for all of humanity. Except for the few exceptions counted on the fingers of one hand, the entire student body and all his colleagues, every clergymen and politician that ever walked the earth, each shop owner and tradesman within his radius, were all stupid, pig-headed, blathering blunderheads. He never said much to his daughter’s suitor, but his small reptilian eyes sent out clear signals – this young man was certainly making a fool of himself.