THE NEW CANADIAN LIBRARY
General Editor: David Staines
ADVISORY BOARD
Alice Munro
W.H. New
Guy Vanderhaeghe
MARGARET LAURENCE
The Diviners
With an Afterword by Timothy Findley
M&S
Acknowledgments
My deepest thanks to the following:
- lan Cameron, who wrote the music for "Lazarus," "Song
for Piquette," and "Pique's Song," and who did musical
arrangements for all the songs, and tape-recorded them for
me so I could hear them sung;
- Sandy Cameron, who set down the musical notations;
- Prue and John Bawden, who transcribed the songs;
- Jocelyn Laurence, who typed the manuscript for me;
-Bob Berry, Paula Berry, David Laurence, Peter
MacLachlan, Joan Minkoff, John Valentine, who helped with
either the singing or the playing of the songs, or with the
obtaining of copies of the musical scores and Xerox copies
of the manuscript.
I should like also to thank the Canada Council for the Senoir
Arts Award which assisted me during the writing of this
novel.
(Music © 1973 Heorte Music)
The Diviners
I. River of Now and Then 9
II. The Nuisance Grounds 29
III. Halls of Sion 183
IV. Rites of Passage 305
V. The Diviners 459
Album 479
Afterword 491
but they had their being once
and left a place to stand on
Al Purdy
- Roblin Mills Circa 1842
PART ONE
River of Now and Then
	t
he river flowed both 	ways. The current moved from
north to south, but the wind usually came from the
south, rippling the bronze-green water in the opposite
direction. This apparently impossible contradiction, made
apparent and possible, still fascinated Morag, even after
the years of river-watching.
The dawn mist had lifted, and the morning air was filled
with swallows, darting so low over the river that their
wings sometimes brushed the water, then spiralling and
pirouetting upward again. Morag watched, trying to avoid
thought, but this ploy was not successful.
Pique had gone away. She must have left during the
night. She had left a note on the kitchen table, which also
served as Morag's desk, and had stuck the sheet of paper
into the typewriter, where Morag would be certain to find it.
Now please do not get all uptight, Ma. I can look after myself.
Am going west. Alone, at least for now. If Gord phones,
tell him I've drowned and gone floating down the river,
crowned with algae and dead minnows, like Ophelia.
Well, you had to give the girl some marks for style of
writing. Slightly derivative, perhaps, but let it pass. Oh
jesus, it was not funny. Pique was eighteen. Only. Not dry
behind the ears. Yes, she was, though. If only there hadn't
been that other time when Pique took off, that really bad
12 The Diviners
time. That wouldn't happen again, not like before. Morag
was pretty sure it wouldn't. Not sure enough, probably.
I've got too damn much work in hand to fret over
Pique. Lucky me. I've got my work to take my mind off
my life. At forty-seven that's not such a terrible state of
affairs. If I hadn't been a writer, I might've been a firstrate
mess at this point. Don't knock the trade.
Morag read Pique's letter again, made coffee and sat
looking out at the river, which was moving quietly, its surface
wrinkled by the breeze, each crease of water outlined
by the sun. Naturally, the river wasn't wrinkled or creased
at all - wrong words, implying something unfluid like skin,
something unenduring, prey to age. Left to itself, the river
would probably go on like this, flowing deep, for another
million or so years. That would not be allowed to happen.
In bygone days, Morag had once believed that nothing
could be worse than killing a person. Now she perceived
river-slaying as something worse. No wonder the kids felt
themselves to be children of the apocalypse.
No boats today. Yes, one. Royland was out, fishing for
muskie. Seventy-four years old this year, Royland. Eye'01
sight terrible, but he was too stubborn to wear glasses. A
marvel that he could go on working. Of course, his work did not depend upon eyesight. Some other kind of sight. A
water diviner. Morag always felt she was about to learn
something of great significance from him, something
which would explain everything. But things remained
mysterious, his work, her own, the generations, the river.
Across the river, the clumps of willow bent silver-green
down to the water, and behind them the great maples and
oaks stirred a little, their giant dark green tranquility disturbed
only slightly by the wind. There were more dead
elms this year, dry bones, the grey skeletons of trees. Soon
there would be no elms left.
The swallows dipped and spun over the water, a streaking
of blue-black wings and bright breastfeathers. How
could that colour he caught in words? A sort of rosy peach
colour, but that sounded corny and was also inaccurate.
River of Now and Then 13
/ used to think words could do anything. Magic.
Sorcery. Even miracle. But no, only occasionally.
The house seemed too quiet. Dank. The kitchen had
that sour milk and stale bread smell that Morag remembered
from her childhood, and which she loathed. There
was, however, no sour milk or stale bread here - /;[]it must be
all in the head, emanating from the emptiness of the place.
Until recently the house was full, not only Pique but
A-Okay Smith and Maudie and their shifting but everlarge
tribe. Morag, for the year when the Smiths lived
here, had gone around torn between affection and rage how
could anyone be expected to work in such a madhouse,
and here she was feeding them all, more or less, and
no goddamn money would be coming in if she didn't get
back to the typewriter. Now, of course, she wished some
of them were here again. True, they only lived across the
river, now that they had their own place, and visited often,
so perhaps that was enough.
Something about Pique's going, apart from the actual
departure itself, was unresolved in Morag's mind. The fact
that Pique was going west? Yes. Morag was both glad and
uncertain. What would Pique's father think, if he knew?
Well, he wouldn't know and didn't have all that much
right to judge anyway. Would Pique go to Manawaka? If
she did, would she find anything there which would have
meaning for her? Morag rose, searched the house, finally
found what she was looking for.
These photographs from the past never agreed to get
lost. Odd, because she had tried hard enough, over the
years, to lose them, or thought she had. She had treated
them carelessly, shoved them away in seldom-opened suitcases
or in dresser drawers filled with discarded underwear,
scorning to put them into anything as neat as an
album. They were jammed any-old-how into an ancient
tattered manilla envelope that Christie had given her once
when she was a kid, and which said McVitie & Pearl,
Barristers & Solicitors, Manawaka, Manitoba. Christie
must have found it at the dump - the Nuisance Grounds,
12 The Diviners i i
time. That wouldn't happen again, not like before. Mora{ was pretty sure it wouldn't. Not sure enough, probably.
I've got too damn much work in hand to fret ovei
I Pique. Lucky me. I've got my work to take my mind of
my life. At forty-seven that's not such a terrible state o
i affairs. If I hadn't been a writer, I might've been a first
rate mess at this point. Don't knock the trade.
i Morag read Pique's letter again, made coffee and sa
looking out at the river, which was moving quietly, its surface
wrinkled by the breeze, each crease of water outlinec
by the sun. Naturally, the river wasn't wrinkled or creasec at all - wrong words, implying something unfluid like skin
something unenduring, prey to age. Left to itself, the rive]
would probably go on like this, flowing deep, for anothel
million or so years. That would not be allowed to happen
In bygone days, Morag had once believed that nothing could be worse than killing a person. Now she perceivec
river-slaying as something worse. No wonder the kids fel
themselves to be children of the apocalypse.
No boats today. Yes, one. Royland was out, fishing foi
muskie. Seventy-four years old this year, Royland. Eye
I sight terrible, but he was too stubborn to wear glasses. A marvel that he could go on working. Of course, his wort did not depend upon eyesight. Some other kind of sight. / water diviner. Morag always felt she was about to learr
something of great significance from him, something which would explain everything. But things remainec
mysterious, his work, her own, the generations, the river.
Across the river, the clumps of willow bent silver-greer
down to the water, and behind them the great maples anc
oaks stirred a little, their giant dark green tranquility dis
turbed only slightly by the wind. There were more deac
elms this year, dry bones, the grey skeletons of trees. Soor
there would be no elms left.
The swallows dipped and spun over the water, a streaking
of blue-black wings and bright breastfeathers. How
could that colour be caught in words? A sort of rosy peaci colour, but that sounded corny and was also inaccurate.
River of Now and Then 13
/ used to think words could do anything. Magic.
Sorcery. Even miracle. But no, only occasionally.
The house seemed too quiet. Dank. The kitchen had
that sour milk and stale bread smell that Morag remembered
from her childhood, and which she loathed. There
was, however, no sour milk or stale bread here - it must be
all in the head, emanating from the emptiness of the place.
Until recently the house was full, not only Pique but
A-Okay Smith and Maudie and their shifting but everlarge
tribe. Morag, for the year when the Smiths lived
here, had gone around torn between affection and rage how
could anyone be expected to work in such a madhouse,
and here she was feeding them all, more or less, and
no goddamn money would be coming in if she didn't get
back to the typewriter. Now, of course, she wished some
of them were here again. True, they only lived across the
river, now that they had their own place, and visited often,
so perhaps that was enough.
Something about Pique's going, apart from the actual
departure itself, was unresolved in Morag's mind. The fact
that Pique was going west? Yes. Morag was both glad and
uncertain. What would Pique's father think, if he knew?
Well, he wouldn't know and didn't have all that much
right to judge anyway. Would Pique go to Manawaka? If
she did, would she find anything there which would have
meaning for her? Morag rose, searched the house, finally
found what she was looking for.
These photographs from the past never agreed to get
lost. Odd, because she had tried hard enough, over the
years, to lose them, or thought she had. She had treated
them carelessly, shoved them away in seldom-opened suitcases
or in dresser drawers filled with discarded underwear,
scorning to put them into anything as neat as an
album. They were jammed any-old-how into an ancient
tattered manilla envelope that Christie had given her once
when she was a kid, and which said McVitie & Pearl,
Barristers & Solicitors, Manawaka, Manitoba. Christie
must have found it at the dump - the Nuisance Grounds,
14 The Diviners
as they were known; what an incredible name, when yoi thought of the implications. The thick brown paper stani
a bit when Christie had handed it to her, faintly shitlike
faintly the sweetish ether smell of spoiled fruit. He sak
Morag could have it to keep her pictures in, and she ha< taken it, although despising it, because she did not havi
any other sturdy envelope for the few and valued snap
shots she owned then. Not realizing that if she hac chucked them out, then and there, her skull would proving
an envelope quite sturdy enough to retain them.
I've kept them, of course, because something in mi
doesn't want to lose them, or perhaps doesn't dare. Per
haps they're my totems, or contain a portion of my spirit
Yeh, and per haps they are exactly what they seem to be a
jumbled mess of old snapshots which I'll still be lugging along with me when I'm an old lady, clutching them as
enter or am shoved into the Salvation Army Old People'.
home or wherever it is that I'll find my death.
Morag put the pictures into chronological order. A;
though there were really any chronological order, or am
order at all, if it came to that. She was not certain whethe;
the people in the snapshots were legends she had onci dreamed only, or were as real as anyone she now knew.
/ keep the snapshots not for what they show but fo\
what is hidden in them.
Snapshot:
The man and woman are standing stiffly on the other sidf of the gate. It is a farm gate, very wide, dark metal, anc
old - as is shown by its sagging. The man is not touching the woman, but they stand close. She is young, clad in i cotton print dress (the pattern cannot be discerned) which appears too large for her thin frame. Looking mon
closely, one can observe that her slight and almosi
scrawny body thickens at the belly. Her hair is short anc
fluffy, possibly blonde. The man's head is bent a little, anc
he is grinning with obvious embarrassment at the image- recorder who stands unseen and unrecorded on the neai
River of Now and Then 15
side of the gate. The man appears to be in his early thirties.
He is tall and probably strong, narrowly but muscularly
built. His hair is dark and somewhat unruly, as
though he had combed it back with his fingers an instant
before. In the far background, at the end of the road, can
be seen the dim outlines of a house, two-storey, a square
box of a house, its gracelessness atoned for, to some
extent, by a veranda and steps at the front. Spruce trees,
high and black, stand beside the house. In the further
background there is a shadow-structure which could be
the barn. Colin Gunn and his wife, Louisa, stand here
always, in the middle 1920s, smiling their tight smiles,
holding their now-faded sepia selves straight, hopeful,
their sepia house and sepia farm firmly behind them,
looking forward to what will happen, not knowing the
future weather of sky or spirit.
Morag Gunn is in this picture, concealed behind the
ugliness of Louisa's cheap housedress, concealed in her
mother's flesh, invisible. Morag is still buried alive, the
first burial, still a little fish, connected unthinkingly with
life, held to existence by a single thread.
Snapshot:
The child sits on the front steps of the house. She has lost
the infant plumpness which presumably she once had, but
she is built stockily, at age about two. Her hair is straight
and dark, like her father's. She looks grave, although not
unhappy. Thoughtful, perhaps. She wears a plain cotton
dress with puffed sleeves and a sash, and she or someone
has tucked it modestly around her knees. Beside her sits a
grinning mongrel dog, tongue lolling out.
The dog, as one would not guess from the picture, is
called Snap, short for Snapdragon. He always follows
Morag around the yard, keeping an eye on her. He is a
mild-natured dog, easygoing, and he never once snaps at
anyone, despite his name. He would snap at thieves or
robbers if there were any, but there aren't, ever. Morag's
mother lets Snap sleep in Morag's bedroom, to keep her
16 The Diviners
company. Some people wouldn't have allowed a dog to
sleep at the foot of a bed, but Morag's mother doesn't
mind, because she knows Morag wants Snap to be there
so as she will feel safe. Morag's mother is not the sort of
mother who yells at kids. She does not whine either. She is
not like Prin.
All this is crazy, of course, and quite untrue. Or maybe
true and maybe not. I am remembering myself composing
this interpretation, in Christie and Prin's house.
Snapshot:
The child, three years old, is standing behind the heavywire-netted
farm gate, peering out. The person with the
camera is standing unseen on the other side. The child is
laughing, acting up, play-acting goofily, playing to an
audience of one, the picture-taker.
What is not recorded in the picture is that after Morag's
father has taken this picture, he asks her if she'd like to
have him help her climb the gate. Her father never minds
helping her. He always has time. Her father is beside her,
then, and lifts her up and sets her on the very top of the
gate, holding her so she will not fall. She hangs onto his
shoulder and puts her face beside his neck. He smells
warm and good. Clean. Smells of soap and greengrass.
Not manure. He never stinks of horseshit, even though he
is a farmer. Morag's father lifts her down from the gate,
and they go into their house. The house is very huge, full
of strange corners and places to explore. It even has a
diningroom, with good furniture, a sideboard and a big
round table. The Gunns eat in their diningroom every
single Sunday without fail. There is a cupboard under the
front stairs, into which Morag crawls when she wishes to
find hidden treasure. It goes a long way back and is just
high enough for her to stand up. Inside, there are stacks of
books that once belonged to Alisdair Gunn, Morag's
grandfather, who came here a long long time ago and built
the house and started the farm when probably nothing
River of Now and Then 17
was here except buffalo grass and Indians. The books
have leather bindings, and smell like harness, only nicer,
and the names are marked in gold. Also in this cupboard
are vases and plates, painted with orange chrysanthemums
and purple pansies, and old dresses, long, with lace
on the sleeves, blue velvet and plum-coloured silk, fragile
and rustling. A few spiders and ants live in that cupboard,
but Morag is not afraid of them, or of anything in that
house. It is a safe place. Nothing terrible can happen
there.
/ don't recall when I invented that one. I can remember
it, though, very clearly. Looking at the picture and knowing
what was hidden in it. I must 'we made it up much later
on, long long after something terrible had happened.
Snapshot:
The child is leaning out the window, an upstairs window.
She is smiling down at the person with the camera. Her
face is calm, serene. Her straight black hair, neatly
trimmed, comes just to the level of her earlobes.
What the picture does not tell is that Morag is leaning
out the window of her own bedroom, a room not too
small and yet not too large. It has a white dresser with a
pale leaf-green ruffled curtain around the bottom, and
underneath there is a white (cleaned every day) chamber
pot for her to use during the night if she has to go. This is
nice, because it means she never has to go outside to the
backhouse in the winter nights. There is also a whitepainted
bed, with a lovely quilt, flowers in green and pink
on a white background, very daintily stitched, maybe by a
grandmother.
/ recall looking at the pictures, these pictures, over and
over again, each time imagining I remembered a little
more. The farm couldn 't have been worth a plugged nickel
at that point. The drought had begun, and the Depression.
Why in these pictures am I smiling so seldom? A passing
mood? Or inherited? In my invented memories I always
18 The Diviners
think of my father smiling, possibly because he really sel
dom did. He is smiling in the only picture I have of him
but that was for the camera. Colin Gunn, whose peoph
came to this country so long ago, from Sutherland, during
the Highland Clearances, maybe, and who had in them <
sadness and a stern quality. Can it ever be eradicated?
Snapshot:
The child's black straight hair is now shoulder-length, anc
she is four years old. She is sitting primly on a piano stoo
in front of an old-fashioned high-backed upright piano
She is peering fixedly at the sheet music in front of her
which, from the dimly seen word "Roses" may be guessec
to be "Roses of Picardy." Morag wears a pullover whict
appears to be decorated with wool embroidery, possible
flowers, and an obviously tartan skirt. Her hands res
lightly on the keys and her feet do not reach the pedals.
My concentration appears to indicate interest and eve)
enthusiasm. I did not yet know that I was severely myopil
and had to peer closely to see anything at all.
Let the snapshot tell what is behind it. Morag's mother
before she married, was a piano teacher in Manawaka
She is now trying to teach Morag how to play, and Moraj
really loves the lessons and is very good and quick a
picking up how to do it. The livingroom is not used fo]
everyday, but Morag and her mother go into it quite a lo
in the afternoons. The carpet is royal blue, patterned wit!
birds whose wings are amber, dove-grey, scarlet. Qn^th<
piano is a red glass filled with cornflowers^-anaa ven
miniature tree made out of brass, with smallbells attachec
to it. If you put the piano stool up as high as it will go, anc
start off quickly enough, it twirls all the way down agair
with you twirling on it. Morag's mother plays, not thf
plonk-plonk-plinkety-plonk of Sunday school music, bu
very light, very light.
And that is the end of the totally invented memories. .
can't remember myself actually being aware of inventing
River of Now and Then 19
them, but it must have happened so. How much later? At
Christie's, of course, putting myself to sleep. I cannot
really remember my parents'faces at all. When Hook now
at that one snapshot of them, they aren't faces I can relate to anyone I ever knew. It didn't bother me for years and
years. Why should it grieve me now? Why do I want
them back? What could my mother and I say to one another?
I'm more than ten years older now than she was
when she died - and she would seem so young to me, so
inexperienced.
Snapshot:
The child is standing among the spruce trees at the side of
the house. She wears overalls, and her long hair is untidy.
She is now five, or thereabouts. She squints a little, against
the painful sun, trying to keep her eyes open so the picture
of her will be nice, but she finds it difficult. Her head is
bent slightly, and she grins not in happiness but in embarrassment,
like Colin Gunn in the first picture. Only the
lower boughs of the spruce trees can be seen, clearly,
darkly.
Now, those spruce trees, there, they were really and
actually as tall as angels, dark angels perhaps, their
boughs and sharp hard needles nearly black except in the
spring when the new needles sprouted soft and mid-green.
The grass, there, didn't grow right underneath the trees,
but Morag used to go to the edge of the road and pull up
couchgrass as high as herself, carrying it back in armloads
and spreading it, already drying in the heat, under the
spruces. The walls of her dwelling, her playhouse, were
single lines of stones she had found on the dusty rutted
road. The fallen spruce cones and the dandelions and wild
honeysuckle and purple vetch and pink wild asters were
the furnishings - chairs, tables, dishes. All for the invisible
creatures who inhabited the place with her. Peony. Rosa
Picardy. Cowboy Joke. Blue-Sky Mother. Barnstable
Father. Old Forty-Nine. Some of the names came from
20 The Diviners
songs she must have heard, "Cowboy Jack" and "The
Wreck of the Old Forty-Nine." The latter was especially
fine, inaccurate as the words might have become in her
head throughout the years.
T'was a cold winter's night,
Not a soul was in sight,
And the north wind came howling down the line;
Stood a brave engineer,
With his sweetheart so dear,
He had orders to take the Forty-Nine.
She kissed him goodbye
With a tear in her eye,
Saying, "Come back quite soon, oh sweetheart mine."
But it would have made her cry
If she'd known that he would die
In the wreck of the Old Forty-Nine.
And so on. I recall that song from later on, but it
must 'we been sung to me young. Who would have? Maybe
we had a radio. Where the other names came from, I
wouldn 't guess. I played alone, mostly, as it was too far to
go to seek out other kids. I don't think I minded. I preferred
my spruce-house family, all of whom I knew as
totally individuated persons (as the pretentious phrase has
it, when describing okay fiction). Strange and marvellous
things used to happen to them. Once Cowboy Joke's pinto
threw him over a ravine, as in "Little Joe the Wrangler He
Will Never Wrangle More, "and he would've been a goner
except that Rosa Picardy and myself, with great intuition,
had happened to build a couch of moss in that precise
place.
Another time. Peony and I, although warned not to by
Blue-Sky Mother, went into a deserted grain elevator,
hundreds of miles high and lived in only by bats, dragons
and polar bears, on different levels, bats highest, and succeeded
after many perils in discovering a buried treasure
of diamonds and rubies (known to be red, although I had
River of Now and Then 21
never seen one) and emeralds (which I thought must be the
same brave pale mauve as the prairie crocuses we found in
spring even before the last snow went).
I remember those imaginary characters better than I do
my parents. What kind of a character am I? Old FortyNine
smoked a pipe and sometimes spat a giant globule
into the local spittoon (a word I loved, although I'd never
seen one, and visualized as resembling a chamber pot,
only more dignified and decorated). Peony, not unnaturally,
had curly blonde hair, the opposite of mine, and
sweet little rosebud lips like those on the unreachable dolls
in Eaton 's catalogue. Rosa Picardy, my alter ego, I suppose,
was somewhat sturdier. She did brave deeds, slew
dragons and/or polar bears, and was Cowboy Joke's
mate. Unlike the lady in the song, Rosa Picardy could
never have expired gently while sighing Your
sweetheart waits for you. Jack,
Your sweetheart waits for you,
Out on the lonely prairie,
Where skies are always blue.
No. Rosa Picardy had her head fastened on right. Not
for her the martyr's death, the grave where only the
coyote's (pronounced }a\y-oot's) wailing voice paid sad
tribute. Rosa was right in there, pitching.
Does that say anything about my parents, or only that I
was born bloody-minded? I was born bloody-minded. It's
cost me. I've paid through the nose. As they say. Also, one
might add, through the head, heart and cunt.
The spruce-house family must have appeared around
the time my mother took sick. The whole thing was so
quiet. No outer drama. That was the way, there. But I
remember it, everything. Somewhat ironically, it is the
first memory of actual people that I can trust, although I
can't trust it completely, either, partly because I recognize
anomalies in it, ways of expressing the remembering, ways
which aren 't those of a five-year-old, as though I were
22 The Diviners
older in that memory (and the words bigger) than in some
subsequent ones when I was six or seven, and partly
because it was only what was happening to Me. What was
happening to everyone else? What really happened in the
upstairs bedroom? No - the two bedrooms. He was moved into the spare room. People couldn't be that sick together
in the same bed, I guess.
Memorybank Movie: Once Upon a Time There Was Mrs. Pearl from the next farm has come to Morag's
house. She is an old woman, really old old, short and with
puckered-up skin on her face, but not stooped a bit. Her
face is tanned, though, which makes her look clean. She
makes dinner and swishes around the kitchen. The stove is
great big black and giant - oh, but good and warm.
Summer now, though, and it is too hot. Morag has to
wash her hands. The pump brings the water to the sink,
but you have to chonk-chonk-chonk it, and she is not big
enough to get it going. Mrs. Pearl chonks the pump, and
the water splurts out. Morag takes the sliver of Fels-Naptha
and washes her hands. For dinner. That is what you
have to do.
"How come you're here, Mrs. Pearl?"
"Your mum and now your dad is kinda sick, honey,"
Mrs. Pearl says matter-of-factly, "and I just come to help
out. You and me's going to have our supper in a minute,
so you run along and play now, and I'll call you when it's
ready. I'll bet a purty you're hungry, eh?"
Morag does not reply. She tries to reach the pump
handle so she can rinse her hands, but although five years
old is big, it is not big enough. Mrs. Pearl obliges.
"I think," Morag says, "I'll just go upstairs for a minute
and see my mother and father."
Something is happening. Morag senses it but cannot
figure it out. Mrs. Pearl is trying to be kind. Morag is
scared, and her stomach aches. If she eats anything, she
will throw up.
"No, honey," Mrs. Pearl says. "You're not to go
River of Now and Then 23
upstairs. There's a good girl. Doctor MacLeod will be
along in a little while, and he wouldn't want you to go
bothering your folks when they're feeling kind of poorly,
now, would he?
"I want to see my mother," Morag says. "I am going
up to see her right now. I won't stay long, Mrs. Pearl. I
promise."
But the Big Person grabs Morag's wrist before Morag
can slither away. Mrs. Pearl's hands are very strong, a
trap like for mice or gophers or that, crunching down.
"No, you don't," Mrs. Pearl says sharply. "They're too
sick to see you, just now, Morag. They don't want to see
you."
"How do you know?" Morag cries. "You don't know
anything about it! They do so! Let go of me!"
Mrs. Pearl does not let go. Then Dr. MacLeod's car
comes whamming into the yard. He is a tall man with
brown hair and a smile. Morag now does not trust anyone
who smiles.
"Hello, Morag."
She will not speak to him, or smile. She is not letting on
that anything is happening.
"It's all right," the doctor says. "It's going to be okay.
Don't you worry, now."
When he comes downstairs, he and Mrs. Pearl go into
the livingroom (where no one ever lives; it is for Best), and
close the door. Morag hears their voices but not their
words. Then Dr. MacLeod leaves. Nothing else happens
that day or night.
The days snail along, and Mrs. Pearl is still there. Every
morning and evening she sprays Morag's throat with a
sticky yellow stuff, saying it is good medicine which Dr.
MacLeod has given. Morag sleeps in the kitchen now,
while Mrs. Pearl takes Morag's upstairs room.
Mrs. Pearl's husband Henry comes over every evening
and eats with Mrs. Pearl and Morag. He is old. He milks
the cows. Once he asks if Morag would like to go with him
to the barn, to see him milking the cows.
24 The Diviners
"No," she says.
Not No Thanks. And feels bad for having been rude.
But she hates Mr. and Mrs. Pearl, for being here.
During the nights, there have been no sounds from
upstairs, at least none that Morag has been able to hear,
for the stairs go up from the livingroom, and the kitchen
door is closed and locked at night so that Morag will not
wander upstairs. Then one night Mrs. Pearl forgets to lock
this door.
Dr. MacLeod had been that evening, and Morag had
been sent out to play long after supper, when it was nearly
dark. Mrs. Pearl's face looked scary when she put Morag
to bed, but she said not a word.
Morag is alone in the dark. The stove hisses a little, and
sighs, as the fire dies down. Morag gets up and tries the
door and it opens into the livingroom. She stands barefoot,
the linoleum cool on her skin, and listens.
From upstairs, there is a sound. Crying. Crying? Yes,
crying. Not like people, though. Like something else. She
does not know what. Kiy-oots. She knows only that it is
her father's voice. There is no sound of her mother's voice,
no sound at all.
Morag, terrified, scuttles back to the kitchen like a
cockroach - she is a cockroach; she feels like one, running,
scuttling.
Next morning, Mrs. Pearl does not have a talk with
Morag. Not that day. Or the next. But finally. When?
"Morag, honey, they have passed on," Mrs. Pearl says,
blushing, as though caught in a lie, "to a happier land, we
know."
Morag does not imagine that they have gone to some
real good place. She knows they are dead. She knows
what dead means. She has seen dead gophers, run over by
cars or shot, their guts redly squashed out on the road.
"I want to see them! I have to!"
"Better not," Mrs. Pearl says firmly. "There, there,
honey. You just cry."
And so of course Morag does not know how much of
River of Now and Then 25
their guts lie coiled like scarlet snakes across the sheets.
She does not cry, not then. Mrs. Pearl's leather arms and
flat breast stifle and sicken her, and she pushes the wellmeaningness
away. She stares unblinking, like fledgling
birds when they fall out of their nests and just stare.
"You are the brave girl," Mrs. Pearl says. "Yes, that you
surely are."
There is silence all around, and then Mrs. Pearl says
something else.
"It was the infantile, dear. The infantile paralysis."
Morag has never heard either word before. She asks,
and Mrs. Pearl tells her that it is a sickness which usually
happens to children.
The lowest and largest boughs of the spruce reach down
and touch the earth, making a cave, a small shelter into
which no one can see. She is not doing anything. Cowboy
Joke and Rosa Picardy and the others are not here now.
They have gone away. For good. Once and for all.
Morag is talking in her head. To God. Telling Him it
was all His fault and this is why she is so mad at Him.
Because He is no good, is why.
If it was the infantile, though, why them and not her?
She is the kid around here.
Next day, Morag goes upstairs and looks in all the
bedrooms, carefully, but everybody has gone. Vanished.
She has not seen them being taken away.
"Honey, come here a second," Mrs. Pearl says.
Morag comes to her, reluctantly.
"Listen, Morag," Mrs. Pearl says, clicking her false
teeth and then putting a hand over her mouth, "you're
gonna be living with Mr. and Mrs. Logan, dear, in
Manawaka. Christie Logan, that is. He was in the Army
with your dad, honey, and he and Prin have offered to
take you, seeing as there ain't none of your own relatives
hereabouts. They're not what you'd call a well-off couple,
but they're kind, and they got no children of their own.
I'm sure you'll get on dandy with them, once you're used
to it. It was real kind of them to oner."
26 The Diviners
Morag says nothing. She has learned you can't argue
when you are a kid. You can only wait not to be a kid any
more.
Mr. and Mrs. Pearl have a broken-down old car, black
and rattling, like a hearse for clowns.
They drive off, and Mr. Pearl stops the car on the road
just outside the fence and goes back.
"Won't be but a minute."
Morag does not look back, but she hears the metallic
clank of the farm gate being shut. Closed.
Now I am crying, for God's sake, and I don't even know
how much of that memory really happened and how much
of it I embroidered later on. I seem to remember it just like
that, and yet, each time I think of it, are there new or
different details? I recall it with embellishments which
don't seem likely for a five-year-old.
Infantile paralysis - that was what they called polio,
then.
The land, house and furniture had to be sold to pay the
mortgage, Christie told me years later, but Henry Pearl
managed to winkle the piano and a few other things out
and over to his place, and quietly sold them when he
could, and no one who knew about it in South Wachakwa
or Manawaka ever told on him. He put the money into a
bank account for me to have at age eighteen. He died of
pneumonia about five years later. So I never had the
chance to say anything to him about it, when I was old
enough.
That's all there was to them, my parents. Christie toted
me along once to see their gravestone in the Manawaka
cemetery when I was about eight or ten. I didn't want to
go, and hardly looked at the stone, and wouldn 't place on
its grey granite the bunch of peach-coloured gladioli (naturally,
half-wilted, one of Christie's salvage operations).
Christie scowled but didn't say a word. I was raging
because he'd made me go. And now I no longer know
River of Now and Then 27
whether I was furious at Christie, or at them for having
gone away, or whether I was only afraid and didn 't know
that I was. Now I would like to see that grave, only once,
although I know quite well it couldn 't tell me anything.
Were they angry at me often, or only sometimes? Did
my father feel he'd done well with his life, or that he was a
total loss, or did he feel anything? Did my mother feel
pleased when she saw him come in from the barn, or did
she think to herself - or aloud - that she'd married
beneath her? Did she welcome him in bed, or did she make
a habit of turning away and muttering she had a headache?
Did he think she was the best lay he'd ever had, or
did he grind his teeth in hardly suppressed resentment at
her coldness? No way of knowing. Why should it matter
now, anyway?
They remain shadows. Two sepia shadows on an old
snapshot, two barely moving shadows in my head, shadows
whose few remaining words and acts I have invented.
Perhaps I only want their forgiveness for having forgotten
them.
I remember their deaths, but not their lives. Yet they're
inside me, flowing unknown in my blood and moving
unrecognized in my skull.
PART TWO
The Nuisance Grounds
Two
seven-thirty a.m. and the phone rang. Morag,
never an early or easy wakener, surfaced groggily from
the submerged caves in which she had been happily floating
for some nine hours.
Two rings. Her call. She wondered sourly how many
people on her party line would be up and about to listen
in. Who on earth could be calling at such an hour?
Pique. Of course. Naturally. It could only be her.
Mother, I'm coming home, okay? I've made it up with
Gord and he's gonna meet me at McConnell's Landing.
Or no. Not Pique. A welfare officer in Toronto. You the
girl's mother? She's unconscious at the moment, under
heavy sedation. A bad trip. Naturally, lsd - what did you
think I meant, cpr? She was found wandering -
Morag shot down the stairs, tripping on the piece of
loose stair carpet which she always forgot to tack down,
losing her balance, grabbing simultaneously for her
glasses and the stair railing. She had instinctively clapped
on her glasses, she realized, not so much because she
needed them to find her way downstairs as because she felt
totally inept without them. Probably she thought she
needed them in order to hear.
"Hello?" Her voice anxious, tense.
"Hello? Is that Mrs. - urn - Miss Gunn?"
A woman's voice. Drawling a little. The welfare officer.
"Yes. Speaking."
3i
32 The Diviners
"Oh, well then. You wouldn't remember me. Miss er
- Missus Gunn, but I was in Dragett's Bookshop that day last October when you were there autographing your
books, you know, and actually I bought Stick of Innocence."

"Spear of Innocence," Morag interjected irritably. What a rotten title. How had she ever dreamed that one
up? But let's at least get it right, lady. Stick, ye gods.
Freudian error. Same could be said of Spear, probably.
"Yes, that's the one," the voice went on. "Well, I do a
lot of writing myself. Miss - uh - Miss Gunn, so I just
thought I'll phone you up, like, and I'd be grateful if you
would just tell me how you got started. I mean, I know
once you're accepted, you don't need to worry. Anything
you write now, I mean, will automatically get published "
Oh, sure. Just bash out any old crap and rake in the
millions. I get my plots from the telephone directory.
"But, well, I mean, like," the voice persisted, "did you
know some person in the publishing field? How could I get
to know someone?"
"I didn't know a soul," Morag said heavily, trying to
force politeness and consideration into her voice. "I just
kept sending stories out, that's all. When I wrote a novel, I
submitted it. The second publisher took it. I was lucky."
"Yes. But how did you actually get a start? What did
you rfo?"
"I worked like hell, if you really want to know. I've told
you. There's no secret. Look, it's awfully early. I'm sorry.
I'm afraid I really can't help you."
"Oh, is it early to you? I always rise at six, so as to work
at my writing before I prepare the breakfast for my husband,
but I guess a successful writer like you wouldn't
have to worry about domestic chores "
Certainly not. I have a butler, a cook and a houseparlour-maid.
Black. From Jamaica. Underpaid. Loyal
slaves.
"Look, I'm awfully sorry, but "
The Nuisance Grounds 33
"Oh well, in that case, I shouldn't have troubled you,
I'm sure." Voice filled with rancour.
Slam!
Morag held the receiver in her hand for a moment,
looking at it. Then replaced it. Had she been too abrupt?
The woman only wanted to find out. Desperate, likely.
Wanting the golden key from someone who had had five
books published and who frequently wondered how to
keep the mini-fortress here going and what would happen
to her when she could no longer write. Golden key indeed.
Morag started to kindle a fire in the woodstove, then
changed her mind. The day would warm up quickly
enough. Mid-June, and, although it was cool at daybreak,
by noon it would be hot. Strange to think she had once
cooked on that woodstove, when she first moved in here,
not then being able to afford an electric stove. She was
fond of the old stove now, black and huge as it was, but in
the first days it had been a disaster, smoking like a train
and the food either raw or scorched.
The river was the colour of liquid bronze this morning,
the sun catching it. Could that be right? No. Who had ever
seen liquid bronze? Not Morag, certainly. Probably no
one could catch the river's colour even with paints, much
less words. A daft profession. Wordsmith. Liar, more
likely. Weaving fabrications. Yet, with typical ambiguity,
convinced that fiction was more true than fact. Or that
fact was in fact fiction.
Royland came to the door, looking old as Jehovah.
Wearing his plaid wool bush jacket and heavy denims - a
wonder he didn't melt. Greybeard loon. Royland had a
beard for the only sensible reason for having one, because
he couldn't be bothered shaving. Large and bulky as a
polar bear, he filled the doorway.
"Morning, Morag."
"Hi. Come on in. Want some coffee?"
"I don't mind if I do. I brought you a pickerel. Went out
earlier this morning. It's straight from the river."
34 The Diviners
Ancient myopic eyes mocking her, albeit gently. He
knew she had not yet been able to bring herself to clean a
fish. He was working on her, though.
"Oh, thanks, Royland. That's - wonderful."
Her face, no doubt, looked gloomy as purgatory. He
laughed and produced the fish. Cleaned and filleted.
"Heavens, Royland," Morag said, ashamed, "you
shouldn't have given into my squeamishness."
"Well, the last time I tried you with the whole fish, you
threw it back into the river."
"How did you know?"
"The Smiths' kid told me. Young Tom, he seen you. It
just slipped out, kind of. He never meant to tell on you....
Oh, I was about to mention - I'm divining this week."
"Where?"
"A-Okay Smith's. Want to come over?"
"Yes. Please."
"Fine. It'll be Friday. I'll pick you up in the boat.
Seven. Morning, that is."
"I'll be ready."
Royland's faded amber eyes grew clearer and sharper,
examining her face.
"Why're you so interested in divining, Morag?"
She hesitated.
"I don't know. I wonder why, myself. I guess with one
part of my mind I find it hard to believe in, but with
another part I believe in it totally."
"It works," Royland said.
"I know. That's the only proof needed. I always think,
though, what if one day it doesn't work? And why does it
work?"
"I don't reckon I really need to understand it," Royland
said. "I just gotta do it."
Oh Lord. Of course. Which she had known all along,
but still perpetually questioned. Why not take it on faith,
for herself, as he did? Sometimes she could. But not
always.
"You're alone too much," Royland said, unexpectedly.
The Nuisance Grounds 35
"What about you?"
"Oh sure. But I'm getting on in age. And I don't sit
around knocking my brains out, like you do."
"I'm a professional worrier, that's all," Morag said.
"Did you know Pique's gone again?"
"You worry too damn much about that girl, Morag.
She's a grown woman."
"Hell, don't I know it. That's why I worry about her."
"You used to be her age, once. You made out."
"In a manner of speaking. Anyway, when I was her
age, beer was thought to be a major danger. Beer! Because
it might lead to getting pregnant. Good God, Royland.
Babes in the woods. Innocents. The tartiest tarts in
Manawaka were as Easter lilies. The world seems full of
more hazards now. Doom all around. In various shapes
and forms. I used to be very liberated in my attitude
towards drugs, incidentally, until Pique got to be about
fourteen. Okay, pot. That I can accept. Although nervously.
But all the other stuff. I worry. I worry, but can do
absolutely sweet bugger-all."
"You brought her up. You should have more faith."
"Yeh," Morag said, lighting her tenth cigarette of the
day. "Great example I am."
"Why don't you quit, then?"
"Too late. For her. Anyway, I began when the disastrous
effects of the weed were not yet known, and am now
addicted."
Excuses, excuses.
"Also," Morag added, "another thing about myself
when young was that I got married when only one year
older than Pique is now, and Brooke kept me on the
straight and narrow for a long time."
"That must've been fun," Royland said dryly.
Dirty old man. Shut up. Shut up.
"It wasn't so bad," Morag replied stiffly.
"Oh-oh. Sorry, lady."
"Think nothing of it."
They both laughed, not uncomfortably.
When Royland had gc
aluminum foil (good Goc
thing?) and put it in the
should be an earth cella
herself not to do so, she { began looking at the ones
Logans', right up through
She put the pictures a\ the oval walnut-framed r
from a nail above the side
A tall woman, althougl
once, but not what you
leathery face. Admitted!:
tures. Eyebrows which m
had ceased to pluck, thin
eyes, somewhat concea
glasses. Long, dead-stra^ quite evenly grey.
The films were beginr
inside her head. She coulc
ity, nor guess how many
scene deleted here, anothe again, a new season of the
/ can smell the goddai
outside Christie's palatial
Hill Street, so named b
town hill which led do
Wachakwa River ran, g
more a creek than a river.
in the valley the scrub oak
grew, alongside the clum
wolf willow. The grass the
ing greenly like wheat, an
clover. But on Hill Street i
Manitoba maples and p,
Street was the ScotsEngli
of the Tracks, the shacks i
Manawaka, where the Uki
The Nuisance Grounds 37
lived. Hill Street was below the town; it was inhabited by
those who had not and never would make good. Remittance
men and their draggled families. Drunks. People
perpetually on relief. Occasional labourers, men whose
tired women supported the family by going out to clean
the big brick houses on top of the hill on the streets shaded
by sturdy maples, elms, lombardy poplars. Hill Street dedicated
to flops, washouts and general nogoods, at least
in the view of the town's better-off.
Christie Logon's house was halfway up the hill, and
looked much the same as the other dwellings there. A
square two-storey wooden box, once painted brown but
when I knew it, no distinguishable colour, the paint having
yielded long ago to the weather, blistering summers and
bone-chilling blizzard-howling winters. Front porch
floored with splintered unsteady boards. The yard a junk
heap, where a few carrots and petunias fought a losing
battle against chickweed, lamb's quarters, creeping charlie.
dandelions, couchgrass, old car axles, a decrepit black
buggy with one wheel missing, pieces of iron and battered
saucepans which might come in useful someday but never
did, a broken babycarriage and two ruined armchairs
with the springs hanging out and the upholstery torn and
mildewed.
I didn't see it in that detail at first. I guess I must have
seen it as a blur. How did it feel?
Memorybank Movie: What Means "In Town"? Smelly. The house is smelly. It smells like pee or something,
but not like a barn. Worse. Morag sits still on the
kitchen chair. The two people are looking at her. Let them
look. She will not let on. She will not say anything.
"You'll like living In Town, once you're used to it," the
Big Fat Woman says.
In Town? This does not seem like Town. Town is where
the stores are, and you go in for ice cream sometimes, like
with Mr. and Mrs. Pearl yesterday or when.
The Big Fat Woman sighs. She is so fat - can she be a
38 The Diviners
person? Can people look like that? The Skinny Man looks
funny, too. Sort of crooked in his arms or legs, or like
that. He has a funny lump in his throat and it wobbles up
and down when he talks.
"You'll call me Christie, Morag girl," he says. "And this
here is Prin. You hungry, lass?"
Morag does not let on.
"She'll be all right, Christie," the Big Fat Woman says.
"She gotta get used to us. Leave her be, now."
"I was only trying, for God's sake, woman." Sounding
mad.
"You want to see your room, Morag?" the woman says.
She nods. They mount the stairs, the woman going very
slow because fat. The room is hers, this one? A thin bed, a
green dresser, a window with a (oh - ripped, shame on
them) lace curtain. A little room. You might be safe in a
place like that, if it was really yours. If they meant it.
"I want to go to sleep," Morag says.
And does that. They let her.
And after that, for one entire year, my memories do not
exist at all. A blank. Nothing of what happened then
remains accessible. Not until I was six.
Memorybank Movie: The Law Means School
The long long long long street, and Morag walking,
slowly. Her hand, sweaty, in Christie's hand. His hand is
like when you feel the bark of a tree, rough rough. Not far
now. She wishes it was about another million miles.
All kids have to go to school when they are six. It is
law. What means Lawl
Big brick building, with a high wire fence around the
big yard, and the yard all gravel. If you fell on that gravel
you would skin your knees, all right. Must never trip.
What if they push you, though?
So many kids, there. All yelling. Some very big kids.
Some about Morag's size. Morag knows for sure only Eva
Winkler, who lives next door on Hill Street.
The Nuisance Grounds 39
"Do I have to, Christie?"
"Aye. Just give them hell, Morag, and you'll be fine.
Just don't you take any smart-aleck stuff from any of that
lot, there. They're only muck the same as any of us. Skin
and bone and the odd bit of guts."
"Yeh." But not knowing what he means.
She and Christie walk up the cement steps. Forty miles.
laughter? Why? She turns. Many laughers. All
around. On the steps and on the gravel. Large and small
kids. Some looking away. Some going ho ho har har.
"Lookut her dress - it's down to her ankles!"
"Oh, it isn't, Helen! It's sure away below her knees,
though."
Her dress? What's wrong? Prin sewed it. Out of a wraparound
which Prin is now too stout to wear.
Girls here. Some bigger, some smaller than Morag.
Skipping with skipping ropes. Singing.
Jamie Halpern, so they say,
Goes a'courting night and day,
Sword an' pistol by his side,
Takes Junie Foster for his bride.
And oh
Their dresses are very short, away above their knees.
Some very bright blue yellow green and new cloth, new
right out of the store. You can see the pattern very clear,
polka dots flowers and that.
Well oh
Eva Winkler's dress same as Morag's.
"Hello, Eva. Hello there, Eva!" Morag's voice loud.
But Eva is bawling her eyes out. By herself.
In the front hall, dark dark floor stinking of oil badsmelling
oil. Boys' voices. Mean.
"Hey, you know who that is?"
"Sure, old man Logan. He's the "
"Sh! Al Cates, you shut your face." Girlvoice.
40 The Diviners
"Oh shut up. Mavis. He's the - scavenger!"
What means Scavenger^. Morag cannot ask. Christie's
face is stone.
"Phew! Can't you smell him from here?"
"Gabby little turds," Christie mutters.
The room. Grade One. Christie gone. Morag alone with
all the other kids. Having taken a seat at one of the desks in
the back row. Holding hard onto her wooden pencil-case.
Never mind. They are only gabby turds, these kids. And
when she goes home today she will know how to read.
The teacher is a lady. Tall, giant, like a big tree walking
and waving its arms. A tree wearing spectacles. Morag
giggles, but inside.
Then the worst thought. What if she has to pee or shit?
Is there a backhouse in this place?
The teacher says a whole lot of stuff welcome boys and
girls I know we're going to get along just beautifully and I
know you're going to work hard and not make any trouble
and I may as well say right now that troublemakers will
find themselves in trouble and it is the ruler across the
hands for them and the really bad behavers get the strap
from the Principal.
What means PrmcipaH What is Strap7
"Stand up and say your names, please. You, the girl at
the back in this row, you begin."
Who? Her. Morag. She knows she won't be able to say.
Or will wet her pants. She struggles up, stooping a bit so
as to hide her tallness. She is taller than any of the other
girls, what a disgrace.
Mumble.
"Speak up, dear, we can't hear you."
"Morag Gunn."
"Thank you, Morag. You may sit down. Next, now."
All the names. Stacey Cameron. Mavis Duncan. Julie
Kazlik. Ross McVitie. Mike Lobodiak. Al Cates. Steve
Kowalski. Vanessa MacLeod. Jamie Halpern. Eva Winkler.
And so on and so on.
Teacher's name - Miss Crawford.
The Nuisance Grounds 41
"Miss Crawfish," Jamie Halpern whispers.
Eva Winkler's tears go drip-drip-drip-splot onto her
scribbler. Morag wants to cry, too. But doesn't. Miss
Crawfish is gabbing again. All sorts of stuff now boys and
girls if you want to leave the room you must hold up your
hand for permission either one finger or two you take my
meaning of course.
What means Leave the Room] Morag does not think it
really means you can go home if you want to. One finger?
Two fingers? What for?
"Number One and Number Two," somebody whispers.
"If you gotta do Number Two, she lets you go out right
away. My brother told me."
Morag now sees that she cannot see what is written on
the blackboard. Her ears, though, are of the best. Maybe
this will make up for not having a brother who tells you
things.
Eva Winkler's brothers are all younger. None yet at
school.
A horrible smell everywhere. Who? Eva Winkler bawls
out loud now. All eyes on her. Morag clenches her own
stomach, holding on. She mustn't. She can't hold up her
hand. Not in front of everybody. Especially now.
"Eva - have you had an accident?" Miss Crawfish asks.
Eva cries and cries. Some kids laugh.
"That's enough, class. Eva, why didn't you ask permission?
To leave the room."
"I never knew "
"But I told you, Eva. Stand up beside your desk."
"I can't. It'll go on the floor, the poop will."
^Please. Never use such an expression in this room
again. Very well, you had better go to the washroom, Eva,
and then go home. You can come back this afternoon
when you've got cleaned up. Now, don't worry. It's all
right. Just don't let it happen again."
Eva scuffs out. Plop-plop-plop behind her as she begins
to run, and the floor has stuff on it yellow-brownish and
smelly.
42 The Diviners
"Jamie Halpern," Teacher says. "Go and find the janitor.
In the basement."
A man comes into the room after a while. Hairy and
dark, grinning at the kids. Friendly? Mr. Doherty. Winks
once or twice when Teacher not looking. Carries a bag, a
broom, a dustpan. Empties bag, with greenish powder,
onto Eva's shame shame. Morag knows what the powder
is. Paris Green. What a music name for that poison stuff.
He sweeps up everything and goes.
Recess. Recess means you go out onto the gravel.
Morag listens, hanging around the edges of bunches of
kids who are friends. No talk about Scavenger now. All
about Eva. Eva Weakguts, pale pale face and pale yellow
hair. Kids are saying lots etchings scared to ask permission
doing it on the floor wow wait'll we see her face this
afternoon bet you she'll be blushing like a rose yeh but
not smelling like one oh Ross think you're so smart
dontcha well aren't I and what about you stuckup Stacey
and lots of other things.
Morag's head is thinking thinking figuring out.
At four o'clock they can go home. She still does not
know how to read. Some school this turned out to be. But
has learned one thing for sure.
Hang onto your shit and never let them know you are
ascared.
Memorybank Movie: Morag, Much Older Seven is much older than six. A person knows a hell of a
sight more. And can read. Some kids still can't read yet.
But they are dumb, dumb-bells, dumb bunnies. Morag
can read like sixty. Sometimes she doesn't let on in school,
though. Just depends on how she feels. So there.
Prin is sitting in the kitchen when Morag gets home
from school. Prin is getting fatter all the time, and she
looks like a great big huge pear. She buys jelly doughnuts
at Parsons' Bakery and sometimes she gives one to Morag.
Mostly the bagful has gone by the time Morag gets home.
Prin doesn't mean to be mean. She sits all the afternoon
The Nuisance Grounds 43
in the squashy leather-seated easy chair in the kitchen,
chewing, and then she looks and lo and behold no doughnuts
are left.
Prin's family was English. She has told Morag about it.
Prin's father was a remittance man. That meant his family
in The Old Country didn't like him so good, and were
pretty mean and all, even though he was a gentleman, a
real one, and so they made him come to this country
where he didn't want to come to, and for a while, there,
they sent him some money, but then they didn't. He
wasn't much of a farmer, but he meant well, Prin said.
She was the only child and wasn't none too bright (you
were supposed to say wasn't any too bright but Prin
didn't know that) and couldn't be too much help, but then
her dad died anyway. Her mother had died Before. When
would that be? Long ago in olden times. Prin married
Christie when he came back from the Great War. The
town said good job too; a pity to spoil two families.
Which was mean. But funny, too.
Prin's real Christian name is Princess. Morag thinks
this is the funniest thing she has ever heard. But once
when she said so to Christie, he told her to shut her trap.
"Hi," Morag says. "Can I have something to eat?"
"Sure. You want some bread and sugar?"
Morag nods and goes to fetch it. Soft brown sugar
spread on white storeboughten bread. Her favourite. Prin
used to make her own bread, but gave it up. Too hot to
bake in summer and too hard in winter to find a place
neither too warm nor too cold for the dough to rise
proper. Morag is glad. The soft fluffy bread from Parsons'
is better. More delicate. Morag is very delicate-minded.
She prides herself on it, although she never lets on, of
course. Vanessa and Mavis and like them have storeboughten
bread in their houses all the time. Or so she
guesses, never having been into their houses. Never so
much as a bite of anything else, heaven forbid. Storeboughten
cookies are another thing. She is sure their mothers make cookies because when the class had a valen-
44 The Diviners
tine's party, they and some others brought heart-shaped
cookies with pink icing. Storeboughten cookies are
looked down on.
The hell with them. Screw them all. They are stupid
buggers.
Morag loves to swear, but doesn't do it at school
because you get the strap or else have to stand out in the
hall by yourself where the coats are hung.
"Christie has to go out with the wagon again, now. I'm
sure I don't know why. I'll bet a nickel to a doughnut hole
they won't pay him extra."
Prin's voice is kind of small and high, like a little kid's.
Prin really likes Christie. But she is a born whiner.
Christie comes in from the stable at the back where
Ginger and the wagon are kept. He wipes some sweat from
around his eyes and grins at Morag.
"Hello, lass. Did they learn you much today, then?"
He knows better. He says it like that on purpose. A
joke. Prin would say it not on purpose.
"No." Morag turns away from him.
Christie is short, skinny, but actually quite strong. He
looks peculiar. His head sort of comes forward when he
walks, like he is in a hurry, but he isn't ever in a hurry. His
hair, what's left of it, is sandy. Blue eyes, but all cloudy
and with little red lines on the white part. Wires (hair,
actually) grow out of his chin - he doesn't shave every day.
The lump in his throat is called his Adam's apple, what a
name. His teeth are bad and one is missing at the front but
he never tries to hide it by putting his hand over or smiling
with his mouth closed, oh no, not him. He always wears a
blue heavy shirt, and overalls too big so they fall around
him and make him look silly.
That is the worst. How silly he looks. No. The worst is
that he smells. He does wash. But he never gets rid of the
smell. How much do other people notice? Plenty. You bet.
Horseshit and garbage, putrid stuff, vegetables and that,
rotten eggs and mouldy old clothes.
The Nuisance Grounds 45
"Gotta pick up a load of scrap from the blacksmith's,"
Christie says. "Want to come along, Morag?"
Morag hesitates. She has never gone with Christie in the
wagon. Just for once she would like to go, to see the
Nuisance Grounds. She nods.
"C'mon, then," he says. "Haven't got all night."
Ginger is a rusty colour. A gelding. Morag knows what
that means, too, ha ha. Ginger is thin, and his hipbones
stick out under the leather skin. Morag climbs up onto the
wagon beside Christie.
Why is Christie called Scavenger? Morag does not yet
know this and will not ask. She knows what he does,
collecting the town garbage and taking it to dump in the
Nuisance Grounds. But what, really, means Scavenger^
She is afraid to ask. And why Nuisance Grounds'! Because
all that awful old stuff and rotten stuff is a nuisance and
nice people don't want to have anything to do with it?
Clank-clonk. The wooden cart crawls up Hill Street,
turning north on the main drag. All the stores are up the
other end of Main. Here there is only the Granite Works,
which makes gravestones in two colours, red or black,
speckled stone, some plain and some fancy with flowers
and scrolls and that. Then Christie turns in at a sign above
a dark dark brick cave. W. Sounders, Blacksmith. Morag
isn't going to go down there. She stays on the wagon,
looking into the blackness. At the very end of the gloomy
dark there is a fire, glowing red but not seeming to light
up the place at all. Smells: heat, horses, sweat. An old man
is sitting on an overturned nail barrel outside, and inside a
younger man suddenly swings a big hammer onto the iron
slab and for a second the whole place is full of stars.
Christie loads the wagon with scrap iron, old horseshoes,
crooked pieces of rusty oily metal, and they are off again.
Morag thinks of the sparks, the stars, and sees them again
inside her head. Stars! Fire-stars! How does it happen?
She wants to ask, but won't. Christie would think she was
dumb. She isn't the dumb one. Christie is.
46 The Diviners
Now they are going along the streets where some of the
big houses are, big yellow brick houses or wooden houses
painted really nice. Lawns all neat and cut, and sprinklers
sprinkling, swirling around and making water rainbows.
Flower gardens with pink and purple petunias, and red
snapdragons like velvet, really rich velvet, and orange lilies
with freckles on the throats. The blinds are pulled down
over the front windows of the houses, to keep out the heat.
Cream-coloured blinds, all fringed with lace and tassels.
The windows are the eyes, closed, and the blinds are the
eyelids, all creamy, fringed with lacy lashes. Blinds make
the houses to be blind. Ha ha.
Morag is enjoying this ride more than she thought she
would. Then it happens. A gang of kids. Some from her
class in school. Voices. Yelling. Whistling.
"Hey - there goes Old Man Logan on his chariot!"
"Giddup! Hey, giddup there, ya old swayback!"
"Hey, get a load of who's with him, eh? Got a little
helper, Mr. Logan? Hey, Christie, got a new hand, there?"
Mostly it is the boys who are yelling. Ross McVitie. Al
Cates. Jamie Halpern. The girls are looking away, pretending
not to notice. But snickering a bit. Trying to get in
good with the boys. Mavis Duncan. Vanessa MacLeod.
Stacey Cameron.
"Hey, listen - how about this, eh?"
Then, like a song, like a verse, but mean.
Christie Logan's the Scavenger Man Gets
his food from the garbage can!
Laugh laugh laugh. Har har ho ho. One of the girls,
though (which one?), says for them to cut it out. But no.
They don't.
"I got a better one. Hey, wait, listen! Listen, Ross!"
Mo-rag! Mo-rag!
Gets her clothes from an of' flour bag!
The Nuisance Grounds 47
Morag is not breathing. She can't feel herself breathing.
She isn't hearing, either. She won't hear. She sits still, not
looking at Christie. Then she realizes he has stopped the
wagon and she glances at him.
Oh. Christie is grinning. He is twisting his face, like
different crazy masks. His tongue droops out like a dog's
tongue. He crosses his eyes, and his mouth is dribbling
with spit. Then he laughs. Oh. He laughs in a kind of
cackle, like a loony.
Silence. The kids aren't saying anything. Now Christie's
face goes back to its own self.
"Seen enough, then?" he says. "Next time I'll pass the
hat."
Then he reaches, very slowly, for the whip which he
never uses on Ginger. He lifts it high in his hand.
Give it to them, Christie! Hurt them. But she isn't saying
the words out loud.
The kids run, scattering all over the place. Christie puts
the whip back, and laughs. Laughs like himself. Morag is
crying, but with her head down, so as not to be seen.
Christie puts a hand on her shoulder, but she shoves it
away.
"Why did you have to act so silly, Christie? Why did
you have to?"
Christie hawks and spits into the road.
"Och aye. Only showing them what they thought they
would be expecting to see, then, do you see?"
She does not see.
"Look at it this way," Christie says. "All these houses along here, Morag. I don't say this is so of all of them,
now, but with the most of them, you can see from what
their kids say, what they're saying. Some of them, because
I take off their muck for them, they think I'm muck. Well,
I am muck, but so are they. Not a father's son, not a man
born of woman who is not muck in some part of his
immortal soul, girl. That's what they don't know, the poor
sods. When I carry away their refuse, I'm carrying off part
of them, do you see?"
48 The Diviners
No. She does not see. She sees one thing, though. Chris
tie is working himself into a spiel. He usually gets into
spiel when the whiskey is in him. Prin says so. And Mora
has seen it. But there is no whiskey in him now.
Christie's face looks funny, sort of squashed-in. Hi
skin is all sunburnt, and now it's covered with dust
sweat, all that red skin face. Christie is a redskin. Ha h;
But she isn't laughing. She hates the kids for talking lik
they did, to her but also to Christie. Now she hates Chrii
tie for talking the way he is, crazy.
"By their garbage shall ye know them," Christie yell;
like a preacher, a downy preacher. "I swear, by the ridg
of tears and by the valour of my ancestors, I say unto yoi
Morag Gunn, lass, that by their bloody goddamn fuckin
garbage shall ye christly well know them. The ones wh
eat only out of tins. The ones who have to wrap the ry
bottles in old newspapers to try to hide the fact that thei
are so goddamn many of them. The ones who have foui
teen thousand pill bottles the week, now. The ones wh
will be chucking out the family albums the moment th
grandmother goes to her ancestors. The ones who'r
afraid to flush the safes down the John, them with flus
Johns, in case it plugs the plumbing and Melros
Maclaren has to come and get it unstuck and might see, a
if Mel would give the hundredth part of a damn. I tell yoi
girl, they're close as clams and twice as brainless. I se
what they throw out, and I don't care a shit, but the
think I do, so that's why they cannot look at me. The
think muck's dirty. It's no more dirty than what's in the;
heads. Or mine. It's christly clean compared to som
things. All right. I'll please them. I'll wade in it up to m
ass. I could wade in shit, if I had to, without it hurting m<
I'd like to tell the buggers that."
Christie wipes his face with the back of his hand.
"Now then, Morag," he says in his real voice, "what
bloody fool, talking to you like that. I want my hea
looking at, that's God's truth. But I took this job, yo
know, because I fancied it. I could've worked for the cpi
The Nuisance Grounds 49
Nothing elevated, I not having had the full High School
for various reasons. It was after I came back from the war.
Lot of muck lying about there, in France, I can tell you,
most of it being "
He stops speaking. Morag's hair is hot around her neck,
and the sweat is trickling down between her shoulder
blades.
Christie took the job because he fancied it.
"Christie, I think I'll get off and go on home now."
"Are you not all right, then, Morag?"
"It's so hot," she says. "I feel kinda sick to my stomach."

"Suit yourself, then."
So Morag does not see the Nuisance Grounds this day,
either. Christie goes on his own way alone.
Memory bank Movie: Parsons' Bakery Is the
Worst Place in Town August. No school for another month yet. The heat is
awful. Prin minds the heat, but Morag doesn't. In the
house, the flies are in their millions, but slow and stupid
with the heat. They get in through the rip in the screen
door. Christie always forgets to fix this hole. The flies are bluebottles - how come they got this nice name given to
them? They're ugly. Some of them are all swollen with
eggs inside of them, and they go crawling over the peanut
butter pail on the table, or just burrow and nuzzle their
way inside the loaf of bread. Morag sits with her elbows
on the kitchen table, watching the flies.
When she peers close, she can see that their wings are
shining, both blue and green. Can they be beautiful and
filthy? Should she shoo them away? More would only
come.
The oilcloth on the table is dirty. Sometimes Morag
wipes it off, but more often she leaves it. It will only get
dirty again. Neither Christie nor Prin ever notice, or, if
they do, they don't let on. Prin is not really dirty. She just
doesn't notice so much any more. She sits and sits in her
50 The Diviners
chair, Prin does. Is she dreaming, with her eyes wide
open? You can do this. It's easy. Morag knows. Maybe
Prin is dreaming of being young and pretty. And rich.
Prin rich! Pretty! She can't be dreaming that.
Morag likes the kitchen best. The oak bench, with the
coat racks on each side of it, looks like a big moose with
antlers, like in the school Reader. Christie's winter jacket,
and all the scarves and mitts are still there, full of moths.
The bench part is piled with old newspapers and also
Morag's lunch pail for school. Christie's chair is the same
as Prin's, armchair, old leather with horsehair (horsehair?
Christie says so) inside. The seats of the chairs go scree-ee
- squ-uff when someone sits down, and Morag loves this
sound because it's funny. The kitchen smells, but some of
the smells are okay: melted butter; heat; dust; Fels-Naptha
soap. Sour milk and feet do not smell okay.
Morag likes the sittingroom, too, but nobody ever sits
in it. It is not too good for everyday, like some people's,
but it is full of stuff Christie has brought home from the
Nuisance Grounds. Such as:
a black old stove, quite small and round and fat
a blue chesterfield but you can't see the pattern
anymore too torn
a lamp with no shade, but it is bronze and has a bronze lady
with a bronze lily
a real carved wooden chess set, but no bishops (what are
bishops?)
a family album, covered in red velvet (mouldy) and no name
attached, no family name, but the pictures have things
written in white ink on the black pages - Agnes as Fairy
Queen in School Play; Mother & Marigold 1901
The Nuisance Grounds 51
a blue plush (pl-uush - rich-sounding, but it is really like
velvet only cheaper and not so smoo-ooth on the fingers)
cushion, with a painted-on picture of King Edward the
Seventh
a very good china saucer, very good because thin and you
can nearly see through it (Prin's father had the very same
kind; maybe it was his?); tiny mauve violets on it, but no cup
books, old old old books, and one has real leather for the
cover, and the letters are in real gold or used to be but now
you can hardly see them, and you can't read the book
because it is in another language, but Christie says it is the
Holy Bible in Gaelic. Throwing out a Holy Bible! Oh. But
would God mind so much, seeing as it was in Gaelic? (What
means Gaelic?)
Christie keeps bringing stuff home. He never does anything
with it. But it is tHere. He calls it good rubbish. He
says Bad Riddance to Good Rubbish. But you're supposed
to say it the other way around. Morag knows.
Prin is puffing and wheezing. Her shoes are off.
"Golly, it's hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk,
ain't it, Morag?"
Morag does not reply'. She is watching two flies fucking,
buzzing while they do it.
"Morag, would you run to the store for me, like a good
girl?"
"Do I have to?"
"Well, I'd go myself," Prin says, sighing, "but it's these
gosh-darned veins of mine. I hope and pray you never
know what it feels like to have varicose veins, Morag.
Sometimes they just burn and sting like I got a whole nest
of wasps right there in the veins themselves. Standing on
my feet these hot days is murder."
So Morag goes. Up the hill and onto Main. To Parsons'
Bakery.
52 The Diviners
The bread is kept on open shelves, but not the cakes
and pastries. They are kept in a glass case. Morag looks at
the iced fancies, little tiny cakes covered with pink or
green or white icing, and with an almond or a cherry on
top.
"Four jelly doughnuts, please."
"Right away," Mr. Parsons says.
At the other side of the store are Mrs. McVitie and
Mrs. Cameron. Morag spotted them when she first came
in. Sometimes she has to look hard to be sure who people
are, because the faces don't come clear until they're really
close up, but she always tries to see who is around. You
have to. In case. Ross's mother and Stacey's mother are
looking at the walnut slices and the shortbread. Nope.
Now they are looking at her. Maybe they don't know she
can hear what they're saying?
"It's a wonder some people can afford jelly doughnuts."
Mrs. McVitie.
"Haven't you ever noticed, though, that it's those who
spend their money as though it was water?" Mrs.
Cameron.
"Poor child, don't they ever have her hair cut?" Mrs.
McVitie.
"And those gangling dresses, always away below the
knee." Mrs. Cameron.
Morag takes the bag, pays, and turns. Her hair feels
dirty. But it isn't dirty - Prin washed it only a day ago.
The two ladies are wearing flowery chiffon dresses. Hats,
with real artificial flowers.
Morag sticks out her tongue at the both of them. And
runs. Home.
"I'm not going there again, Prin. I hate that dumb
place."
Why doesn't Prin go and get her own goddamn blistering
bloody shitty jelly doughnuts?
Prin gets up out of her chair. Holding on to the chairarm
to heft up.
"Honey, what's the matter, now? Tell me, eh?"
The Nuisance Grounds 53
Okay. If she wants to be told, Morag will tell her, all
right all right. Morag has got a good memory. She repeats
every word the two of them said, there.
Prin looks funny. Her face goes crinkled.
"You think it's my legs, honey?" Prin says. "It's that,
but I could drag them up the hill. I just don't want to be
seen, like this. But better they'd said it to me than you."
"What? What, Prin?"
"I never used to look this way," Prin says. "Yeh, well, I
know I let myself go. I know. Oh, I know that all right. I
don't know. Just didn't seem that much use, bothering.
We never seemed to get anywheres, anyhow. He's smarter
than what I am, and I only got the Grade Five. I was lucky
he married me. I never could fathom why he did. But I
never could fathom him, neither. He never cared about
getting anywheres. It ain't his fault, I guess. But now - I
don't kind of know how to be any different, like. That's
why I don't, you know, look after you better, sort of. I'm
that sorry, Morag."
Morag is crying. Holding onto Prin's awful fat belly
wrapped around in the brown wraparound, Prin's good
good good.
"Prin - I never meant! I never!"
Prin wipes Morag's eyes with fat warm hands.
"The Lord knows I care about you. I lost my only one." "What? WhatT'
"Strangled on the cord. A boy. Dead when born."
What? What cord? What means CorcH Dead when
born? Oh. How could you be born and dead at the same time? Oh "I
shouldn't have said," Prin says. "Never you mind."
Morag doesn't say. Doesn't say. Doesn't say. Doesn't
say.
Evening, and the three are sitting on the front porch.
Christie and Prin are on straight chairs from the
kitchen. Morag is on the top step. All along Hill Street,
54 The Divinei
summer noises. Gangs of kids play
Run Sheep Run and Andy Andy "
ing in ditches, or fighting, yelping
them apart. Lots of women leanin
yakking.
Next door, at the Winklers', old
Trouble. Vernon runs outside and c
is younger than Morag. He is a dri( drips drips all the time. He is skin;
pale like Eva's) looks funny because putting a bowl on his head and sni
he is just a little kid, and it isn't his f
is Vernon's dad going to do?
Gus Winkler has caught Vernon I
stick in his hand and he is hitting \
legs, on the bum, oh on the fao
screams. Like a dog when somebod:
Morag stares. Blood on Vernon's
bleed. She looks up at Christie.
Christie is sitting very still. His
knees. He looks away from Moi
known he wouldn't do anything. Sc
Gus pushes Vernon back inside th
of a sudden everything on Hill Stn
the ordinary noises begin again, a;
happened. Nothing at all. Christie
he speaks, but it doesn't sound like
"I didn't go over. I didn't go owe
Winkler's too brawny. May God "
He stops. Prin makes little cluckil
"It wasn't none of your business,
Christie gets up and walks inside
"He's gonna have one of his sp
ain't had one for a long time."
When they go into the house, Ch
oak bench. His blue blue eyes look 1
is shaking all over. He keeps on like
The Nuisance Grounds 55
he stops shaking but doesn't move. When Morag goes to
bed, he is still sitting there, not moving.
"What is it, Prin?"
"Shh," Prin says. "It's nothing. It'll go away by itself.
Doc MacLeod says he don't think nothing can be done for
it. It's the shell shock, like."
"WhatT
"In the war," Prin explains. "He was shook up very
bad. In his nerves, like. Sometimes it takes him, even now.
He never said, but I always had a hunch that was why he
couldn't get no other job except Scavenger. He never
knows when it might take him, see."
"But - he told me he fancied the job."
"He would," Prin says, crossly.
"Why would Gus Winkler do that to Vern?"
Prin shakes her head.
"Only the Lord can tell. He's got a devil in him, that
man."
Morag lies in bed, thinking. Christie would never beat
her. He's stinky and he looks so dumb. But he's never
beaten her. He wouldn't do that, anyway. But he didn't go
over to Winklers'. He was scared of Gus.
Christie, sitting there in the kitchen. Christie, shaking
all over.
Morag cries.
Memorybank Movie: Christie With Spirits
Morag is nine, and it is winter. The snow is a good four
feet thick outside and you have to walk to school on the
road, where the snowplough has been. The windows are
covered with frost-feathers and frost-ferns, and it doesn't
matter that you can't see out because the patterns are so
good to look at. In the kitchen, the stove keeps them
warm, although Christie has a job scrounging enough
wood. Lots of people on Relief are going to the Nuisance
Grounds looking for old wooden boxes, not being able to
afford cordwood, but Christie has first pick. Christie is
56 The Diviners
not on Relief. Relief means you have no job on account of
the Depression, and the government feeds you slop. Ugh.
The Depression means there aren't any jobs, or hardly
any, or like that.
Christie is drinking red biddy he got from somebody
across the tracks, and he is explaining about the wood and
other things to Morag. Prin is cross about the red biddy,
so she has turned her chair away from him.
"I leave some, do you see, then, Morag," Christie says.
"It's only right. Garbage belongs to all. Communal property,
as you might say. One man's muck is everyman's
muck. The socialism of the junk heap. All the same,
though, with every profession do you see, there must be
some advantages, some little thing or other that you get
which others don't. And this here is mine. The Nuisance
Grounds keeps us warm. Out of the garbage dump and
into the fire. Och aye, that was the grand load of boxes I
brought back today. Old butter crates from the
Creamery."
He swallows some more red biddy, coughs, then gets
into the subject he always talks about when the spirits are
in him.
"Let the Connors and the McVities and the Camerons
and Simon Pearl and all them in their houses up there - let
them look down on the likes of Christie Logan. Let them.
I say unto you, Morag, girl, I open my shirt to the cold
winds of their voices, yea, and to the ice of their everlasting
eyes. They don't touch me, Morag. For my kin and
clan are as good as theirs any day of the week, any week
of the month, any month of the year, any year of the
century, and any century of all time."
Gulp. Swallow. The spirits are really in him. His eyes
are shining. His right hand comes up, clenched. He is
pretending he is holding a claymore. Morag knows,
because once afterwards he said so, laughing. But you
aren't supposed to laugh now.
"Was I not born a Highlander, in Easter Ross, one of
the North Logans? An ancient clan, an ancient people. Is
The Nuisance Grounds 57
our motto not a fine, proud set of words, then? This Is the
Valour of My Ancestors. The motto of the Logans,
Morag, and our war cry is The Ridge of Tears. The ridge
of tears! Druim-nan deur, although I'm not so sure how
to pronounce it, not having the Gaelic. A sad cry, it is, for
the sadness of my people. A cry heard at Culloden, in the
black days of the battle, when the clans stood together for
the last time, and the clans were broken by the Sassenach
cannons and the damned bloody rifles of the redcoat
swine. They mowed the clans down in cold blood, my
dear, and it must have been enough to tear the heart and
unhinge the mind of the strongest coldest man alive, for
our folk were poor bloody crofters, and were not wanting
to fight the wars of the chieftains, at all. But they thought
their chieftains had the power from heaven, Morag. They
believed their chiefs were kings from God. And them who
didn't believe was raised anyway, with fire and with sword,
until they went off to fight Charlie's battle for him, and
him a green boy from France who neither knew nor cared
for his people but only for the crown gleaming there in the
eye of his own mind."
Christie stumbles to the sideboard and opens a drawer.
He brings out the book. The Clans and Tartans of Scotland, and looks up Logan.
"See there," he bellows. "The crest badge of the
Logans. And what is the crest, Morag? What is the way,
then, you would describe, in the right words, what is there
on that badge?"
She knows it off by heart.
"A passion nail piercing a human heart, proper."
Christie's fist comes down on the table.
"Right! An ancient family, the North Logans, by the
Almighty God."
Then the spirits start to get gloomy in him.
"Och, what the hell does it matter? It's here we live, not
there, and the glory has passed away, and likely never was
in the first place."
"Christie, tell me about Piper Gunn."
56 The Diviners
not on Relief. Relief means you have no job on account of
the Depression, and the government feeds you slop. Ugh.
The Depression means there aren't any jobs, or hardly wiy, or like that.
Christie is drinking red biddy he got from somebody
across the tracks, and he is explaining about the wood and
other things to Morag. Prin is cross about the red biddy,
so she has turned her chair away from him.
"I leave some, do you see, then, Morag," Christie says.
"It's only right. Garbage belongs to all. Communal property,
as you might say. One man's muck is everyman's
muck. The socialism of the junk heap. All the same,
though, with every profession do you see, there must be
some advantages, some little thing or other that you get
which others don't. And this here is mine. The Nuisance
Grounds keeps us warm. Out of the garbage dump and
into the fire. Och aye, that was the grand load of boxes I
brought back today. Old butter crates from the
Creamery."
He swallows some more red biddy, coughs, then gets
into the subject he always talks about when the spirits are
in him.
"Let the Connors and the McVities and the Camerons
and Simon Pearl and all them in their houses up there - let
them look down on the likes of Christie Logan. Let them.
I say unto you, Morag, girl, I open my shirt to the cold
winds of their voices, yea, and to the ice of their everlasting
eyes. They don't touch me, Morag. For my kin and
clan are as good as theirs any day of the week, any week
of the month, any month of the year, any year of the
century, and any century of all time."
Gulp. Swallow. The spirits are really in him. His eyes
are shining. His right hand comes up, clenched. He is
pretending he is holding a claymore. Morag knows,
because once afterwards he said so, laughing. But you
aren't supposed to laugh now.
"Was I not born a Highlander, in Easter Ross, one of
the North Logans? An ancient clan, an ancient people. Is
The Nuisance Grounds 57
our motto not a fine, proud set of words, then? This Is the
Valour of My Ancestors. The motto of the Logans,
Morag, and our war cry is The Ridge of Tears. The ridge
of tears! Druim-nan dew, although I'm not so sure how
to pronounce it, not having the Gaelic. A sad cry, it is, for
the sadness of my people. A cry heard at Culloden, in the
black days of the battle, when the clans stood together for
the last time, and the clans were broken by the Sassenach
cannons and the damned bloody rifles of the redcoat
swine. They mowed the clans down in cold blood, my
dear, and it must have been enough to tear the heart and
unhinge the mind of the strongest coldest man alive, for
our folk were poor bloody crofters, and were not wanting
to fight the wars of the chieftains, at all. But they thought
their chieftains had the power from heaven, Morag. They
believed their chiefs were kings from God. And them who
didn't believe was raised anyway, with fire and with sword,
until they went off to fight Charlie's battle for him, and
him a green boy from France who neither knew nor cared
for his people but only for the crown gleaming there in the
eye of his own mind."
Christie stumbles to the sideboard and opens a drawer.
He brings out the book. The Clans and Tartans of Scotland, and looks up Logan.
"See there," he bellows. "The crest badge of the
Logans. And what is the crest, Morag? What is the way,
then, you would describe, in the right words, what is there
on that badge?"
She knows it off by heart.
"A passion nail piercing a human heart, proper."
Christie's fist comes down on the table.
"Right! An ancient family, the North Logans, by the
Almighty God."
Then the spirits start to get gloomy in him.
"Och, what the hell does it matter? It's here we live, not
there, and the glory has passed away, and likely never was
in the first place."
"Christie, tell me about Piper Gunn."
58 The Diviners
Christie sighs, and pours another drink. He sits there,
thinking. Soon he will begin. Morag knows what it says in
the book under the name Gunn. It isn't fair, but it must be
true because it is right there in the book.
The chieftainship of Clan Gunn is undetermined at the present
time, and no arms have been matriculated.
When she first looked it up, she showed it to Christie,
and he read it and then he laughed and asked her if she
had not been told the tales about the most famous Gunn
of all, and so he told her. He tells them to her sometimes
when the spirit moves him.
Now he rocks back on the straight chair, for he is sitting
at the table with the bottle beside him.
"All right, then, listen and I will tell you the first tale of
your ancestor."
CHRISTIE'S FIRST TALE OF PIPER GUNN
It was in the old days, a long time ago, after the clans was
broken and scattered at the battle on the moors, and the
dead men thrown into the long graves there, and no
heather ever grew on those places, never again, for it was
dark places they had become and places of mourning.
Then, in those days, a darkness fell over all the lands and
the crofts of Sutherland. The Bitch-Duchess was living
there then, and it was she who cast a darkness over the
land, and sowed the darkness and reaped gold, for her
heart was dark as the feathers of a raven and her heart was
cold as the gold coins, and she loved no creature alive but
only the gold. And her tacksmen rode through the countryside,
setting fire to the crofts and turning out the people
from their homes which they had lived in since the beginning
of all time. And it was old men and old women with
thin shanks and men in their prime and women with the
child inside them and a great scattering of small children,
like, and all of them was driven away from the lands of
their fathers and onto the wild rocks of the shore, then, to
The Nuisance Grounds 59
fish if they could and pry the shellfish off of the rocks
there, for food.
Well, now, the Bitch-Duchess walked her castle, there,
walked and walked, and you would think God in His
mercy would keep the sleep forever from her eyelids, but
she slept sound enough when she had a mind to. She was
not the one to feel-shame or remorse over the people
scrabbling on the rocks there like animals and like the
crabs who crawl among the rocks in that place. All the
lands of Sutherland will be raising the sheep, says the shedevil,/or
they'll pay better than folk.
Among all of them people there on the rocks, see, was a
piper, and he was from the Clan Gunn, and it was many of
the Gunns who lost their hearths and homes and lived
wild on the stormy rocks there. And Piper Gunn, he was a
great tall man, a man with the voice of drums and the
heart of a child and the gall of a thousand and the strength
of conviction. And when he played the pipes on the shore,
there, it was the pibrochs he played, out of mourning for
the people lost and the people gone and them with no
place for to lay their heads except the rocks of the shore.
When Piper Gunn played, the very seagulls echoed the
chants of mourning, and the people wept. And Piper
Gunn, he played there on the shore, all the pibrochs he
knew, "Flowers of the Forest" and all them. And it would
wrench the heart of any person whose heart was not dead
as stone, to hear him.
Then Piper Gunn spoke to the people. Dolts and dragSards and daft loons and gutless as gutted herring you are,
he calls out in his voice like the voice of the wind from the
north isles. Why do you sit on these rocks, weeping? says
he. For there is a ship coming, says he, on the wings of the
morning, and I have heard tell of it, and we must gather
our pots and kettles and our shawls and our young ones,
and go with it into a new world across the waters.
But the people were afraid, see? They did not dare.
Better to die on the known rocks in the land of their
ancestors, so some said. Others said the lands across the
60 The Diviners
seas were bad lands, filled with the terrors and the demons
and the beasts of the forest and those being the beasts
which would devour a man as soon as look at him. Well,
says Piper Gunn, God rot your flabby souls then, for my
woman and I will go and rear our daughters and our sons
in the far land and make it ours, and you can stay here,
then, and the Bitch-Duchess can have chessmen carved
from your white bones scattered here on the rocks and she
shall play her games with you in your death as she has in
your life.
Then Piper Gunn changed his music, and he played the
battle music there on the rocks. And he played "All the
Blue Bonnets Are Over the Border" and he played "Hey,
Johnnie Cope" and he played "The March of the
|«J I Cameron Men" and he played "The Gunns' Salute"
which was the music of his own clan. They say it was like
the storm winds out of the north, and like the scree and
skirl of all the dead pipers who ever lived, returned then to
pipe the clans into battle.
Now Piper Gunn had a woman, and a strapping strong
woman she was, with the courage of a falcon and the
beauty of a deer and the warmth of a home and the faith
of saints, and you may know her name. Her name, it was
Morag. That was an old name, and that was the name
Piper Gunn's woman went by, and fine long black hair she
had, down to her waist, and she stood there beside her
man on the rocky coast, and watched that ship come into
the harbour in that place. And when the plank was down
and the captain hailing the people there. Piper Gunn
began to walk towards that ship and his woman Morag
with him, and she with child, and he was still playing
"The Gunns' Salute."
Then what happened? What happened then, to all of
them people there homeless on the rocks? They rose and
followed! Yes, they rose, then, and they followed, for Piper
Gunn's music could put the heart into them and they
would have followed him all the way to hell or to heaven
with the sound of the pipes in their ears.
The Nuisance Grounds 61
And that was how all of them came to this country, all
that bunch, and they ended up at the Red River, and that
is another story.
"Best go to bed, Morag," Prin says. "He'll be asleep at the
table in a coupla minutes."
Morag goes upstairs. Her room is really hers, her place.
It has always been hers. She likes that it is small, just
enough room for the brass bed and the green dresser. She
sits on the bed, shivering. The cold is seeping in through
the closed window. She does not undress. Prin finds her
there, after a while, and scolds.
"Morag, you are a mooner."
Morag puts on her nightgown then, and climbs into
bed. Thinking.
A mooner. That sounds nice. She knows what it means.
It isn't meant nice. It means somebody who moons
around, dawdling and thinking. But to her it means something
else. Some creature from another place, another
planet. Left here accidentally.
She thinks of the scribbler in her top dresser drawer.
She will never show it to anyone, never. It is hers, her own
business. She will write some in it tomorrow. She tells it in
her head.
MORAG'S FIRST TALE OF PIPER GUNN'S WOMAN
Once long ago there was a beautiful woman name of
Morag, and she was Piper Gunn's wife, and they went to
the new land together and Morag was never afraid of
anything in this whole wide world. Never. If they came to
a forest, would this Morag there be scared? Not on your
christly life. She would only laugh and say. Forests cannot
hurt me because I have the power and the second sight and
the good eye and the strength of conviction.
What means The Strength of Conviction^.
Morag sleeps.
t
oday would be better. Today Pique would phone,
or there would be a letter from her, saying she had
decided against hitching west or else that she and Gord
were back together and were going west for a while but all
was well.
Morag went downstairs, made coffee and sat at the
table, looking out at the morning river. The sky was growing
light. Exact use of words, that. The sky actually was growing light, as though the sun, still hidden, were some
kind of galactic plant putting forth tendrils.
Idiotic to have got up so early. As you grow older, you
require less sleep. Could it be that she would become a
consistently early riser? Two hours' work done before
breakfast? A likely thought.
The swallows were of course awake and flittering out
from the nest under the eaves, just above the window,
zinging across the water, swooping and scooping up insects
to feed their newly hatched fledglings. For years
Morag had hardly noticed birds, being too concerned
with various personal events and oddities. In the last few
years she had become aware of creatures other than human,
whose sphere this was as well, unfortunate them.
Even plants were to be pitied, having to share home with
the naked apes.
Across the river came a boat, its small outboard motor
chuffing fitfully. A-Okay Smith and Co. Maudie and Tho-
The Nuisance Grounds 63
mas. At five, apparently, Tom could read, taught by Maudie,
so that in Grade One he had been to some extent
ostracized by the other kids. Now at eight he was full of
exotic knowledge. The Smiths were enlightened almost to
a fault. Morag, while exceedingly fond of them, sometimes
felt ignorant in their presence, which caused her to react
towards them with a degree of resentment and chagrin.
Also, they believed, somewhat touchingly, that their enlightenment
would mean that Tom would be spared ainy
sense of alienation towards them later on, in his adolescence.
Morag had, once upon a time, held that belief herself.
One of the disconcerting aspects of middle age was
the realization that most of the crises which happened to
other people also ultimately happened to you.
The boat came to a jolting standstill alongside Morag's
dock, and the Clan Smith clambered out and straggled up
to the house. Tom, deceptively cherub-faced, was heard to
announce that he was going along the road to Royland's.
Praise God. Spared his hideously knowledgeable remarks
for perhaps an hour, if lucky. Those birds are not Blackbirds,
Morag - the Rusty Blackbird is like that. only
smaller and with shorter talons and tail - those are Grackles. Common Crackles. Tom could confidently be depended
upon to know the nesting, breeding and living
habits (many of them disgusting) of the Common Grackle,
from conception to death. Probably he wanted to pick
Royland's brains on the habits of the muskie, pickerel,
rock bass and other fish inhabiting the waters of southern
Ontario.
"Hi, Morag."
The Smiths entered without knocking, which Morag
did not mind. They had, after all, lived here last year until
they got the place across the river. A-Okay and Maude
were one thing, but a winter enclosed in the farmhouse
with the encyclopaedic Thomas was not to be highly recommended.
Odd how much she now missed the kid, however,
all things considered.
"I brought you some poems," A-Okay said in his earn64 The Diviners
estly jokey young voice, attempting nonchalance but total||
ly without success.
"Alf read them to me last night," Maudie added, a
testimonial, "and I thought they were Right On."
Right On. Dear little Lord Jesus, what did that mean?
Like saying Great, Stupendous. No meaning at all.
I'm just as bad. Even if I think the poems are rubbish, I
always say Very Interesting, at least before clobbering him
with my real opinion. Please God, let them be better than
the last couple of bunches. Well, some of those would've
been a-okay if he'd worked on them more.
A-Okay thrust a wodge of papers into Morag's hands.
He was a tall gangling man in his late twenties, still having
something of an adolescent awkwardness about his limbs.
He would frequently crash into tables, although sober,
unaware of their presence until overtaken, and as an accidental
dish-breaker he was without peer. He was, admittedly,
short-sighted, and although he owned a pair of
specs, he seldom wore them, believing them to indicate a
subconscious desire to distance oneself from others. The
result was that he was considerably more distanced from
others, and from assorted objects, than he need have been.
But let it pass. His was a heart of sterling or oak, stalwart.
Morag's unofficial protector, believing her to be in need of
one, which indeed she sometimes was.
"Thanks, A-Okay," Morag said. "I'll read them later.
As you know, I don't think well off the top of my head. I'll
be over at your place soon, anyway. I'm going with Royland,
when he does your well. All right?"
"A-Okay," said A-Okay, this being the reason for his
nickname. Maudie always called him Alf. He always
called her Maude, a name Morag found unsuitable. Come
into the garden, Maude. Maudie sounded more appropriate.
Maudie herself was slender and small and would
probably look young at fifty, a plain scrubbed face,
blonde hair worn long or in a plait, her dress nearly always
ankle-length, granny-type, in gingham she sewed determinedly
herself on a hand-cranker sewing machine. A
The Nuisance Grounds 65
wonder she didn't sew by hand with needle, thread and
tiny silver thimble. At night. By coal-oil lamp.
"Can I make some coffee, Morag?"
"Sure, Maudie. You know where everything is."
"Heard from Pique yet?"
"Not yet."
"Well," Maudie said, her voice clear and musical as a
meadowlark's, "she was right to go. You know that, don't
you?"
"Yeh." Yes. Truthfully. No need to hammer the point
home, thanks.
"And she's right not to communicate, too." Maudie,
like Shakespeare, knew everything. "She will, in time, but
she's got to find herself first."
"Oh balls, Maudie," Morag said, ashamed of her annoyance
but unable to prevent it. "One postcard wouldn't
destroy her self-discovery, I would've thought."
"Symbolically, it might do just that."
"Yeh. Maybe." Morag's voice lacked conviction.
Maudie with a cool efficiency produced a percolator
full of real coffee in less time than Morag would have
taken to make Instant.
"I've been thinking about that back vegetable garden of
yours, Morag," A-Okay said. "How be if I dig it out for
you again? It's kind of gone to seed, since - well, since we
left. Now don't take offense - you know I don't mean it
that way. I know it's a little late this spring, but at least
you could put in lettuce and stuff."
"We've got ours nearly dug," Maudie said, eyes bright as
goldfinches' wings. "I put in six packets of seeds yesterday."
Morag felt trapped. For one glorious summer the
Smiths had grown vegetables in Morag's garden. At present,
nothing was there except weeds.
"A-Okay, my dear, there is no way I'm going to slog
around in that huge vegetable garden as long as I can
bring in supplies from McConnell's Landing."
Both the Smiths looked away, embarrassed, troubled
for her. Traitoress. Lackey to the System.
66 The Diviners
"By taxi?" A-Okay murmured.
"By packhorse would be better? The taxis are running
anyway. This way, I'm not adding to the effluvia in the
air."
A small moment of triumph. Then the recognition that
the reason she shopped by taxi was quite simply that she
was afraid of driving and refused to learn.
"True," A-Okay said. "But I was actually thinking of
the cost, right at the moment."
"Look at it this way," Morag continued. "If I spent all
my time gardening, how in hell could I get any writing
done? No great loss, you may say, but it'd be a loss to me, and also I need a minimal income, even here. Whatever
Susanna Moodie may have said in Roughing It in the
Bush, I am not about to make coffee out of roasted dandelion
roots."
"An hour a day in the garden," A-Okay said patiently,
"would do the job. At least enough to have some results."
True. Undoubtedly true. Morag Gunn, countrywoman,
never managing to overcome a quiver of distaste at the
sight of an earthworm. Lover of swallows, orioles and redwinged
blackbirds. Detester of physical labour. Lover of
rivers and tall trees. Hater of axes and shovels. What a
farce. You had to give A-Okay full marks for persistence he
never ceased trying to convert her.
"I approve of your efforts. God only knows," Morag
said. "I applaud. I think it is great. I cannot help feeling,
however, that like it or not the concrete jungle will not be
halted by a couple of farms and a vegetable garden."
Silence. What a fatuous thing to say. As if they didn't
know. As if they didn't know it all better than she did.
They'd been part of it all their lives, from childhood, in a
way she never had. She had lived in cities as though passing
through briefly. Even when she'd lived in one city or
another for years, they'd never taken hold of her consciousness.
Her childhood had taken place in another
world, a world A-Okay and Maudie had never known and
The Nuisance Grounds 67
couldn't begin to imagine, a world which in some ways
Morag could still hardly believe was over and gone forever.
These kids had been born and had grown up in
Toronto. They weren't afraid of cities in the way Morag
was afraid. They knew how to live there, how to survive.
But they hated the city much more than Morag ever
could, simply because they knew. A-Okay had once
taught computer programming at a technical college. The
decision to leave was, for them, an irrevocable one and
hadn't been made lightly. Morag had met them through
mutual friends in Toronto at the precise moment when
they had decided to leave the city. She had suggested they
give it a try at her place, and they had done that, paying
their way both financially and in physical work. However
they might feel sometimes, now they were living and had
to live as though their faith in their decision was not to be broken.
"I'm sorry," Morag said, truthfully. "I didn't mean to
say that. I didn't even mean it."
"No," A-Okay said suddenly. "We were talking at you, not with you. Weren't we? I guess we've done a lot
of that since we got our own place. We didn't have any
right."
"Well, now that you mention it, there may be some
small degree of the Bible-puncher in you, A-Okay."
More in Maudie than in him. But she did not say this.
"Your writing is your real work," A-Okay said, with
embarrassing loyalty and evident belief. "It's there you
have to make your statement."
Or not make it. You can't write a novel that way, in any
event. They'd been real to her, the people in the books.
Breathing inside her head.
Phone. Her ring. Morag leapt up and shot over to the
telephone on the sideboard. Pique. Cool it, Morag.
"Hello?"
"That you, Morag?"
Oh God. Him. Not him surely? Yes. How long since
68 The Diviners
she'd seen him? Three years, only. Before the Smiths
moved in. The Smiths had never seen him, and didn't even
know anything much about him, as Morag only ever
talked about him to Pique, sometimes.
"Yes. Speaking."
A deep gust of hoarse laughter.
"Don't try to make out you don't know who this is, eh?"
"Yeh, I know. I'm surprised you're still alive, is all."
"Yeh? I plan on living forever - didn't you know?"
Yes. You told me once you used to believe that, and
didn 't now. Are you all right?
"Are you all right? Are you okay?"
"Of course not," he said. "What do you think? I got
busted for peddling. The hard stuff, naturally. I'm phoning
from Kingston Pen. Got a private phone in the cell."
Well> at least he was okay.
"Oh, sorry to cast doubts on your blameless reputation.
Why did you phone?"
And do you remember the last time I saw you, and what
happened and didn't happen?
"To ask you, you mad bitch," he said, "what in hell you
think you're doing with that girl?"
He had two speaking voices, one like gravel in a cement-mixer,
the other exceedingly low-pitched, quiet. He
used the second when very angry. As now.
"What do I think I'm doing?" Morag shouted. "What
do you mean by that? Wait - have you seen her, then?"
"Of course I've seen her. She turned up here."
"Where is here?"
"Toronto. Yesterday. Don't ask me how she found out
where I was. Ask her. She's a smart kid, I'll give her that
much."
"What - how is she?" Morag sat down on the high
stool beside the phone.
"She's okay," he said. "She's changed a lot since fifteen,
eh?"
"Yeh."
The Nuisance Grounds 69
"What's with this guy she had this fight with?"
"Gord? He wanted to get married. She doesn't believe
in it."
"God, what an example you've been to her," he said,
but laughing, really in approval. "Well, why in hell did
you let her leave home? You know where she can end up,
don't you? You know what can happen to her, don't you?
By Jesus, Morag, if she goes out to Vancouver, I'll strangle
you. Why did you let her go?"
"Let her? Let her?" Morag cried furiously. "What do
you suggest I should've done, then? Chained her to the
stove?"
A second's silence at the other end of the line.
"Yeh," he said finally. "Well, I guess she had to go. She
comes by it naturally. I guess it isn't your fault."
"Well, never mind. It's not yours, either."
"No," he said. "It isn't. But I keep thinking of them,
back there. You know."
"I know. But don't. Just don't, eh? Has she gone, now,
then?"
"Yeh. West. I don't know how far, though. She wanted
something. Maybe that's why she looked me up. She
wanted the songs."
"Did you give them to her?"
"What do you think? Naturally I did."
"Well. Anyway, she was okay as of yesterday?"
"Yeh. Hey, Morag, do you still say my name wrong?"
"I - haven't tried it recently."
"No. I guess you wouldn't."
When he had rung off, she sat without moving. Afraid
she would begin shaking, the way Christie sometimes used
to do. The Smiths looked worried, curious, startled.
"My daughter's father," Morag said finally. "As I've
told you, never having had an ever-present father myself, I
managed to deny her one, too. Although not wittingly. I
wasn't very witting in those days, I guess."
Maudie rose and nudged A-Okay.
70 The Diviners
"I think we should be getting along," A-Okay said.
"Are you all right, Morag? Is there anything ?"
"I'm all right. Really."
Alone, Morag sat still for another half-hour before she
could bring herself to get out the notebook and begin.
Whatever is happening to Pique is not what I think is
happening, whatever that may be. What happened to me
wasn't what anyone else thought was happening, and
maybe not even what I thought was happening at the time.
A popular misconception is that we can't change the past
- everyone is constantly changing their own past, recalling
it, revising it. What really happened? A meaningless question.
But one I keep trying to answer, knowing there is no
answer.
Afemorybank Movie: The Thistle Shamrock Rose
Entwine the Maple Leaf Forever Morag is twelve, and is she ever tough. She doesn't walk
all hunched up any more, like when she was a little kid.
Nosiree, not her. She is tall and she doesn't care who
knows it. Her tits have swollen out already, and she shows
them off by walking straight, swinging her shoulders just a
little bit. Most of the girls are still as flat as boards. She
has started her monthlies, too, and occasionally lets kids
like Mavis or Vanessa, who haven't started, know it by a
dropped remark here and there. She is a woman, and a lot
of them are just kids.
But she's a tomboy, too. You gotta be. If it comes to a
fight, she doesn't need to fight like a girl, scratching with
her fingernails. She slugs with her closed fist. Boys or girls,
it makes no difference. If a boy ever teases her, she goes for
him. The best way is to knee them in the balls. They
double over, scream, and chicken out. Hardly any boys
ever tease her these days.
Nobody much teases Eva Winkler, any more, either,
because Morag gives them the bejesus if they do. Eva is
her friend, her one true friend. She loves Eva. She looks
down on Eva, too, a bit, because Eva is gutless as a
The Nuisance Grounds 71
cleaned whitefish. It must be awful to be gutless. Gus
Winkler still beats his kids, even Eva. He doesn't even
have to be drunk. In fact, he hardly ever drinks and then
only beer. He just likes beating his kids, that's all. You
couldn't imagine Eva, so pale-haired and always saying Oh sorry I didn't mean to even when she's done nothing,
you couldn't imagine her deserving it. Maybe Gus beats
her because she's gutless, like Mrs. Winkler, like all the
kids, there. In some awful spooky way Morag can understand
this. If you ask for it, you sure as hell get it. But she
sticks up for Eva, because Eva is her friend. She doesn't
stick up for Eva with Gus, though. She never goes over
there. She and Christie sit on the front porch and hear it
happening. When it does, they never look at each other.
Morag is the best girl pitcher on the ballfield, and also a
good shortstop. She can even play ball with the boys, and
sometimes does. The girls yell things at her, but Morag
doesn't care a fuck. They can't hurt her. She'll hurt them
first. And when the boys laugh, she grins openmouth
downy, then pitches a twister, hard and fast.
The teachers hate her. Ha ha. She isn't a little flower, is
why. That will be the day, when she tries to please a living
soul.
CONVERSATION OVERHEARD FROM THE TEACHERS'
ROOM ALL OF THEM IN THERE CABBING AT RECESS
Miss McMurtrie: oh, Skinner's bad enough but at least
he's away from school half the time
and not much missed by me I can tell
you but Morag never misses a
day sometimes I wonder what on
earth I'm going to do with her you
find her same Ethel
Miss Plowright: how do you mean exactly Miss McMurtrie: well one day she's boisterous and noisy
chewing gum in class whispering
drawing dirty pictures you know and
then heavens the next day she'll be so
you ta
Miss Plowright: oh yes
that in
know
not qu
Miss Crawford: she w;
one b
quickl
well ji
soule^
sernan
Miss McMurtrie: well st
you
you're
enoug]
hoot
Mr. Tate: the ho
home
ted wil
Morag doesn't let on. If;
"How'd you get on toda}
see what you're copying ou
Christie's brown crackec
pot. Ha ha. You can see
reading.
"What in hell is this era]
This Wordsworth, now, he ^
daffodil? Clouds don't wan
sake. Any man daft enouj
wanted his head looked at
show you a poem, now, the
Two large books she has
little bit warped, and really
The Nuisance Grounds 73
"In the days long long ago," Christie says sternly, "he
lived, this man, and was the greatest song-maker of them
all, and all this was set down years later, pieced together
from what old men and old women remembered, see, them
living on far crofts hither and yon, and they sang and recited
these poems as they had been handed down over the generations.
And the English claimed as how these were not the
real old songs, but only forgeries, do you see, and you can
read about it right here in this part which is called Introduction,
but the English were bloody liars then as now. And I'll
read you what he said, then, a bit of it."
A chariot! the great chariot of war,
Moving over the plain with death!
The shapely swift car of Cuchullin,
True son of Semo of hardy deeds.
Behind it curves downward like a wave,
Or mist enfolding a sharp-peaked hill;
The light of precious stones about it,
Like the sea in wake of boat at night.
Of shining yew is its pole,
Of well-smoothed bone the seat:
It is the dwelling-place of spears,
Of shields, of swords, and heroes.
On the right of the great chariot
Is seen a horse high-mettled, snorting,
High-crested, broad-chested, dark,
High-bounding, strong-bodied son of the Ben,
Springy and sounding his foot;
The spread of his forelock on high
Is like mist on the dwelling of deer.
Shining his coat, and speedy
His pace - Si-fodda his name.
* * *
74 The Diviners
On the other side of the car
Is an arch-necked snorting horse,
Thin-maned, free-striding, deep-hoofed,
Swift-footed, wide nostrilled son of the mountains -
Du-sron-gel the name of the gallant steed.
Full thousand slender thongs
Fasten the chariot on high;
The hard bright bit of the bridle,
In their jaws foam-covered, white,
Shining stones of power
Save aloft with the horses' manes Horses,
like mist of mountainside,
Which onward bear the chief to his fame.
Keener their temper than the deer,
Strong as the eagle their strength.
Their noise is like winter fierce
On Gormal smothered in snow.
In the chariot is seen the chief,
True-brave son of the keen brands,
Cuchullin of blue-spotted shields,
Son of Semo, renowned in song.
Ossian. Christie says Aw-shun. And shows her the Gaelic
words, but cannot say them.
"It must sound like something in the old language,
Morag. My father knew a few words of it, and I remember
a little bit of it from when I was knee-high to a grasshopper
and that must've been in Easter Ross before my old
man kicked off and my mother came to this country with
me, and hired herself out as help in houses in Nova Scotia,
there, and kicked the bucket when I was around fifteen or
so, and I came west, but the hell with all of that. I never
learned the Gaelic, and it's a regret to me."
Together they look at the strange words, unknown now,
lost, as it seems, to all men, the words that once told of the
great chariot of Cuchullin.
The Nuisance Grounds 75
Carbad! carbad garbh a'chomhraig,
'Gluasas thar comhnaird Ie has;
Carbad suimir, luath Chuchullin,
Sar-mhac Sheuma nan cruaidh chas.
"Gee. Think of that, Christie. Think of that, eh? Read
some more in our words, eh?"
But Prin waddles over to the table and lays it for
supper, and they eat boiled cabbage and boiled spuds and
baloney. Christie chews with his mouth open so you can
see the mushy slop of pink meat and greeny mush cabbage
and gummy potatoes in there. Morag wants to hit
him so hard his mouth will pour with blood. She stares at
him, but he does not notice. Or if he does, he doesn't let
on.
The Grade Six room is full of maple desks, each with a
metal inkwell. Initials of other kids in other years are
carved into the desks, with jackknives or by going over
and over with a pencil until the lead eats into the wood.
This is the easiest to do, and Morag has put M.G. on hers
this way. You always have to look up at the blackboard
at the front. Should be called the greyboard, always
smudged with chalk. Morag can never see the board properly,
and never has been able to, but doesn't let on. If she
let on, they'd move her to the front row and she likes the
back row better. No one is behind you there, looking at
you.
On the walls at the side and back, great big framed
pictures. No colours, just very dark brown or black, shadowy.
One is of two people, a man and a woman, dressed in
olden days poor clothes, kneeling down. The Angelus. Which means a bell is tolling, telling them it is time to
pray. The other picture is worse - a whole lot of soldiers
looking terrible, and a drooping Union Jack, and in the
middle a man falling or fainting (dying, actually) with his
eyeballs rolling upwards. The Death of General Wolfe.
"Good morning. Grade Six."
76 The Diviners
"Good morning. Miss McMurtrie."
"We will now sing '0, Canada.'"
Grade Six shuffles to its feet.
0 Ca-na-DA
Our home an' native lan'
Troo patriot luv
In all thy sons' comman'....
They are also learning it in French. The school board
was a mite dubious at first. Miss McMurtrie says, tee hee,
but she won them over.
0 Ca-na-DA
Teara da nose ah yoo....
The second line always makes the kids titter. They
know it means land of our forefathers, but that isn't what
it seems to mean. Morag sings loudly. She loves singing
and has a good and carrying voice. She doesn't mind
standing up any more, at least not when all the other kids
are also standing beside their desks. Her dresses aren't
away below her knees now, hell no, because she lops them
off with the kitchen scissors herself and sometimes even
does a hem, which is boring but doesn't take so long if you
take good big stitches. Now her dresses are shorter than
anyone else's, because she is going to show them, is why.
Prin still makes Morag's dresses out of old stuff, though.
Who has the money for new stuff these days, Prin says.
(Some have.) Prin isn't so hot at sleeves, so usually leaves
them out, and in the cold weather Morag wears a sweater
underneath the dress. She wears running shoes in warm
weather and galoshes in winter, with only socks inside, not
shoes, so has to keep them on all day, and how could
anyone not have stinky feet if they had to do that? Who
gives a christly damn anyway? She's not the worst
dressed. Eva is worse - her dresses are still halfway to her
j ankles, as she is too ascared of what her dad will say if she
The Nuisance Grounds 77
cuts them off. Also, one of the Tonnerre girls, halfbreed
from the valley, is worse dressed; she's away a lot because
of th in one leg but when she is at school she looks the
worst because her dresses are long-gawky and dirty, and
she has a limpwalk.
They are seated again, and it is Spelling.
"Morag!"
Startled, she looks up. The teacher has been talking to
her and she hasn't heard.
"That's quite enough, class," Miss McMurtrie says,
because of the giggling all around. "Stand up, Morag."
Draggingly, she stands. Whatever is going to happen, it
can only be awful. She straightens her shoulders and holds
herself so her tits stick out under her dress.
"Now, Morag, you weren't listening, were you?"
Silence. She cannot speak. Her throat is full of phlegm
or something. She stares boldly at Miss McMurtrie, so
the teacher will think she is being silent on purpose.
"Are you tongue-tied, Morag?"
Morag is not here. She is in the Wachakwa valley, and
the couchgrass is high around her. There is a clump of
scrub oak trees, easy to climb, and all around are thick
chokecherry bushes. It is warm and shady in the hideout,
and you can hear the bees singing their crazy buzzsongs as
they tumble among the pink wild asters and cowslip bells
colour of oranges or suns. Cowslips are the best. For bees.
More honey in them.
"I said," Miss McMurtrie's butcherknife voice, "I said are you tongue-tied, Morag?"
Morag's anger. Like shame, burning in her throat.
"You know I'm not." Loud.
Miss McMurtrie's face gone reddish, splotched.
"Very well, then, if you're not tongue-tied, would you
be so kind as to answer the question I asked you about ten
minutes ago? You're wasting the class's time, Morag. I
suppose I will have to repeat the question. Obviously you
were away off in Cloud Cuckoo Land. How do you spell
Egypt?"
78 The Diviners
Egypt. Cleopatra, evil and beautiful, dying of a snake
bite. Having put the snake right on herself. Ugh. Miss
Plowright, last year, reading them Tales from Shakespeare.
Was Shakespeare there? Did he see the snake being
put on the bare skin? Cleopatra, drifting down the
Nile River in a boat shaped like a giant bird (coloured
picture in the book) while her slaves fanned her with fans
made out of pink green blue feathers. Plumes. Think of
that. Classy.
"Well, Morag?"
If she could've written it down she could've got it. Always
the same. But no writing-down allowed.
"E-y "
"Wrong. Try again."
"E-y-g-t "
I Miss McMurtrie shakes her starched-looking grey
head. More in sorrow than anger, as she is always saying.
"You may sit down, Morag. All right, class, who can
spell Egypt? Ross?"
"Egy-pt."
Show-off. Smart-aleck McVitie. Who cares? Morag, sitting
down, will not look around. Neither to left nor to
right. Finally, she takes a quick glance around to see if
anybody is still looking at her. They better not be. She
catches the eye of Skinner Tonnerre, who also sits in the
back row out of choice.
He grins at her. Well, think of that. The grin means
Screw all of them, eh? Astounded, Morag grins back.
Boys are generally mean. Those girls who have a hope
of pleasing them, try. Those who haven't a hope, either
stay out of their way or else act very tough and try to
make fun of them first. Skinner is just the same as all the
boys, in that way. He is mean. He knows a lot of swear
words and isn't afraid to use them to make girls feel silly
or cheap. Hey, Vanessa, want me to fuck your ass? It's
better that way. He has never shouted like this at Morag,
because he probably knows she wouldn't take it all meek.
The Nuisance Grounds 79
Or else doesn't think she's pretty enough to be worth
embarrassing. The other boys in the class, even Mike Lo- bodiak, who is really big, never tangle with Skinner.
They're scared of him. Also, they think they're better than
he is. Skinner is taller than any of the other boys, and has
better muscles. He is about three years older than any of
the rest of the class, which is why he and his sister Piquette
are in the same class. Both having missed a lot of
school. Sometimes Skinner goes off with his dad, old Lazarus
Tonnerre, and disappears for weeks, setting traplines
way up at Galloping Mountain, some say. The Tonnerres
(there are an awful lot of them) are called those breeds, meaning halfbreeds. They are part Indian, part French,
from away back. They are mysterious. People in Manawaka
talk about them but don't talk to them. Lazarus makes
homebrew down there in the shack in the Wachakwa valley,
and is often arrested on Saturday nights. Morag
knows. She has heard. They are dirty and unmentionable.
Skinner is thin and he has dark dark slanted eyes. He is
always scowling. He wears worn unpatched jeans held up
by a leather belt with a big brass buckle. Morag has always
reckoned that he hated the other kids so much he never
even noticed what they said about him and his gimpylegged
sister and all of them (and about their Ma, who took off and
went to cook for some crazy old man living alone on a farm
oh shame). Maybe Skinner does notice the passed remarks?
Maybe he just doesn't let on. Like her.
He is not like her. She does not glance in his direction
again all day.
At ten minutes to four, Miss McMurtrie leads the class
in "The Maple Leaf Forever"
In days of yore
From Britain's shore
Wolfe the donkless hero came (titters; but what
And planted firm means Donklesst)
Britannia's flag
80 The Diviners
On Ca-na-da's fair doMAiN.
Here may it wave
Our boas' our pride
And join in luv together
The thistle shamrock rose entwine
The MAPLE LEAF FOREVER!
Morag loves this song and sings with all her guts. She
also knows what the emblems mean. Thistle is Scots, like
her and Christie (others, of course, too, including some
stuck-up kids, but her, definitely, and they better not
forget it). Shamrock is Irish like the Connors and Reillys
and them. Rose is English, like Prin, once of good family.
Suddenly she looks over to see if Skinner Tonnerre is
singing. He has the best voice in the class, and he knows
lots of cowboy songs, and dirty songs, and he sometimes
sings them after school, walking down the street.
He is not singing now.
He comes from nowhere. He isn't anybody. She stops
singing, not knowing why. Then she feels silly about stopping,
so sings again.
Memory bank Movie: Christie's Gift of the
Garbage- Telling Morag goes alone to the Nuisance Grounds. Not with
Christie. Not with anyone. Eva wants to come along but
Morag says No. Just for once she has to see what the place
looks like. By herself.
She knows exactly where the spot is. Everybody knows
that. A little above the town, the second hill, the same hill
as the Manawaka cemetery. All the dead stuff together
there on the same hill. Except that the cemetery is decent
and respectable, with big spruce trees, and grass which is
kept cut, and lots of the plots have flowers which people
plant and tend. Gunn is just a small stone with grass
around it, no flowers. Morag has only been there the once
and doesn't want to go again.
The Nuisance Grounds 81
The Nuisance Grounds are on a large flat sort of plain,
up there, and no trees grow, although the place is surrounded
on all sides by poplars and clumps of chokecherry
and pincherry bushes, screening it from sight. Morag
approaches it quietly, cannily, looking around. Okay.
Nobody here. She can feel the sun hot and dusty on her
bare arms and legs, and her hair feels snarled and too long
and hot for summer. She is sweating in this hot closed-in
place. It isn't really that much closed-in. It just feels so.
Should she maybe not have come here?
Oh. The Nuisance Grounds contain a billion trillion
heaps of old muck. Such as:
a rusty car with no tires and one door off
mountains of empty tin cans, some with labels still on
Best Pie Pumpkin
moth-eaten sweaters and ragged coats
a whole bunch of bedsprings
green mould like fur on things
rotten fruits oranges bananas gone bad soft black
flies on them
a car axle but no car
maple syrup tins with holes in them
saucepans and kettles also with holes
a sewing machine with no wheel or handle
broken bottles (beer milk rye and baby)
more rotten stuff cabbages phew
a cracked toilet bowl
wornout shoes some bulging where bunions have been
boxes of not-used rubber frenchies she knows what they're
for Eva told her (why thrown out? holes in the rubber is
why; that'd fool somebody ha ha)
a pile of clothes and old newspapers, burning
and stench sour sicklysweet rotten many smells
stinks
and a zillion crawling flies
A shadow. Somebo
(meanly?) showing tee
smell the sweat and w
smells here. But she is
bar, bent, and a pair o
"Hey, whatsamatte
gonna "
"Shut up," Morag s
"Whatcha doin' her
"None of your busir
"Seem' the place wt He says da instead i
always has. Why? The
of what he has just sai
"Christie's not my c
"Sure, I know. So /i
the diff?"
"Plenty. Plenty difff Skinner laughs. Ho.
"Okay, okay. Taber "My family is nam
forget it."
Skinner's eyes grow
"That so? You t'ink
little half-cunt, dry oni
"Listen here," mod
here for longer than
town, see?"
"Not longer than m
"Oh yeh? Well, I'm
"Who in hell's he?"
"He -" She is afraii has got it wrong after
from Scotland, and he
they were living on the
poor because they did
Bitch-Duchess took tr
The Nuisance Grounds 83
leaving there, but then Piper Gunn played the pipes and
put the heart back into them."
Skinner gapes at her. Then grins again.
"Where'd you get that crap, eh?"
"It's true. It's true!"
He looks at her. Then he sits down on an empty tar
barrel, not worrying about getting tar on his jeans. He
stretches out his long legs and gets out a packet of cigarettes.

"Want one?"
She shakes her head and he laughs. She would like to
snatch the cigarette now and light it, but is too proud.
"You ever seen my place, Morag?"
"Yen. Sometimes. Passing by."
The Tonnerre place, right beside the Wachakwa River
down there, is a square cabin made out of poplar poles
chinked with mud. Also some other shanties, sheds and
lean-tos, tacked onto the cabin and made out of old
boards and pieces of flattened tin cans and tarpaper. Lots
of old car parts and chicken wire and wornout car tires
lying around, stuff like that. Morag guesses that is why
Skinner is here. Looking. Collecting.
"My grandad," Skinner says, "he built the first of our
place, and that was one hell of a long time ago, I'm tellin'
you. He come back from The Troubles."
"What's that?"
"Out west, there. You wouldn't know. You don' know
nothin'. My grandad was lucky he never got killed, there.
Lucky they never shot his balls off, my dad says. But they
couldn't, because he was a better shot than them soldiers.
I can shoot pretty good, too. I got his name, see? That
means I got "
He stops. Suddenly. Shuts up. Looks away.
"You mean his name was Skinner?" Morag asks.
"Don't be dumb. Jules. His name was Jules. Skinner
ain't my real name."
"Why'd they call you it, then?"
84 The Diviners
"Some say it's 'cause I useda be so damn skinny. Some
say it's 'cause I am real good at skinning any damn t'ing,
rabbit, muskrat, even deer. Want me to catch a gopher
and show you?"
Morag shudders. No - please. Not a gopher. He will do
it and she will throw up. But he only laughs.
"Scared, eh, Morag?"
"Tell me about your grandad. Aw, come on."
He jumps to his feet and leaps over the tar barrel.
"Shit, I can't remember. It's all crap. Anyhows, I
wouldn' tell you."
"Why not? Why not?"
"It ain't none of yer business. I tell you one t'ing,
though. Long time before my grandad, there's one Tonnerre
they call Chevalier, and no man can ride like him ^H and he is one helluva shot. My grandad, he tol' my dad
about that guy, there."
"What means ChevalierT'
"Rider. It means Rider. Lazarus, he says so. Ah, what's
it to youT'
Skinner begins to walk away, singing "The Old Strawberry
Roan," really really loud and sort of through his
nose as well as his throat, like the cowboys singing on the
radio.
Rattle-rattle-crunk-crash-gronk. Slow horse steps.
Grinding wheels, Christie and his wagon. Morag jumps up
and heads for the chokeberry bushes, but he has seen her.
"Jesus in sweet paradise, Morag, girl, what in the
christly hell are you doing here? And who the fuck's that9 ji Oh - hello. Skinner. Found anything today?"
Skinner scowls but does not reply. The crowbar and
pliers still lie beside the tar barrel. The air reeks of smoke
and rot. The sweat is snaking down Morag's back and
between her legs.
Christie's blue workshirt is rolled up at the sleeves, and
the sweat trickles through the sandy hairs on his arms. He
starts to unload the wagon, swallowing his spit with the
effort of the work, his Adam's apple yo-yoing in his
The Nuisance Grounds 85
throat. He is shovelling off a whole pile of eggshells, vegetable
peelings, orange rinds, bones with shreds of cooked
meat still on them. Skinner and Morag stand silent,
watching.
"Did I ever tell you," Christie says, "how to tell the
garbage, Morag, like telling fortunes?"
"What?"
Skinner snorts with laughter. Morag hates Christie.
Maybe he will fall down, right now, this second, with a heart attack. He doesn't. He is chortling, enjoying himself.
He likes the sound of his own voice. With him, it's either
yak-yak-yakkity-yak or dead silence. No silence now. No
such luck. Would it be worse if someone like Jamie Halpern
or Stacey Cameron were here, listening? Yes. Let us
be grateful for small mercies, Prin always says.
"You know how some have the gift of the second
sight?" Christie goes on. "Well, it's the gift of the garbagetelling
which I have myself, now. Watch this."
Christie shovels out the stuff onto a heap on the dump.
Bends down to throw some of the bones with his hands.
Morag cannot move. She is held there, not wanting to
be there but wanting to listen all the same. Skinner isn't
grinning. He is just watching. Watching Christie. And
listening.
Christie speaks. Like a spiel. Only different.
"Now you see these bones here, and you know what
they mean? They mean Simon Pearl the lawyer's got the
money for steak. Yep, not so often, maybe, but one day a
week. So although he's letting on he's as hard up as the
next - he ain't, no he ain't, though it's troubling to him,
too. By their christly bloody garbage shall ye know them
in their glory, is what I'm saying to you, every saintly
mother's son. And these chicken bones right here, now,
they'll be birds which have been given to Doc MacLeod
for services he's rendered to some farmer who couldn't
pay a bill if his life depended on it so he takes it out in
poultry, well it's better than baloney which is what ajesus
lot of us gets served up on the table. And the huge amount
86 The Diviners
of apple peels from the Reverend George McKee, now,
means he gets a crate of apples from his Okanagan sister
so they eat a lot of applesauce each summer at the manse,
there, but they don't put in a garden or they'd use the peels
for compost, so the preacher really means it when he says
the Lord provides. Now the paint tins from the Connors'
means the old man's on the rampage and he's painting
like a devil all the kitchen chairs and suchlike, showing all
of them around him that they're lazy worthless sinners,
but he's painting out his anger, for he thinks this life is
shit."
Finish.
"Climb on," Christie says. "I'm heading back."
Morag doesn't want to. She would rather walk. But
can't say so in front of Skinner. Christie offers Skinner a
home-rolled cigarette, and Skinner takes it. Without saying
thanks. Christie doesn't notice. He wouldn't.
"You know," Christie says, as they go along past the
cemetery, "I once saw a terrible thing. It was the worst
thing I ever did see in this country. I am not counting the
time in France in the War, do you see, for that was worse.
Now, then, what is strange is that some people think I
don't see what goes into the bins outside their back gates.
They put it in and that's the end of it to them. But I take it
out, do you see?"
After the garbage-telling, this. Why can't he shut up?
Why can't he just shut up? Crazy Christie. But he can't
shut up. He can't, at times, and she knows it. She knows
it, all right. What was it, that time, here? She won't ask.
Not her.
"What was it, Christie?" she asks, not wanting to know
at all, no not at all.
It wasn't terrible at all. It wouldn't be terrible at all. It
would just be Christie, like he sometimes is.
"It was wrapped in a lot of newspapers," Christie says.
He stops and turns to look at both Morag and Skinner,
Morag is sitting beside him on the wagon seat. Not saying
a word. Skinner is sitting in the back part of the wagon,
The Nuisance Grounds 87
where all the awful stuff has been, just sitting there as
though it didn't matter to him what had been there. And
looking at Christie. Listening. Not letting on.
"Well," Christie says, "the Lord only knows I would be
better off keeping my trap shut. It was a newborn baby.
Wrapped in newspapers, but it fell out. Dead, of course.
Hadn't gone its full term. It was that small, like a skinned
rabbit."
"What'd you do with it?" Skinner.
"Buried her. It was a girl."
"Where?'''1 Morag cries, cries. "Buried her whereT'
"In the Nuisance Grounds," Christie says, spitting into
the dusty road. "That's what it was, wasn't it, a nuisance?
Well, the hell with their consecrated ground."
Morag sits quiet. Thinking of what his hands have
touched. She won't think of it. Once she used to take
Christie's hand, crossing the street. She's too big for that
now, but even if she weren't, she wouldn't. Dead. Dead
when born? Or what? What is dead, really? Do you know
when you are?
"Didn't you ever say, Christie? I mean - I mean "
"Why? What good would that've done? I knew where it
had come from. The girl, the one whose it was, she'd had
enough hard talk, I wouldn't doubt, from her people.
She's married now. Happily married. They say."
"Who?"
"None of your business, girl."
Memory bank Movie: How Sweet the Name of Jesus
Sounds
Morag loves Jesus. And how. He is friendly and not stuckup,
is why. She does not love God. God is the one who
decides which people have got to die, and when. Mrs.
McKee in Sunday school says God is love, but this is
baloney. He is mean and gets mad at people for no reason
at all, and Morag .wouldn't trust him as far as she can spit.
Also, at the same time, she is scared of God. You pray at
nights, and say "Dear God -", like a letter but slipping in
88 The Diviners
the Dear bit for other reasons as well. Does He realh
know what everybody is thinking? If so, it sure isn't fai
and is also very spooky.
Jesus is another matter. Whatever anybody says of it, i
was really God who decided Jesus had to die like that
Who put it into the head of the soldier, then, to pierce Hi;
side? (Pierce? The blood all over the place, like sho
gophers and) Who indeed? Three guesses. Jesus had <
rough time. But when alive. He was okay to everybody
even sinners and hardup people and like that.
Christie doesn't care whether Morag goes to Sunda;
school or not. He wouldn't. He never goes to church him
self. Although a believer. But not liking the Reverent
McKee. Prin goes to church. She wears her coat, whateve
the weather, even in summer, because it covers her fat up
She says the singing does her good. Morag goes into thi
basement, where the Sunday school is held, while Prii
goes upstairs to the church service.
Winter, and Morag stamps the snow off her galoshe:
at the United Church door. She pulls her scarf dowi
from around her nose and mouth, and peels off he
mitts, covered with tiny hard red bubbles, wool and ice
Colder than a shithouse in hell. Christie's saying. Mrs
McKee, who takes Morag's Sunday school class, wouk
not think that was funny. Still, Mrs. McKee doesn'
bawl people out, nor look at their clothes. Mrs. McKee':
clothes are none too hot, if it comes to that, old tweec
skirts and kind of shrunken twin-sweater sets. Doe;
Mrs. McKee like being the minister's wife? Morag wouli
hate it. Mrs. McKee, though tired-looking, doesn't seen
to mind. Should Morag show Mrs. McKee the poen
she's brought to show her? Would Mrs. McKee laugh'
No. Mrs. McKee isn't a laugher. Maybe.
In the basement, the chairs are all set out in neat rows
The same old coloured paper pictures on the walls - the^
never change them. Morag doesn't mind. She likes th<
same ones being there all the time. The Mothers of Sa
The Nuisance Grounds 89
lem Bringing Their Children to Jesus - a whole lot of
ladies dressed in white sheets, with little kids scampering
around, and Jesus (also in a white sheet and with that
lovely-looking beard) lifting one hand as he suffers them
(suffers?) to come unto Him. The Good Samaritan - an
old guy in a blue and yellow striped dressing gown (sort
of), leading a donkey on which is lying, draped across it,
a very skinny guy who has closed eyes and terrible
wounds pouring with blood. The Loaves and the Fishes
- a huge big mob of people, men with different coloured
beards black or blond, women carrying babies, lots of
kids running around all over the place, and the Apostles
looking really worried, but Jesus looking not worried at
all, not by a long shot. He is standing there cool as a
cucumber and raising one hand in the magic way and at
his feet are two baskets, one with a few hunks of bread
and the other with a few tiny fishes, and in a moment
there will be a zillion loaves and a whole seaful of fishes
because He can do anything.
Mrs. McKee is talking to the Sunday school principal,
at the front of the room. Morag slides in the door and
waits. Mrs. McKee turns. Smiles.
"You're early this morning, Morag."
Morag nods.
"Can you c'mere for a second, Mrs. McKee? Please."
"What is it?" Mrs. McKee walks to where Morag is
standing.
Morag hands the piece of scribbler paper to her. The
poem is copied very neatly in best writing.
The Wise Men.
by Morag Gunn.
VERSE ONE
Despite the cold and wintry blast,
To Bethlehem they came at last.
And there amid the hay and straw,
The baby Jesus was what they saw.
90 The Diviners
"Why, this is just fine, Morag. I never knew you wrote
poetry." Surprised.
"Sure. I write lots. I've got more at home. And stories.
Would you "
"The only thing," Mrs. McKee says, "is that it was a
Far Eastern desert country, dear, so they wouldn't have a
wintry blast, would they?"
Morag's face - flames of shame. She snatches the paper
back.
"Wait - I'll fix it."
She goes into the classroom where the tables and chairs
are set out for each class. Sits down. Finds a pencil.
Despite the desert sun's cruel ray
To Bethlehem they came that day.
No good. It was night.
Despite the heat of the desert (what?)
To Bethlehem they came that night.
Bright? White? Light? Might? Bite? Of course. Bright
and light. Never mind the weather.
Guided by the Star's bright light
To Bethlehem they came that night.
Good. Fine. Much better. Morag goes out and hands
the new version to Mrs. McKee. Who looks at it. One
quick glance.
"Much better, dear. Now we'd better get ready for the
service. Sit with your class, dear."
The others have all come in while Morag was busy. She
has not noticed them until this very instant.
"Whatcha' doing, Morag? Writing out / must not tell a
lie four hundred times for the old bag?" Jamie Halpern,
his face giggling behind his glasses.
The Nuisance Grounds 91
Morag says nothing. Crumples the page and stuffs it in
her pocket.
The singing. Carols. Morag sings loudly, loving the
carols.
Good Christian men rejoyoyoyce
With heart and soul and voy-oy-oyce When
they get to the line Ox and ass before Him bow, Ross McVitie puts a hand to his bum. Morag glares at
him. Ignorant slob.
In class, Mrs. McKee tells them that one member of
their class will be chosen to sing A solo at the grownups'
Christmas Eve service, and all of them will be in the choir.
They will have to try out, those who want to be considered
for the solo. They gather around the piano, the five who
want to try, Morag among them. She has a good voice.
Clear and can carry a tune perfectly. Also, a carrying
voice. Christie says she would've made a good hog-caller,
but he is just ignorant. They each sing a verse of "Once in
Royal David's."
"I'll let you know next week," Mrs. McKee says,
"when I've considered thoroughly."
Morag knows it will be her. Or maybe it will, anyhow.
At least, there's a chance. Maybe.
"I want to read you a poem today, children," Mrs.
McKee says, when they are all around the table again.
Morag's heart quits beating. Hers? She will faint.
A talented poem written by one of our members, class.
The others will stare. Who'd have thought it? Old Morag.
Gee.
"It is by the English poet, Hilaire Belloc," Mrs.
McKee's gooey voice says, and she opens a book.
When Jesus Christ was four years old,
The angels brought him toys of gold,
Which no man ever had bought or sold.
92 the Diviners
And yet with these He would not play,
He made Him small fowl out of clay,
And blessed them till they flew away.. ..
There is more, and some words in Latin, which Mrs.
McKee explains, but Morag isn't listening now. At home,
Morag takes off her galoshes and coat. Goes to the stove.
"What's that you're burning, Morag?" Prin asks,
alarmed.
"Nothing. Just nothing."
Morag goes to her room. Sits thinking. Wants to cry,
but will not, must not. Blessed them till they flew away.
Oh. How could anybody write anything that good?
She has shown "The Wise Men" to Mrs. McKee, and
there is no way she can unshow it.
Next Sunday, the verdict. Vanessa MacLeod will sing the
solo.
Vanessa MacLeod! A crow with a sore throat could
sing better than what she could. An old bullfrog honkhonking
out there in the Wachakwa could sing better,
even. It isn't fair.
"It's not fair, Christie," Morag rages, at home.
Christie cleans his horrible teeth with a straw out of the
broom, a wonder his gums don't rot, dirty old broom like
that.
"If you expect things to be fair, you'll be waiting until
hell freezes over. Anyways, has she got such a lousy voice,
then?"
"Well. I guess not. But mine's just as good."
Would Mrs. McKee think Morag would look okay,
standing up there alone in the choir loft? Would Mrs.
McKee be that way? Sure. You bet. Any of them would.
Wouldn't they?
On the night, Morag decides to go and be in the choir
after all. Vanessa, all gotten up in a pleated tartan skirt
The Nuisance Grounds 93
with straps over the shoulders and a white blouse with a
frill at the front, rises to sing. Her hands, Morag sees, are
trembling. She's nervous. Ha ha. Morag hopes that
something really awful will happen to Vanessa. But it
doesn't. She sings a crappy song but she never misses a
note.
Christ was once a little baby
Jus' like you an' me
Boy, whoever wrote that song was sure plenty dumb.
Serve Vanessa right, having to sing a dumb song like
that.
It is a month later. School. Roll call. Vanessa MacLeod?
Absent. Morag listens to the recess-time whispers.
"Her dad's died."
At home, Christie blowing his nose on his fingers, stepping
outside to throw the snot on the snow already dirtied
with yellow dog-piss, comes back into the kitchen and
says it.
"Well, then. Doc MacLeod's gone to his ancestors.
Pneumonia. He was quite a man, there. You could of had
many a worse."
Morag sits at the table in the warm stove-crackling
kitchen. But has to go upstairs to the freezing bedroom.
She never meant never meant never meant and a
long time ago what was it when and Dr. MacLeod
was there and
God knows what you are thinking. He knows, all right
all right. But is mean. Doesn't care. Or understand.
Vanessa returns to school. Morag neither looks at her
nor speaks to her. Want to but cannot. Vanessa does not
notice. She has never spoken to Morag much, anyway.
Vanessa does not talk much to anyone, now, for quite a
while. Morag watches. From a long way off.
94 The Diviners
Memorybank Movie: Christie and Red Bidd
Gunn and Clowny MacPherson Christie has a jug of red biddy. Prin has wa
bed, not approving. Morag is doing her hon
ceiling bulb isn't very bright and she has to
over the geography book to read the print w
in front of her eyes. Christie, across the table,
one fist - clump. Taking care with the other \ onto the grey bottle-jug which once long ago i
vinegar.
"Now, then, girl, would you like me to tei
what happened to Piper Gunn and them, wh
landed up north there?"
Morag closes the geography. Grinning.
"Sure, Christie."
"Well, now, then, I read it all in a book son
help me, and it is all there in the books, bi
want to believe everything them books say, i Christ's sake. We believe what we know."
What's he talking about? But she likes th
pours another glassful.
THE LONG MARCH
Now that bloody ship, there, who would kn
name was, but with all of them from Sutherlar
and struck with the sickness and the fever an
plague, well, then, that ship with the children
fever, it crossed the ocean, do you see, and it
new land, which was here, only very far nort
happened? What almighty catastrophe struc
Well, the first catastrophe was that ship had a
as captain, then. And he landed the christly we;
believe it, away up north there, at the wrong wrong place. Can you feature it? Them peopi
Gunn and his woman Morag and all them, we
to be landed at the one place, up there by I
(that's the water, the sea, like, not the store).
The Nuisance Grounds 95
bugger landed his ship at another place. Oh yes. The
bloody captain didn't give a hoot. Get landed and well rid
of them - that was his thought. So he landed all of them at
the wrong place, now, the name escapes me at this moment,
but it was on the Hudson Bay, up there. Cold as all
the shithouses of hell.
Well, then, there they were. So Piper Gunn, he takes up
his morsels of belongs, his kettle and his plaid and his axe,
and he says to his woman Morag, Here we are and by the
holy Jesus here we will remain. And then didn't his woman
strap onto her back the few blankets and suchlike they
had, and her thick with their unborn firstborn, and follow.
But one thing was missing.
Pipes. The pipes.
If we must live here in this almighty godforsaken land,
dreadful with all manner of beasts and ice and the rocks
harsher than them we left, says Gunn's woman, at least
let's be piped onto it.
So Piper Gunn, he got out his bagpipes and he piped
the people onto the new land, that terrible bad land, frozen
as it sure as hell was, and they built their mud shacks
to the music that man played.
Now they lived there and they suffered and then they
suffered more, through the long days and longer nights,
and it seemed there was no end to their suffering. But they
didn't give in. They hunted for meat, to live.
(What did they hunt, Christie?)
Oh, polar bears that looked like great moving snowbanks
with jaws and claws, then, and great wild foxes with
burning eyes in them, and
(Did they eat foxes, Christie?)
Well, maybe not the foxes. They would use them for the
fur, see? But they ate all manner of strange things, and it
was a time of misery, but they stayed because they had the
heart in them. And in the spring they walked. Yes, they walked to the place where the supplies would be. It was a
long long long way. It could've been maybe a thousand or
so miles, then.
96 The Diviners
(They walked? A thousand miles? They couldn't
Christie.)
Well, it might not have been quite the thousand, but i
was a christly long way. And through the snow and mud
, and that. And who led them? I ask you, who led them'
Who led the men and women and the children on tha
march? Piper Gunn. Himself. He led them with his pipe;
,1 blaring, there. He was a man six feet nine inches tall, ;
mighty man of God. And he played the pipes like an ange
j right out of heaven and then like a devil right out of hell
and he kept the courage of the people beating like drums
or like the wings of brave wild birds caught in a blizzard
for he had the faith of the saints and the heart of a chilc
and the gall of a thousand and the strength of conviction
j Well, then, I guess they must've walked through all o
, them frozen lands, and through the muskeg there anc
through the muck and mud of the melting snows, anc
through the hard snow itself although it was spring. And i
I was that hard, walking, even Piper Gunn himself began t<
have his doubts, as who would blame him? And he says t(
' his woman Morag, What in the fiery hell are we doing if
this terrible place? So Morag says to him, for she had th<
wisdom and the good eye and the warmth of a home anc
the determination of quietness, and she says. We are goin^
into the new country and your child is going along with us
so play on. And he did that. Yes, he did that.
So then, they got to the place where all the supplie;
was. And they got boats, big flat-bottomed boats, mon
like scows or rafts or like that, and they went down all th<
way to Red River, which is to say they came to this part o
the country, not so very far from where we are at this ven
instant. And there they stayed.
(What happened then, Christie?)
Och aye, it was hard. It was so hard you could bareb
feature it. Locusts. Hailstorms. Floods. Blizzards. Indi
ans. Halfbreeds. Hot as the pit of hell in the summer, anc
the mosquitoes as big as sparrows. Winters so cold i
The Nuisance Grounds 97
would freeze the breath in your throat and turn your
blood to red ice. Weather for giants, in them days. Not
that it's that much better now, I'd say.
(Did they fight the halfbreeds and Indians, Christie?)
Did they ever. Slew them in their dozens, girl. In their
scores.
(Were they bad, the breeds and them?)
What?
The story is over. Christie's blue watery eyes look at her,
or try to.
"Bad?" He repeats the word as though he is trying to
think what it means.
"No," he says at last. "They weren't bad. They were just
there."
He motions with one hand, tired, for her to go to her
room. And she sees him again the way he really looks, the
way she sometimes forgets when he is talking. Why can't
he look different? But she doesn't say. He is yawning - gawp - and nearly asleep across the table, spraddled out
with his head going down on his arms.
Morag, upstairs. Writing in her scribbler. This one is
nearly full, and what it is full of is a long story about how
Piper Gunn's woman, once the child was born, at the Red
River, went out into the forest and built a chariot for them
all, for Piper Gunn and herself and their girlchild, so they
could easily move around in that country there. She cut
down the trees and she carved out the chariot. It was not a
wagon. It was much fancier^ and it had:
four giant wheels
a big high back with a seat
the seat covered in green moss
(she said velvet at first but where would they get it?)
the front shaped like a ship and a bird
birchbark scrolls around the sides
' carvings of deer an
carvings of meac^
carvings of tall gra
carvings of spruce
polished stones for
a brass hook for Pi
Morag is workinj
scribbler. She doe;
comes into your hi
surprises you, becai
happen until you pi
She writes in bed
her neck nearly.
The new story is
Gunn's men. A litt
was very tough. His
like that. Macphers
time - why? His na
people always laug
silly. But Piper Gu;
for sure, and that w
More tomorrow.
Memorybank Mo
Christie is looking 1
dresser. He and Pr
room. For some un
graph there instead,
of old records in thi
"Damn things m
mutters. "Where th
Prin becomes flu;
"I seem to mind
it-"
"Never mind, ne
find something easL
You wouldn't know
The Nuisance Grounds 99
i
"You're a fine one to talk," Prin whines, her breath
coming difficult, in gasps.
Christie stops flinging clothes around and looks at her.
His face is strange.
"Ah, Lord, don't I know it. You'd have done better to
marry anybody else, Prin. That is the declared truth."
"What chance did I have?" Prin says, very low, but he
can hear.
This is mean, Morag considers. She changes in her
head, for the moment, to Christie's side. Christie's face
frowns.
"Goddammit, you make your own chances in this
world!" he roars. "Or else you don't make them. Like me.
You have to work bloody hard at it, believe me, to be such
a bloody flop as I stand here before you. In my one suit of
underwear."
His voice drops then.
"Although that's not the truth of it, neither. It's all true
and not true. Isn't that a bugger, now?"
"I don't understand you, Christie Logan," Prin says. "I
never have done."
"You're not the only one. I don't understand myself.
Oh what a piece of work is man. Who said that? Some
brain."
He goes on riming through the drawer, humming to
himself.
"Oh what a piece of work is man oh what a bloody
awful piece of work is man enough to scare the pants off
you when you come to think of it the opposite is also
true hm hm."
He stops.
"Here, what's this?" he says suddenly.
A book. He looks through it, then brings it over to
Morag. A purple cover, faded to a sickly mauve at the
edges, and dim gold letters.
The 60th Canadian Field Artillery
Battery Book
"It's the regil
"It's the regime
we got back in i
He opens it.
Very blurred
the book.
Vis-en-Artois (
Battery Enterif
men running
Protection of I
standing in r
The Battery (Ic
School boys;
"Christie! Is i
"Yep. We're i
"Which one i
Christie and ]
row, faraway fa»
And they all loc
"Lemme see,
not. Maybe thi;
can't even find r
The Nuisance Grounds 101
Morag looks at the long-ago picture. One of these men
is Colin Gunn, her father. But it could be any one of them.
She says nothing.
"Your dad saved my life that one time, then," Christie
says.
"He did? When? How?"
"Bourlon Wood."
He looks up. They read what the book says.
On the night of September 26th the guns were moved into
position. Zero hour was 5 a.m. on the 27th September, and,
promptly to the second, the guns opened fire, continuing in
action until 12:10 p.m.
Notwithstanding the secrecy with which the operations
had been performed by the Battery, their position must have
been spotted, for no sooner had the barrage started than the
enemy shelled the guns with whiz-bangs; if it had not been
for the fact that the guns were below the level of the ground,
the casualties might have been heavy. As it was, the men escaped
by a very narrow margin. Time and again a perfect
ring of ground bursts encircled the guns, within a very few
yards radius, and as the smoke slowly rose and thinned out,
it was with a hopeless sort of hope that their comrades
glanced around to assure themselves of the safety of the various
crews. This phase of the attack included the capture of
Bourlon Wood.
"Oh Jesus," Christie says, "don't they make it sound
like a Sunday school picnic?"
"What happened, Christie?"
Christie sits down and rolls a cigarette.
CHRISTIE'S TALE OF THE BATTLE OF
BOURLON WOOD
Well, d'you see, it was like the book says, but it wasn't like
that, also. That is the strangeness.
Holy God, with all of them guns pounding away that
morning, the sky was like fire. Like fire, did I say? It was
102 The Di\
fire. We was firing from the trenc
You never heard of "trench fo(
They'd rot, I tell you, because th
and slime and shit and horsepi;
trying to line up them devils of g
ers, and you'd be up to your bloo
It was terrible for the horses. I
mud, where there was a crater, i
and it would be filled with that d
a horse going under, and its mou
and its eyes wild as a lunatic's e;
ing. Not neighing or like that. ;
mud. Jesus, it's the mud you re
nearly.
(What happened that day, Ch
Your dad and me was both gi
do you see. We worked the big gi
(Gunner Gunn. That's funny,
Not so funny you'd hardly ha\
was older than Colin, and not
There we are, getting ready to f
shell explodes so christly close t<
The noise. Jesus. And then the ,
with
(With what, Christie? Why an
Well, then, with bleeding bi
smithereens. A leg. A hand. Gut!
wet you would not credit it at all
(Oh.)
I thought - God, it's Colin.
damn thing got me. I started to s
my feet from the spot I was stai
remember. I must've passed out
away past midnight and it was t
the heart beating in you. The st
they scared me at first. I thougl
you see. But they didn't move 01
The Nuisance Grounds 103
dad gave me some water. He must've dragged me into the
dugouts where we bunked, out of the fire. The water
spilled. A goddamn waste. I couldn't drink it. I was still
shaking like a fool.
(What then, Christie?)
But the story is over. Christie gets up. He is, Morag sees,
shaking.
"I wish I had not found that christly book at all," he
says.
And goes to bed.
"Can I have the book, Prin?" Morag says. "If he
doesn't want it, then can I have it?"
"Sh," Prin whispers. "I don't think he would want to
part with it. Don't ask him, will you, now?"
Christie has heard, though. He doesn't come back into
the kitchen that night, but the next morning he opens his
hands to Morag.
"Not the book," he says. "And I don't have anything
that was your father's. But you can have this if you want
it."
It is a knife. About eight inches long including the handle,
which is dark-brown and leathery. The blade is wide
and comes to a very sharp point at the end. A hunting
knife. Morag takes it. Examines it. On the handle, burned
into it, it seems is a sign: !
"What's that sign, Christie?"
"I dunno. A knife's not much of a thing to give a girl, I
guess. I found it in the same drawer as the book. Haven't
seen it for years. Some young twerp of a kid offered to trade
me it for a package of cigarettes, so I done it. It's never been
any good to me, though. He talked me into it. Great talker,
he was, as a boy, though not as a man. Killed a year or so
ago, when his truck smacked into an oncoming freight,
reckless young devil, poor sod, drunk at the time no doubt.
Well, I guess it's not much of a Christmas present."
104 The Diviners
"If you hadn't had that bottle of hooch, you could of
bought candies," Prin says.
"Jesus, woman, don't you think I know it?"
"I like this," Morag says. "I like it fine, Christie.
Honest."
Christie has never given her a present before, except
sometimes candies. But never a lasting present. Ashamed
of this one, and of herself, she shoves it away to the back
of her dresser drawer.
Four
the starlings and grackles began their dawn performance,
a chorus of iron-throated squawks accompanied
by a heavy-footed ballet on the roof. Morag
sighed. Birds should be light in the step. These sounded
like carthorses, tramp tramp tramp. Birds transformed
into tiny moose for an hour at sunup. Never any swallows
walking on the roof, you could be certain. They would no
doubt at least have pranced prettily, but sensibly preferred
to fly.
If the farmhouse had had upstairs ceilings, the birdfeet
would not be quite so thundering. But there was only the
rafters. Morag liked it this way because it showed the way
the house had been built, nearly a hundred years ago by a
homesteader called Cooper. Whose sons and grandsons
had farmed the beautifully treed but rocky land until finally
giving up, selling out and moving to some town or
other. The house was log, still as sound as the year it was
built. The door frames and window sills were handhewn
timber, although the floorboards and doors had come
from a sawmill. The rooms were small. Morag had obtained
the furniture - old-fashioned straightbacked chair,
pine dressers, the long table in the kitchen - at secondhand
furniture stores in McConnell's Landing. The oldness
of the farmhouse, the roughness, were qualities Morag
would have loathed as a kid. Now she valued them.
105
106 The Diviners
Morag gave up the battle to block her ears against th< -birds, and got up. The kitchen was cool and would remaii
so. The thick walls kept out the heat. She put her heac outside the door. The river was still. No breeze. The tree:
across the river were reflected in the water so sharply yoi
could imagine it was another world there, a treeworld i;
the water, willows and oak and maples, all growing there
climbed upon by river-children, and slithered finnil;
through by muskie and yellow perch. The day, she pre
dieted, was going to be a scorcher.
Royland would be here in about an hour. Today was the
day.
You wondered about people like the Cooper family, al
those years ago. Trekking in here to take up their home
stead. No roads. Bush. Hacking their way. Wagons an(
horses? Probably coming much of the way by river
Barges teetering and overloaded. Then the people clearinj
the first growth of timber. Shifting the rocks from fields
making stone walls to outline the land to be cultivated
The sheer unthinkable back-and-heart-breaking slog
Women working like horses. Also, probably pregnan
most of the time. Baking bread in brick ovens, with a loa
in their own ovens. Looking after broods of chickens an<
kids. Terrible. Appalling.
Healthy life, though. No one died of lung cancer
Strong and fit, they were, tanned and competent. Pioneer
oh pioneers.
But what about a burst appendix? Desperately ill kids
Fever? Women having breech births or other disorders o
childbearing? The tiny cemetery on the hill contained
among other stones, the one to Simon Cooper's first wife
In Memory of Sarah Cooper
Who Died in Childbirth
June 20, 1880, Age 24.
She Rests In The Lord.
The Nuisance Grounds 107
Probably glad to rest anywhere, poor lady, even In The
Lord. How many women went mad? Loneliness, isolation,
strain, despair, overwork, fear. Out there, the bush. In
here, a silent worried work-sodden man, squalling brats,
an open fireplace, and would the shack catch fire this week
or next? In winter, snow up to your thighs. Outdoor privy.
People flopping through drifts to the barn to milk the
cow. What fun. Healthy life indeed. A wonder they weren't
all raving lunatics. Probably many were. It's the full
of the moon, George - Mrs. Cooper always howls like this
at such a time - nothing to worry about - she'll be right as
rain come the morning - c'mon there, Sarah, quit crouching
in the corner and stop baring your fangs like that -
George and me's hungry and would appreciate a spot of
grub. Onward, Christian Soldiers. Thy Way Not Mine 0
Lord However Dark It Be.
The fact remained that they had hacked out a living here.
They had survived. Like so-called Piper Gunn and the Sutherlanders
further west. Was it better or worse now? Both.
Both. At least their children did not wander to God knows
where. Unknown destinies, far and probably lethal places.
If any did, though, there were no telephones and the mail
services could hardly have been very snappy. Well, then, they did not have to wrench up their guts and hearts etcetera
and set these carefully down on paper, in order to live.
Clever of them, one might say. Anyway, some of them did.
Including women. Catharine Parr Traill, mid-i8oos, botanist,
drawing and naming wildflowers, writing a guide for
settlers with one hand, whilst rearing a brace of young and
working like a galley slave with the other.
From the birch, a thousand useful utensils can be made.
A Few Hints On Gardening (including how to start an
orchard, how to start it!) How To Make: Cheap Family Cake
Hot TeaCakes
Indian-Meal Yorkshire Pudding
lo8 The Diviners
Maple Vinegar
Potted Fish
Potash Soap
Rag Carpets
Candles
A Good Household Cheese
Cures For Ague and Dysentery
And so on. It did not bear thinking about. Morag,
running her log house with admirable efficiency and a
little help from the electric fridge, kettle, toaster, stove,
iron, baseboard heaters, furnace, lights, not to mention
the local supermarket and Ron Jewitt's friendly neighbourhood
taxi. Great God Almighty.
The song sparrow was tuning up in the small elm outside
the window. Its song was unambiguous.
Pres-pres-pres-pres- Presbyterian!
Mrs. Eula McCann from several miles away had
dropped in with welcome raisin buns when Morag and
Pique originally moved in, and had asked Morag if she
had heard the bird which said that word. Morag, until
that moment, had only heard it as a pleasant trill. Since
that day, however, its message came across loud and clear.
Catharine Parr Traill, one could be quite certain, would
not have been found of an early morning sitting over a
fourth cup of coffee, mulling, approaching the day in gingerly
fashion, trying to size it up. No. No such sloth for
Catharine P.T.
SCENE AT THE TRAILL HOMESTEAD, CIRCA 1840
C.P.T. out of bed, fully awake, bare feet on the sliverhazardous
floorboards - no, take that one again. Feet on
the homemade hooked rug. Breakfast cooked for the multitude.
Out to feed the chickens, stopping briefly on the
way back to pull fourteen armloads of weeds out of the
vegetable garden and perhaps prune the odd apple tree in
passing. The children's education hour, the umpteen little
mites lisping enthusiastically over this enlightenment.
The Nuisance Grounds 109
Cleaning the house, baking two hundred loaves of delicious
bread, preserving half a ton of plums, pears, cherries,
etcetera. All before lunch.
Catharine Parr Traill, where are you now that we need
you? Speak, oh lady of blessed memory.
Where the hell was Pique and why didn't she phone or
write? If Pique were not carrying any form of identification
(as was likely), how would anyone know who she was
and be able to get in touch with Morag if anything happened?
Should Morag try to trace her? Pique had been
okay not too long ago. The phone message from Pique's
father had established that. But where was she now and
why didn't she simply say? Was this over-concern on Morag's
part? No doubt. But still. How could you stop yourself
from worrying? The kid was eighteen. Only. What had
Catharine said, somewhere, about emergencies?
Morag loped over to the bookshelves which lined two
walls of the seldom-used livingroom. Found the pertinent
text.
In cases of emergency, it is folly to fold one's hands and sit
down to bewail in abject terror. It is better to be up and
doing.
(The Canadian Settlers'Guide, 1855)
Morag: Thank you, Mrs. Traill.
Catharine Parr Traill: That, my dear, was when we were at
one time surrounded by forest fires which threatened
the crops, fences, stock, stable, cabin, furniture and, of
course, children. Your situation, if I may say so, can
scarcely be termed comparable.
Morag: Well uh no, I guess not. Hold on, though. You try having your only child disappear you know where,
Mrs. Traill. Also, with no strong or even feeble shoulder
upon which to lean, on occasion. Okay, don't say it,
lady. You'd go out and plant turnips, so at least you
no The Diviners
wouldn't starve during the winter. You'd pick blueberries
or something. Start a jam factory. Make pemmican
out of the swayback which dropped dead of exhaustion
on the Back Forty. Don't tell me. I know.
The knocking (only now noticed by Morag) at the kitchen
door had ceased and Royland had stepped inside. She
knew from his step, slow but not heavy, that it was him.
"First sign of going off your rocker, Morag, so they
say."
Embarrassed, she returned the book to its place and
went back to the kitchen.
"Don't you ever talk out loud to yourself, Royland?"
"Oh sure. It's when I start answering myself I get
worried."
Ha ha. The ancient joke.
"I was not answering myself," Morag said. "I was holding
a polite if somewhat controversial conversation with a
lady of my acquaintance, who happens not to inhabit this
vale of tears any more."
"You and Joan of Arc, the pair of you," Royland said,
cough-laughing into the grey shagginess of his chin
foliage.
"The lady of her acquaintance held - um - a slightly
more distinguished position than this lady of mine. Want
some coffee?"
"Don't mind if I do. You working yet, Morag?"
He got the word right now. Once he used to ask her if
she was doing any writing these days. Until he learned
that the only meaning the word work had for her was
writing, which was peculiar, considering that it was more
of a free gift than work, when it was going well, and the
only kind of work she enjoyed doing.
"I don't know. I mean, about the thing I seem to want
to do, or have to. It seems like an awfully dubious idea, in
a lot of ways, but I guess I'll have to go on with it. Maybe
it's begun. I don't know very much about it yet."
The Nuisance Grounds 111
"Heard from Pique?"
"No." Turning away so the old man would not see her
request for reassurance.
"I thought not. You have got to quit fretting over that
girl. As I keep saying."
Morag turned suddenly and faced him.
"Don't mistake me, Royland. I don't want her living
here any more. She can't. She mustn't. She's got to be on
her own. Anything else is no good for her and no good for
me. It's just that I'd like to hear from time to time that
she's okay, is all."
"You think she isn't?"
"Remember that time a year ago, when she left school
and took off?"
"Yen. She came back, though. And is now a whole year
older."
"She was in a mental hospital in Toronto for a month.
A bad trip, as they somewhat euphemistically say. She
hasn't had a very easy life, Royland. I clobbered her with
a hell of a situation to live in, although I never meant to.
Okay, maybe everything else clobbered her, too, and I'm
not God and I'm not responsible for everything. But I
chose to have her, in the first place, and maybe I should've
seen it would be too difficult for her. You don't think of
that, at the time, or I didn't, anyway."
Pique, her long black hair spread over the hospital pillow,
her face turned away from Morag, her voice low and
fierce. Can't you see I despise you? Can't you see I want
you to go away? You aren 't my mother. I haven't got a
mother. The nurse, candy-voiced, telling Morag it would
be best for her to leave and in a week or so we would see.
Morag, walking on streets, not knowing where, stumbling
into people, seeing only small hard-bright replayed movies
inside. Pique at five saying Tell me the story about the
robin in our own dogwood tree please Mum. Pique on the
first plane flight saying Is it safe Mum? and Morag saying Yes, hoping this was true. Pique in England saying We're
going home? and not knowing where that place could be.
il2 The Diviners
Pique saying Are we really going to live on a farm and can
I have a dog? Pique, when her father visited both those
times, ten years apart, and then when he had to go away
again. Pique saying nothing. Nothing. Pique's face turned
away, her hair spread across the white freeze-drift of hospital
linen, saying / despise you.
"You know something, Royland?" Morag said. "I guess
I feel that sometimes she despises me. And there are moments
when I can see her point, there."
"I knew about Pique in Toronto," Royland said. "She
told me."
"She did?"
"Sure. She said she couldn't be certain she wouldn't do
it again, but she hoped she wouldn't, on account of she
wanted to get her head together - that was how she put it
- by herself. Also, she doesn't despise you. She has mixed
feelings, is all. Haven't you ever had?"
Christie. Prin. Brooke. Pique's father. Clan McRaith.
Pique.
"Yes. Of course. Naturally."
"You should try to rest your soul," Royland said. "You
ready to go now, Morag?"
A strong south wind had risen, and the river was darker
now, the water undulating under the boat.
"What if it rains?" Morag asked.
"Makes no difference. Water's still there underground."
At the Smiths' dock, grey weathered timbers and driftwood
logs, built by A-Okay, Royland drew the boat in,
tied it, and they walked up the slope to the house.
The Smiths' house was brick, dark red, with a gabled
roof on which A-Okay had already restored the wooden
lace, now painted white by Maudie, suffering vertigo on
the ladder but never once saying Die or even Down. They
had rented the farm, with an option to buy, always supposing
A-Okay could whomp up the necessary money
from the pop science articles he wrote. The rent was small,
because the land was neglected and overgrown and the
house, while pleasing on the outside, had been virtually
The Nuisance Grounds 113
only a shell. The floors were sound, but that was about all
you could say for it. The rest was a shambles. But being
restored.
"Hi," A-Okay said at the door. "Maudie's got the coffee
on. We'll do it right after, if that's a-okay with you.
Any special time of day for this, Royland?"
"Nope. I don't usually do it at night, is all."
"Why not? I mean, is there a -"
A-Okay, ex-science man, groping, wondering about all
this procedure.
"Might trip over a tree root," Royland said.
A-Okay laughed, but self-consciously. Royland's
cracker-barrel humour embarrassed him. He thought it
had been pinched from B-grade movies, as perhaps it had.
Royland sometimes took pleasure in his Old Man of the
River persona, but was no hick in fact. He had begun life
on a homestead - that was all Morag really knew. He
knew cities; he knew lots of areas. Probably. But never
talked of his past. Morag Gunn, inveterate winkler-out of
people's life stories, had never winkled out Royland's. He
knew a hell of a lot more about her than she did about
him. He, obviously, preferred it this way. Perhaps she did,
too.
"Did you read Alf's poems, Morag?" Maudie asked,
coming out of the kitchen looking like a very fragile wood
nymph, her long pale hair all around her, a wood nymph
in dirty beige corduroy jeans and tomato-stained blouse,
today. Maudie could not weigh more than a hundred
pounds, at most, Morag estimated. That such apparent
frailty could conceal such muscularity, physical and spiritual,
was a marvel.
The poems.
"I read them, yes."
"And what did you think?"
"Let her get in the door, first, eh, Maudie?" A-Okay
said with suppressed irritation, blushing.
"I thought the river ones were good," Morag said truthfully,
"but I thought the land ones were kind of abstract. I
I
thought maybe they mi
detail. I know what you
do, but they seemed to<
more flesh and blood d
You didn't seem - well
Not that / know. I don' )! either. I really don't lik ^ "Yeh. Well. Thank;
sunken in despondence sightedly connecting \
over. "I guess I might <
Maudie looked dubi
I tion. Well, good for hei
"As I've said befon
messes them around to
spontaneity? Maybe the I just as they are."
"Yeh. Maybe."
They went outside.
willow, one hand on ea
hands clenched, palms
|! tightly. The tail of the'
II At the back of the h(
111111 ly. Up and down the y
playing a pibroch. On
Not the walk over the (i
Nothing happened.
"Does it ever -
Royland?" A-Okay ask
"Alf, sh!" Maudie hi;
had interrupted during
I "Doesn't fail if the w |] Royland said. "You d
Ii| quiet."
But all the same, no
stood with his hand in j| now subdued.
Morag had once trie
The Nuisance Grounds 115
Nothing at all had happened. Royland had said she didn't
have the gift. She wasn't surprised. Her area was elsewhere.
He was divining for water. What in hell was she
divining for? You couldn't doubt the value of water.
"Hey - look!" Thomas.
The tip of the willow wand was moving. In Royland's
bony grip, the wood was turning, moving downwards very
slowly, very surely. Towards the earth.
Magic, four yards north of the Smiths' clothesline.
"How about that?" A-Okay said. "Well, I guess we'll
see when the driller comes in, eh?"
Wanting faith, taking it on faith, but not yet convinced.
Would the driller strike water?
Tom, encyclopaedic mind suddenly pierced by mysteries,
could only stare.
"Will they find water there. Dad?"
A-Okay, naturally, unnaturally, could neither say Yes
or No. He grinned, in embarrassment, hoping.
"Morag -" Maudie.
"Yes?"
"What if the driller doesn't -?"
Maudie, feeling intimations and premonitions of mortality.
Morag wanted to put her arms around Tom's mother.
But could not.
"I know."
Royland marked the spot by sticking the willow bough
into it. The driller's truck clanked into the yard.
"'Lo, Bob." Royland. Casual.
'"Lo, Royland. This it?"
"Yep. Should be."
The drilling rig was set up and began chewing the
ground. Clay and earth spat out in a steady stream. Maudie
shivered and rose from the front steps.
"It's crazy," she said, "but I just can't take this, Morag.
I mean, how'll Royland feel if it doesn't, you know?"
"I know. Me, too. Let's go in and make coffee."
The drill hit water at forty feet.
"Lucky there isn't so much rock on your place,
116 The Diviners
A-Okay," Royland said, sucking at his coffee. "Knew one
place they had to go down damn near a hundred feet
through sheer rock. Had to blast. Cost them enough, I can
tell you. Well, you got enough water for a good-size town,
here."
"I just don't see, though," A-Okay said, grateful but
confused, "how it's done."
"I don't know no more than you," Royland said. "All I know is, it happens."
The river had quieted when Royland and Morag went
back across. Royland in his old blue-and-grey plaid windbreaker
sat hunched over the motor, his eyes half closed.
"You tired, Royland?"
"Not exactly. I just sometimes get kind of keyed-up.
You know? And you get this feeling, sometimes, I guess."
"What kind of feeling?"
"That this time it might not work," Royland said.
Yeh. That.
"What would you have been like, as a young man, Royland?"
"Maverick,"
Royland said. "Maybe I'll tell you sometime.
Or maybe not. Look - carp jumping, see it?"
A golden and fanged crescent, breaking the river's surface.
Then gone.
Maverick?
Night. A piercing noise.
Morag shot from her chair and answered the phone.
"Collect call from Winnipeg." Operator's voice. "Will
you accept the charges?"
"Yes. Yes."
"Go ahead, please," said the antiseptic voice.
"Hello. Ma?"
"Pique. Are you okay? I mean, how are you?" JIB "I'm fine." Voice sounding strong and maybe okay.
"You weren't worried?"
"No. I knew I'd hear from you."
The Nuisance Grounds 117
"Liar."
They both laughed. Morag, with relief.
"So how are youV Pique asked. "Are you working?"
"I've begun, yes," Morag said, hands shaking as she lit
a cigarette, holding the telephone receiver between her
chin and shoulder. "I'm okay. I went over to the Smiths'
today. Royland divined their well. Incidentally, Pique,
Gord didn't phone."
"It's all right. He's here now. Not with me this minute.
I mean, but here."
"Thank God."
"Oh Mother. For Christ's sake. All is now fine because
I've got a big strong husky dog to fend for me?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Pique. You know I don't mean
that."
"You do, though."
True, as Morag realized upon a moment's reflection.
"Well, it's just that you alone, honey - look, I'm sorry.
I'll get used to it. I'm learning, but I'm not learning fast
enough. The usual human condition, if I may say so."
"Philosophical to the last ditch, that's you," Pique said
cheerily. "Well, Gord's okay. I mean, he's a real good
person and that. I'm just not all that convinced he's my
actual destiny. We may as well travel together for a while.
I don't guess he knows, really, what I'm looking for."
Gord, however, was six-feet-two, gentle as a lamb flock
except when roused to the protection of Pique. This
much, in the opinion of some, was decidedly in his favour.
"I won't demean myself by asking if you're eating properly.
But are you. Pique?"
"Oh sure. No sweat on that scene." Impatience in her
voice, then suppressed excitement. "Say, I went out to
your old hometown."
"You (aw
Manawaka. Pique sauntering along Main Street in her
jeans, her guitar on her back, a stranger in a place strange
to her. What had she seen or found? Who?
"Yeh." A laugh, not very amused. "I looked it over. I
118 The Diviners
stayed a coupla days. I'll tell you about it sometime. It was
a real gas."
"I'll bet. Was there - did you go "
"I said, I'll tell you sometime. It wasn't quite what I
expected."
"I have no trouble in believing that."
"Yen, but you don't know what I expected, and you
don't know what I found, do you?"
"Okay, you've got me there. What else?"
"I nearly had the guitar hurt," Pique said. "Luckily,
that turned out okay. It was the day I nearly got busted."
"You did? What for? I mean, what did they say it was
for?"
Morag had to remind herself once again that her instinctive
image of the police was one from the distant past
- old Rufus Nolan puffing beer-bellied up Main Street.
Mooseheaded but harmless. The local constable. When
anything serious occurred in town, the mounties zinged
in, summoned from somewhere, taut and sinister in breeks
with the bright yellow stripe like a stinging wasp, and
jackboots, but not living locally so only a sometime and
not-quite-real threat, even to Hill Street.
A silence.
"Pique, what happened? Nobody hurt you? Did anyone
"
And if they had, what could Morag do?
"Cool it, eh?" Pique's uncool voice. "It was outside of
some little nothing-type town just inside Manitoba. I can't
even remember the name. Maybe I blotted it out. Or
maybe it actually didn't have a name, you know? I'm
walking along hoping for a lift but not actually trying that
hard because it's a nice evening, see, just after dusk and
I'm wondering when I'm gonna start hearing those fabulous
prairie meadowlarks you always used to tell me
about, remember? Listen, this call is costing you a fortune,
Ma."
"Never mind. What happened!"
"Well, a car went by, and it was this bunch of, like, you
The Nuisance Grounds 119
know, kind of middle-aged guys, pretty jowly and obviously
the local businessmen or something. So they see
me, yes? I take one look and think uh-uh. So you know
what they do then?"
"I can't imagine."
She could, though, and none of it was human.
"Well, they start pelting empty beer bottles at me. Outa
the windows. They're drunk, I need not add. Some charity
supper or something they've been to, no doubt. One of the
bottles hits the guitar, and the case is only a plastic one as
you know, but luckily no real damage, although there's a
mark. The car was creeping along slow, there, and I
wasn't feeling too happy just about then. Well, one of the
guys took this bottle and cracked it hard on the door
frame of the car. The bottle broke, of course, and then he
heaved it at me, meantime yelling all kinds of shit. Well,
the glass got me on the arm, and I guess the blood kind of
scared them. They took off."
My world in those days was a residual bad dream, with
some goodness and some chance of climbing out. Hers is
an accomplished nightmare, with nowhere to go, and the
only peace is in the eye of the hurricane. My God. My
God.
"Pique - is your arm okay now? What happened
then?"
Her arm. What about the other dimension?
"Yeh, it's okay. Oh, I walked into town. I dunno just
thinking of those guys kind of bugged me. Maybe what
they really would've liked was to lay me and then slit my
throat. I had that feeling. Anyway, I stopped at a house
and asked if I could please wash, as I'd had a slight accident,
and they called the cops."
She tries to speak my idiom, to me. She never says Pigs,
cognizant of my rural background.
"What for? To report on the men?"
"You've got to be joking, Ma. No. To report on me.
They took me to the police station. I was let off with a
warning."
120 The Diviners
" You were let off with a warning? What about the "
"I guess it was just I was walking through their town,
by myself, like, and how I got the bleeding arm would've
been too uncomfortable for them to know, probably. I
tried to tell them, naturally, not because I thought it'd do
that much good, but I mean, for God's sake, if you're a
doormat somebody will be bound to walk all over you,
right? But they didn't want to know. So I kept on
moving."
If you want to make yourself into a doormat, Morag
girl, I declare unto you that there's a christly host of them
that'll be only too willing to tread all over you. - Proverbs
of C. Logon, circa 1936.
"Pique - honey "
"Oh shit. Now I've gone and told it like a hardluck
story. Appealing to your sympathy. I didn't mean it like
that."
"It didn't come across like that."
"It did, though. Anyway, I'm going on to the coast. I'll
write you. Listen, I'm sorry, this call really is costing you
the earth "
I'm not quite broke yet. It's only money. Don't ring off.
Not quite yet.
"Yeh, it is," Morag said. "Well - write when you can,
eh? And take care."
"I will. You too."
SILENCE.
The silence boomed resoundingly from wall to wall.
The house was filled with it. Only after half an hour did
Morag realize that Pique had not mentioned seeing her
father, arid Morag had not mentioned that he had
phoned.
The night river was dark and shining, and the moon
traced a wavering path across it. Morag sat cross-legged
on the dock, listening to the hoarse prehistoric voices of
the bullfrogs. Somewhere far-off, thunder.
Incredibly, unreasonably, a lightening of the heart.
The Nuisance Grounds ill
Memorybank Movie: Whose Side is God On? Morag stands beside Prin, the back row of the church,
hating her own embarrassment but hugging it around her.
She is much taller than Prin now, and even though she has
finally got Prin a new coat, grey with silverish buttons, at
Simlow's spring sale, Prin still looks like a barrel of lard
with legs. She has tried to do Prin's long grey hair up in a
bun (which is in classy circles called a chignon, she now
knows), but the hairpins are falling out, and Prin doesn't
even realize or try to poke them back in again, so a funnylooking
twist of hair is now halfway down her neck. Prin's
hat never stays on at the right angle - it sits there all
cockeyed, the navy straw brim drooping over Prin's forehead,
the pink velvet geranium looking as though it may
come unhitched at any moment. It is, as well, a hat which
Christie found at the Nuisance Grounds, and Morag is in
agony, wondering if it once belonged to Mrs. Cameron or
Mrs. Simon Pearl or somebody who's here today and will
recognize it and laugh and tell everybody. Prin sings loudly,
a deep contralto, but is quite frequently off-key, and
when she hits a sour note Morag squirms.
She loves Prin, but can no longer bear to be seen with
her in public. Prin maybe knows this, and is grateful when
Morag goes to church with her, which makes Morag feel
bad, that is, feel badly.
Morag is dressed nicely. Nobody could deny it. She
spends on clothes everything she earns Saturdays working
at Simlow's Ladies' Wear. Her hair is done in very neat
braids, twisted around her head, and her hat is that very
pale natural straw, with just a band of turquoise ribbon
around it, in good taste. Her coat, also turquoise, matches
the ribbon exactly and is princess-style, fitted, and flaring
at the bottom. It shows off her figure, which is a goddamn
good one - that is, a very nice one. But all this makes no
difference. When church is over, and they're all filing out,
chattering, the Camerons and MacLeods and Duncans
and Cateses and McVities and Halperns and them, no one
122 The Diviners
will say Good Morning to Morag and Prin. Not on your
life. Might soil their precious mouths. Maybe they're just
embarrassed, like, and don't know what to say? Not a
chance. They're a bunch of - well, a bunch of so-and-so's.
Morag does not swear. If you swear at fourteen it only
makes you look cheap, and she is not cheap, goddamn it.
Gol-darn it.
In Christ there is no East or West,
In Him no North or South Oh
yeh? Like fun there isn't.
"Let us pray," Reverend McKee says.
And prays for all the Manawaka boys who have gone to
the war.
Morag, head bent, tries to imagine the War. You imagine
lots of things about it, but is that the way it really is? Is
it like that poem they took this year in English?
The sand of the desert is sodden red.
Red with the wreck of a square that broke.
The gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke The
rest of the poem is crap, but those lines are really
something. Sodden red. Blind with dust and smoke. Is it
like that? They don't use gatlings now, though. Much
worse stuff. Also, bombing places like London (and in that
giant city, no lights on at night, how creepy and awful)
and even little kids lying there, dead. What does God care?
What would it be like, actually to feel a bullet going into
you, let's say into your stomach or your lungs, and knowing
there was no way out, no hospital or cure? Knowing you have to die, right now, this minute. Was it like Christie
described that other war? Gunner Gunn. Age eighteen.
Only four years older that she is now. God couldn't have
cared less, whoever died there. If the War lasts until she is
eighteen, she won't join the Women's Army. They'll have
The Nuisance Grounds 123
to come and drag her away, if they want her. It would be a
way of getting out of town, though.
"Amen," Reverend McKee says.
At home, Morag faces Prin, now rocking comfortably
in the rocker that was part of Christie's recent loot from
the Nuisance Grounds.
"Prin -"
"Yeh?"
"I'm not going to church anymore. I don't like it. It's it's
-"
Christie is watching her. Half-smiling.
"I don't want to go, that's all," she says. "I don't like it
anymore."
"Well, you suit yourself," Prin says. Resigned.
Not in judgement. Just - you suit yourself.
"Christie "
He gathers the phlegm in his throat. Goes to the front
door, opens it, and spits outside into the weeds.
"You heard her, Morag. It's like she says. You suit yourself."

It would have been better, almost, if they'd argued with
her. Now she feels she's done something awful. But will
not change her mind.
Memory/bank Movie: Saturday Night in
the Old Hometown Simlow's Ladies' Wear is a lovely place. There are carpets,
even, sort of wine-coloured with black circle patterns, and
there are long counters and you stand behind one and say, Can I help you? It's nice to work here on Saturdays, and
you get paid for it as well.
The racks of dresses are at the back. Morag has looked
through them when the store isn't busy. Right now they
have:
y printed silk two-piece dresses for the fuller figure
H a whole load of cotton housedresses blue green yellow
&- etcetera
124 The Diviners
silk or rayon afternoon dresses some with velvet bow at the
shoulder
little girls' party dresses very cute with full skirts and
embroidery
dirndl skirts with bright orange and blue flowers printed
blouses with lace ruffles at the neck
and
oh
the most adorable red dressmaker suit size 14
Morag cannot afford the suit but is saving for it. Will it
be bought first by somebody else? She keeps her fingers
crossed. When anyone looks at it, she fixes them with the
evil eye. When anyone tries it on, she holds her breath.
Morag isn't allowed to work in Dresses, not yet. That is
Millie Christopherson's territory. She needs a helper, and
maybe soon it will be Morag. Millie is old (well, older, anyway, as you might say) and she is tiny and light like a
dandelion seed, very skinny legs (silk stockings, always,
never lisle). She also looks kind of like a dandelion in full
bloom, on account of her hair which is puny and permed
and a dandelion-yellow. She dyes it; imagine having the
nerve. But it is a gorgeous colour, and does not make
Millie look cheap at all. Millie has very Good Taste.
"Good Taste is learnt," she says to Morag. "No soul in
this here world is born with it, Morag. It is learnt, honey,
and I am going to learn a teeny bit of it to you."
Morag is proud to have been chosen, and listens carefully.

"It is the colour harmony which is all-important, honey,"
Millie says, the store being unbusy as yet in the early
evening. "Pink and purple, now, would you put the two of
them together?"
"No, I guess not."
"Don't you guess, honey. You better know. Pink and
purple, now, they clash. Also blue and green. Clash.
Clash. Ugh."
The Nuisance Grounds 125
What about sky and grass, Morag wants tolo^now, k doesn't ask. llt
"Accessories, too," Millie goes on, dartinjov,ver (q »,
glove counter. "They are also all-importait, "" Take tk*0 little dress now - a teal-blue, wouldn't you sa)< UJjghteri
with the beige flower pattern. Now, would yift^ear th^ black kid gloves with it, or these others herel" ^e
"The beige ones?"
"Right, honey! Very good. The beige cairiesss out h
tone of the flowers, doesn't it? You catch oniim^j^ ^g<le It's a pleasure to tell you things." ' TMorag
has never felt such a warmth befcm, ° ghe loy Millie with all her heart and soul. ts
Morag is in Lingerie. At first it seemed furiinnv tK people would go to all that expense and bollien;r to' ^u really nifty underwear when who would see itiUiJuiess y^ were married, but now it seems as though it v would i" lovely if you could afford it. Mostly the dtiia^nd is f rayon pants and cotton brassieres, the cheap R y^es ^tr sometimes people will buy one of the beaut gtoarmen. Morag sorts and folds them, constantly rearragn^g. Th
are nice to touch, cool, slippery. Especially: " ^
the blue satin nightie with a deep band of lace ilth(*ie neck
the pale peach slip with tiny appliqued flowers ttliQie neck
the pastel pink panties very short not at all likeMoooomers
Business is warming up. Between eight anl y when U
store closes, at ten, is the best time. Lots ofpe sople jb
look, of course. Morag stands up straight, betind{j the sli^ and nighties, feeling like she owns them, iniv/way. S^ knows them, is why. And can show them olto o anyot'6 interested. She knows the prices of every ken tj ^y ^'e Millie says a good salesgirl always knows theprituces witi'
out looking, but if you forget, try to sneak a {lanrnce at t^'
tag without the customer noticing. It makesa^good in*6 pression, Millie says.
iz6 The Diviners
Quite a few people now. Mrs. McVitie in a new hat,
dark purple straw just dripping with mauve and yellow
velvet violets, what awful Taste. Young Mrs. Pearl the
lawyer's wife, not really young at all but this is so's she
won't get confused with her mother-in-law, old Henry's
widow, who is hardly ever in town anyhow. A lot of farm
women whom Morag doesn't know except by sight, the
same ones who flock into Simlow's every Saturday night
just to look and finger the stuff, because no money.
Eva Winkler.
"Hi, Morag, how ya doing?"
"Oh, just great, Eva. How's things?"
"Okay, I guess. Dad's in one of his bad spells again. Me
and Vern is going to spend the night at Auntie Clara's. I'm
a bit worried about Ma, though. She says she can look
after herself and keep out of his way when he gets that
mad at everybody, but she can't look out for me and Vern
as well. Still and all -"
Eva has got Vern with her. Oh horrors. Vern is still
awfully small for his age, and his pale hair looks nearly
white. His nose is runny, as usual. He is in overalls only,
no shirt, and is in his bare feet. On Simlow's carpet. Then
Morag notices his eyes, scared and sly at the same time.
What a life.
"Gee - I'm sorry, Eva."
Sorry, but wanting Eva to go. Right this minute. Not to
be seen talking to her.
Eva's hair, the same whitish yellow as it always was,
could be really nice but still straggles all over the place.
And not always clean, either. Eva's dresses are still the
same old cotton things like potato sacks. Eva hasn't
smartened up any. She is no longer in Morag's grade at
school. She has failed twice and is only in Grade Seven, in
the Public School, not the Collegiate. Morag is ashamed
to be so glad that they are in different schools. They sometimes
walk up Hill Street together in the mornings and
then turn different ways.
Eva seems like she is beaten by life already. Morag is
The Nuisance Grounds 127
not - repeat not - going to be beaten by life. But cannot
bear to look at Eva very often.
"Gee, I'm sorry, Eva," she repeats. "I gotta go now.
Millie doesn't like us to gab to friends when we're supposed
to be working."
Eva brightens for a second at friends. Then gets the real
message.
"Sure, Morag. It's okay. I understand."
And trails off, clumpingly, with Vernon. How can
anyone who weighs so little as Eva walk so heavy? Morag
wants to call Eva back. But doesn't.
Mrs. Cameron comes in, flittery as a dusty-miller moth,
twittery as a flock of sparrows. In a silk-rayon suit, navy,
which looks familiar - aha, it is the old rose one she's
worn to church for ages, dyed to look different. She carries
white gloves and purse. With her, Stacey, so neat and
short and pretty in a cherry-coloured dress, polka-dotted
with white, her hair long and in a perfect pageboy at the
back and done up in the front in those great big soft rolls
like Betty Grable's, and how in the dickens does she get it
to stay up because even ninety million bobby-pins won't
do the trick on Morag's hair, so heavy and thick. Stacey
looks uncomfortable. Embarrassed by her mum, no
doubt, and no wonder. Mrs. Cameron puts her hand to
her heart every third step, and stops, really breathing, so
you know she's trying hard at it. She always makes out
like she's at death's door.
Tough as old boots, that woman, for all her performances (Christie says). She'll outlive Mall, I'll bet a nickel to a
doughnut hole. Hey, Morag, here's a riddle for you - who
buries the undertaker? Give up? Whoever'II undertake it.
Then it happens. Mrs. Cameron is looking at the Red
Dressmaker Suit. If Stacey gets it, Morag will will
will well will do nothing, obviously. It's too long and
big for Stacey. It's Morag's exact right size and length.
Twenty hours, it seems, in the trying-on cubicles, and
then
Heavens.
I2S The L>iviners
It is Mrs. Cameron who emerges wearing the suit. To
see herself in the better light and the longer mirrors.
"What do you think, Stacey?" she chirps.
Mumble mumble. Stacey isn't letting on. Why doesn't
she just say Mother it looks like hell on you it is twenty- five years too young/or yoUl Not a word. Stacey is studying
the little kids' party dresses as though her life depended
on it.
"What do you think, Millie?"
"Mm - mm -" Millie says noncommittally, torn between
truth and sale. "Did you try the chocolate-brown or
the grey yet, Mrs. Cameron, dear? They might be more you. I'm not saying that's not a lovely little suit, mind "
"It's cheerful," Mrs. Cameron carols, laughing her nervous
laugh. "I'm just going to be a wee bit reckless, Millie.
I'm going to take it."
"It'll need some altering," Millie says.
"Oh, that'll be simple enough. I can do it myself. No
need to pay anything extra to have it done."
Fuck. Shit. Bloody bloody christly hell. And the hell
with not swearing, too.
"Can I help you?" Morag says politely, to a woman
pawing around through the garter-belts.
On the way out, Mrs. Cameron stops at Lingerie. Stacey
grins weakly at Morag.
"Hi, Morag."
"Hi, Stacey."
When have they ever said much more than this to one
another? But now, surprisingly, Stacey gives Morag a
look, meaning / know she looks like mutton dressed as
lamb in that suit, but what can I do about it? Morag
permits herself a small return smile. It is all she can do.
People with real parents sometimes have a lousy time, too.
She has known this all along, of course, but not really.
Mrs. Cameron smiles, friendly, at Morag.
"I just wanted to say to you, dear," she says, "I think
you've done really quite well since you started working
here. You've smartened yourself up a whole lot."
The Nuisance Grounds 129
"Mother!'1'1 Stacey's agonized cry.
Stacey rushes out of the store. Morag stares. Unblinking.
Stare. Stare. A hex. Mrs. Cameron, bewildered,
fusses with her gloves and then laughs a tiny girlish laugh.
"Well, I just wanted to "
And leaves, at last. Morag stands very quietly. In her
head:
blue satin nightie with deep band of lace at top
pale peach slip with appliqued flowers
pastel pink panties
and every goddamn silk stocking in the place
thrown around like confetti
while people shrink and shriek
"Could you keep an eye on my counter for a sec,
Janis?" she says to the girl in Kiddies'.
And goes to the John. She sits on the toilet, tearing up
little shreds of toilet paper in her fingers. It strikes her
then that she will be able to face Stacey next week in
school, but Stacey probably won't be able to face her.
This is a peculiar thought. After a while she can come out
again, and after two thousand hours more, it becomes ten
o'clock.
Parthenon Cafe. Morag sits at the U-shaped counter,
not a booth, because she is by herself.
"Hi, Morag. What'll it be?"
"Hi, Julie. Just a coffee, please."
Julie Kaslik works here on Saturdays. Longer hours
than Simlow's, and she says Miklos is a rough guy to
work for - if you stand still an instant, he's yelling at you.
But Julie likes the sociability of the job. She looks good in
the waitress uniform. The light applegreen smock-dress
goes really well with her blonde hair which she wears in a
smooth French-roll when at work although long or in
braids at school.
"Hey, Morag, Mike's dad says we can sit in the car,
after. Wanna come? I'm off in fifteen minutes."
130 The Diviners
Mike Lobodiak is Julie's boyfriend. What is it like, to
have a boyfriend? Well, who gives a damn anyway?
"Well, sure, Julie, but are you sure you want me to
come along?"
"Oh sure. It's a public gathering. Some of the kids will
be there. The private stuff comes later. Here's Mike. Hi,
glamour-boy. Want a coffee? I can't leave until eleven on
the dot, or Miklos will scream his lungs out."
Mike sits down beside Morag, smiling. He is tall, kind
of rawboned, which means the bones of his face, high
cheekbones, can be seen under his skin, but he looks good
that way. Morag catches a whiff of the mansmell about
him, and for a second is paralyzed because she wants to
touch him. His redbrown neck, his arms with the light
brown hairs on them, his hand. His mouth. Julie's boyfriend.

Morag envies Julie's breeziness. Ever since she herself
decided to drop her tough act, she has been not too certain
what to aim for. To act really ladylike would be too
old for her, and also kind of phoney. She has therefore
gone back to not speaking much, like when she was quite
a little kid and scared. She's scared again, now, but she
doesn't know what she's scared of.
The Lobodiaks' car. An old Nash, pretty beat-up but
comfortable. Steve Kowalski, black-haired and nice, but
kind of on the short side, is also there, and he and Morag
sit in the back seat. He doesn't try anything, though. She
is half-relieved and half-disappointed.
"Ringside seat," Mike says. "I got my dad to park right
in the middle of the main drag so we can see both ways."
Morag doesn't often get to sit in a parked car and look,
like some of the kids do every single Saturday night, so
she really feels good tonight. You can watch everybody
going by.
Farmers mostly not in overalls but their good serge or
tweed suits if they have them, coming out of the beer
parlour and walking along the street yelling to people they
know. Their women, sometimes with the men, sometimes
The Nuisance Grounds 131
in their own groups, as dolled up as possible, some in high
heels and wearing makeup, laughing, excited, middle-aged
and young, stout and skinny, hauling along their little kids
by the arms. Kids all ages and shapes, eating ice cream
cones, shouting, snivelling, shrieking, half-asleep, dancing
with the circus feeling, some of them complaining, joking,
humming to themselves. The town whores looking for a
pickup oh the eyeshadow wow and the sticking-out busts
in laced-up French brassieres under pink green mauve
angora tight tight sweaters. Some girls hooked onto the
arms of soldiers. Noise hooting yelling din wow.
Smells, dust from the streets, grittily blown by the wind -
French fries from the Regal Cafe dusky musky smell of
perfume Lily-of-the-Valley Sweet Pea cheap Bad Taste
and also Tweed Evening-in-Paris expensive Good
Taste and finally the smells all mashed into one smell
inside your nostrils.
Oh.
Christie Logan, walking, sauntering, dressed as usual in
his old overalls and rolled-up sleeves blue plaid shirt
sweat-wet under the arms, not drunk but slouching happily
along, gawking into the drugstore window at the
boxes of chocolates and the hot-water bottles.
Simon Pearl and Archie McVitie, lawyers, coming out
of their offices, locking carefully after late work on somebody's
farm mortgage or somebody's will, dressed in of
course business suits grey pin-striped, Mr. Pearl tall tall
like Morag remembers his father old Henry but of course
much smarter in the head and the looks than the old guy,
and Mr. McVitie much shorter but gold-rimmed specs.
The two meet Christie on the sidewalk just in front of
where the Lobodiaks' car is parked with its open windows
so you can hear everything oh hell hell.
"Well, well, hello there, Christie," Archie McVitie.
Simon Pearl says nothing. A nod of the head, only.
Brisk.
"H'lo there, Mr. McVitie," Christie says. "Fine evening."

132 The Diviners
Christie. But Mr. McVitie. Who decides?
"Hear you're keeping off Relief so far, Christie," Mr.
McVitie says.
"Some are still on," Christie says sullenly, "despite this
life-giving War."
Then oh please no
Yep. Christie goes into his doormat act. Bone-grin, full
of brown teeth.
"Och aye, an honest job is all I ask in this very world,
Mr. McVitie, and I tell you, sir, that's God's truth. An
honest wage for an honest day's work, as you might phrase
it."
Mr. McVitie frowns, suspecting dirty work at the crossroads
somewhere here but can't put his finger on it. Morag
stifles a laugh. But wants to cry. Wants to go out and
be there with Christie. Also, wants Christie not to be
there, just not to be there at all, and if she had a loaded
gun in her hands this very second, would take careful aim
and shoot him in the throat. Failing a gun, a stone. Or
maybe would shoot McVitie & Pearl, Barristers and
Solicitors.
She does not move.
"That's more or less what I told the Town Council at
the last meeting," Mr. McVitie says. "They want to get a
truck, you know, for the um ah refuse collection. Younger
man, and that. I said we'll only have one more on Relief if
we do that. They claim the War's made a difference. Not
enough yet, I said. If it lasts another couple of years, yes,
we'll be out of the doldrums."
Christie is looking hard at the two men. Deciding. Finally
he speaks.
"God will no doubt hear you," Christie says.
And strolls on.
Inside the car, silence.
"Hey!" Morag cries suddenly and loudly. "Get a load
of that, eh? Ina Spettigue's got three soldiers tonight.
Lotsa guys on leave this weekend."
The Nuisance Grounds 133
Laughter.
"Boy, I bet she'd be okay." Mike. Teasing Julie.
"Oh Mike. She's fat."
"A good armful, is all."
And then Mike's older brother arrives.
"Okay, you guys, everybody out. I need the car."
"Aw, John."
"Out, I said. I'm taking Marge home."
"What about me?" Mike complains. "How'm I supposed
to take Julie home?"
"I'll drop you off."
"Oh, thanks a million. How'm I supposed to get home
myself, then?"
John Lobodiak laughs.
"Walk, kid. It's only three miles. True love will find a
way."
"Jeez, you make me want to puke," Mike says furiously.

"Puke away," John says cheerfully.
So then they all go home.
Memorybank Movie: Leaves on Trees Can Be
Seen by Some At the Manawaka Collegiate, all the girls wear the same
clothes, at least on top. The boys can wear anything they
like, but the girls have to wear navy pleated tunics and
white blouses. Some of the girls don't go for this idea, but
for Morag it is godsend. Also, she gets ten percent off the
tunic and blouses at Simlow's.
Grade Nine is lots harder than Grade Eight, but then it
is High School. Morag's new policy - work like hell, that
is, like the dickens. Although not letting on to the other
kids. If you answered questions in class too much, the
others would be dead set against you. Morag does not care
about most of the kids, but she does not want Julie to be
against her. She is not Julie's best friend, but she is a
friend of Julie's all the same, and has been out twice to the
134 The Diviners
Kazliks' place for supper, and it is a lovely place, the dain
farm, there, a big house with real lace curtains and piles o
delicious food, and Mr. Kazlik roaring at them all but no
meaning it, and Julie's younger brothers, the twins, laugh
ing and making fun of everything, and Mrs. Kazlik vep
short and stoutish and very motherly, which Julie resent;
but Morag likes. Mrs. Kazlik made a blouse for Mora|
this spring, very full long sleeves and all embroidered a
the top with tiny cross-stitch birds and flowers in all col
ours, and this is a really fantastic thing, and Julie isn'
very interested in school so Morag has to watch it anc never show off.
But if you work, really really work, and get educated
something will come of it, maybe. Like being able to ge
out of Manawaka and never come back. Morag listens a
nights to the long wailing of the trains crossing the prai
ries, their voices like the spooky voices of giant owls. Shf
always feels warm and good at the sound, because shi
knows something which nobody else in this world knows
Which is, one day she will be on one of those trains, goin;
to the city and maybe even further than the city. Going ti
the whole world.
She sits in the back row in class as usual. Skinner Ion
nerre sits opposite, also in the back row as usual. She ha;
never spoken to him since that day at the Nuisancf
Grounds, but sometimes they give each other a half-grin
if nobody else is looking, like when old Craigson gets of
track in History and starts spouting about Planting Gardens for Victory and All of Us Doing Our Bit for the
War Effort, and sometimes gets so worked up that thf
tears come to his eyes and he looks really dumb and em
barrassing. Skinner comes to school pretty regularly thes(
days, although his sister who used to be in the same class has quit for good. Maybe Skinner is working on the sly
too, although you'd never know. He slouches in his seat
same as always, and his eyes are usually half-closed.
Miss Melrose is talking. Her voice is gruff and abrupt
Some of the kids don't like her because she doesn't stanc
The Nuisance Grounds 135
for any nonsense. Morag worships her. Because of what
she says about the compositions. Sometimes after class as
well. No one ever before has talked to Morag about what
was good and bad in writing, and shown her why. It is
amazing. And when you look at the composition again,
you can see why. Some things work and other things don't
work. Like the Pathetic Fallacy. You can't say The clouds
swooped teasingly over the town, promising rain, on account
of clouds don't feel - they just Are. Wordsworth
used the Pathetic Fallacy, of course, but Miss Melrose is
not a great fan of Wordsworth's. She prefers Browning,
who could get inside a person's very soul.
"After last week's free choice of composition topic,"
Miss Melrose says, "I am forced to the reluctant conclusion
that many of you need a lot of exercise - not on the
baseball field but in the field of the imagination. Can't you
think of anything to write about except My Holiday or The Story of a Centt We had that same cent going
through almost exactly the same series of adventures at
least a dozen times. What did you do? Get together and
work out one plot?"
Titters. Denials. Admissions.
"Well, it may be labour-saving," Miss Melrose says,
"but it's awfully boring to read. I'm not going to spoonfeed
you. Choose your own topics again this week, and for
mercy's sake try not to be so dull."
Bell rings for recess.
"Morag, could you wait a moment, please?" Miss Melrose
says.
Morag stands by the teacher's desk, her face (is it really
or does it only feel that way?) a dark peony-red.
"Yours was one of the very few that showed any originality,
Morag. Why don't you submit it to the school
paper?"
Published. Fame. Notoriety.
"I don't know," Morag says. "I don't think it's good
enough."
"It's good enough," Miss Melrose says, kind of grimly.
"The literary standards of the set ly be termed highbrow. The stor^ places, it seemed to me, but you t ending, at least."
"Well -"
Julie. Scorn, or what? The othi
"I can't," Morag says. "I just (
"Well, then, you must take yoi
rose says. "You will."
Morag goes out of the room b
the girls' John. Locks herself in a
world it would be without lockal
funny, which is just as well, becai out. For what? She is not sad. S
time what she has to do, but neve
any other person or thought tha
pect. Now it is as though a stron
her shoulders. Strong and friendl:
Someone is walking over her g]
When she goes back upstairs,
in the hall.
"Oh, by the way, Morag, I me;
actually see the blackboard from
"Well "
Glasses are awful. No boy w
Never.
"Have you ever had your eyes persists.
"Well, no. I - I don't want to v
"Why not, for pity's sake?" N4 doubtedly Past All That, sounds
cross.
"I look bad enough as it is," N
When in doubt tell the truth, if,
know it. (Christie.)
Miss Melrose gives her a res sighs.
The Nuisance Grounds 137
"Someday you may find out differently, Morag. Or
maybe you won't. Some never do, until it's irrelevant.
Look at it this way, then. You need your eyes. In the last
analysis, they're all you have."
At the doctor's office, after the drops are put in Morag's
eyes, the entire world swims and flounders in front of her.
She gets only as far as the second line of letters on the
chart. After that, blur all the way.
The new glasses are hideous. Round. Metal-framed.
Morag now looks like a tall skinny owl whose only redeeming
feature is a thirty-six-inch bust. She begins to
wear her hair long again. If she puts it up, she looks like a
Sunday-school teacher. In front of the mirror she rages
and curses. Life is over. Having never begun.
"They look kind of distinguished," Christie says.
"Shut up! Shut up! They look awful."
"Oh, beggin' your ladyship's pardon. Shall I kill myself
now or later?"
"Christie, leave the girl alone," Prin says. "You should
know better."
"Why should I know better, then? I'm only the Scavenger."

"That's exactly all you are," Morag says coldly.
Has she said it? How could she? How could she? How to
make the words unspoken?
"Shut up, girl, or I'll give you the back of my hand,"
Christie shouts.
"I'd like to see you try," Morag yells.
Christie looks at her a moment, then turns away.
"You know damn well I wouldn't, Morag. It's only my
way of talking."
"Christie "
But he had walked out of the house, out to the stable,
and hasn't heard. She wants to go after him. But doesn't.
Morag goes upstairs to her room. She looks out the
138 The Diviners
window at the maple tree. Forgets about Christie. leaves!
She can see the leaves. Individually, one at a time, clearly.
She has not known before this that you are supposed to be
able to see the leaves on a tree, not just green fuzz.
Excited, she looks for a long time. Then thinks for a
while about the story that will never see the light of day.
"Wild Roses."
Hm. Sentimental in places? The young teacher not marrying
the guy because she couldn't bear to live on a farm would
that really happen? Maybe all that about the wild
roses is overdone? Could it be changed?
Innerfilm Morag living in her own apartment in the city a small
apartment but lovely deep-pile rug (blue) and a beige
chesterfield suite the thick-upholstered kind a large radio
in a walnut cabinet lots of bookshelves a fireplace
that really works
She has just had a story called "Wild Roses" published
in the Free Press Prairie Farmer and is giving a party to
celebrate with all her many friends
Shit. Who is she trying to kid? Worse than the story.
Nothing will happen. Ever.
Innerfilm Quiet funeral privately held in Cameron's Funeral
Home a whole lot of flowers snapdragons larkspur peonies
florist roses Eva has brought wild roses and they are
wilted and in a quart sealer Eva crying has been a real
true friend and now it is too late for Morag to tell her so
Morag lying in a white satin-lined coffin eyes
closed face awfully pale and she is wearing a yellow silk
dancing-dress she has never danced in it and now never
will coffin is closed and hearse goes to the graveyard
Christie is absent overcome with sorrow Stacey Mavis
Vanessa Julie Ross Jamie etcetera crying in sadThe Nuisance Grounds 139
ness wishing they had recognized the qualities Morag
had before too late
Some time later it is found that among the things in her
dresser drawer is a novel one of the finest ever written in a
long time anywhere it is published Christie buys two
bottles of rye on the proceeds (he better not!}
Morag never knows novel has been published (unless
watching from somewhere, maybe?)
How corny can you get?
Memorybank Movie: Down in the Valley
the Valley So Low Morag is moving slowly along the edge of the Wachakwa
River. Bushes are everywhere - silvergreen wolf willow,
chokecherry, pincherry, and a jungle of unnamed unknown
bushes. If you don't watch your step, here, you will
slip and end up in the brown water. The river rattles over
the stones, but the water is clear. How come the water is
both brown and clear? Brown sounds murky. But this is
as clear as brown glass, like in a beer bottle, or no, not
that, not like that at all. What like? Like only itself,
maybe, the Wachakwa River, in places only a creek. Crick. Some people say it like that. Different people say
things differently. Eva says crick. Gus Winkler doesn't
know how to pronounce things right. Does Christie?
Sometimes, sometimes not.
Another few steps and then the ravine. Why come
here, when it is really spooky? Eerie. Eerie. What a word.
Ee-ee-rie. She comes here often. Why doesn't matter,
here. The river is now flowing very far down there, and on
the banks the grass doesn't grow - just the bushes, bending
over the ravine as though beckoned by the river below,
as though wanting to go down there. (Pathetic Fallacy.) If
you come here in spring, the marsh marigolds are out in
masses down there on the water, and you can look at their
140 The Diviners
juicy gold and green, little gold flowers connected to a
whole web of green stalks and floating leaves.
Soon the swinging bridge. Yes, now. Who made it? How
long ago? Ropes across the ravine, fraying ropes but still
strong, and the pieces of split poplar to walk across, each
joined to each by the old old ropes, and if you really did walk across, the bridge would sway and shake and maybe
you would plunge down into the shallow water and the
stones. Morag has never crossed this bridge. She wants to
make herself do it. She could do it if she had to. She puts a
hand on the poplar pole at the edge of the bridge. She will
definitely do it this time. If she can do this, she can do
anything. A sign. An omen. She has to make it come true.
She puts one foot on the bridge. It lurches. She leaps
back onto safe ground.
She is suddenly convinced that the bridge is trying to
send her plunging down into the ravine. She holds onto a
willow branch, and it supports her. Pathetic Fallacy?
What if Miss Melrose is wrong, though, just in that one
way? Not that clouds or that would have human feelings,
but that the trees and river and even this bridge might
have their own spirits? Why shouldn't they? The wolf willow
and the chokecherry bushes and the tall couchgrass
growing away from the ravine, and the river itself - no
threat. Just the bridge. Who built it? Why does it still stay
here, rickety, swaying? How old is it? Does someone
sometimes patch it up, keep it going? Whose is it? Not
hers, that is for sure. Something doesn't want her to be
here at all.
Then she hears someone. On the other side of the
bridge. He comes out of the bushes and steps onto the
bridge. Beat-up blue jeans, brass-buckled belt, rolled-up
shirtsleeves, brown hawkish face, dark slitted eyes. His
straight black hair cut shorter these days than it used to
be. Skinner Tonnerre.
He begins rocking the bridge, which swings like a dangerous
hammock. Morag moves further back from it.
"Hey, look out. Skinner, eh?"
The Nuisance Grounds 141
"Hi, Morag - I didn't see you, there," he grins, lying.
"Whatsa matter? You scared? The bridge is okay."
"I'm not scared," Morag says angrily. "It's just that "
"It's just that you're scared shitless," Skinner says
flatly.
He gives out with the Tarzan yell like Johnny Weissmuller
in the movies.
"TAR-MANGAN-EE!"
And walks across the bridge, swinging it violently. Morag
looks away, expecting to hear his dying body go splat on the rocks below. But no.
"Want a cigarette?" he says, beside her.
"Sure."
Morag has not smoked before, so does not inhale. He
laughs at her, and shows her how. At first the smoke
pinches her lungs, but she soon gets the hang of it.
"How're you liking it at the Pearls' place, then?" she
asks.
It seems now to be quite natural sitting on the riverbank
and talking to him, even though they don't talk to each
other in school. Skinner has been staying with Simon
Pearl and his wife this year while going to High School.
The Pearls have no kids and have offered to have Skinner
board with them because the local welfare officer has said
Skinner will never keep on going to school if he stays
down in the valley with Lazarus and all, and that he is
bright enough to keep on. Everybody in Manawaka
knows about this, and many say it is foolhardy of the
Pearls, who need not expect any gratitude from a halfbreed.
"It's
okay, I guess," Skinner replies, but cautiously.
"Mr. Pearl, he's doing his good deed for the year, I guess.
I don't give a damn. The Welfare pays my board. Let 'em.
My old man and my sisters, they think I'm nuts. The little
kids, my brothers, they don't think anything, but they say
when am I coming back. I don't give a fuck what any of
them think."
"You come down this way often?"
ft
The Nuisance Grounds 143
She gets to her feet. Hovers. Undecided. Skinner remains
sprawled on the grass. Looking at her.
"C'mon, Morag. It feels good. I bet you never done it,
eh? I can do it with Ina Spettigue any time I like. She
never even charges me. She likes what I got. Wanna see?"
He reaches for his fly buttons.
Morag runs. He does not follow.
When she is back home, she goes to her room and locks
the door. Hating herself for having been scared. Slips one
hand between her legs and brings herself, with her eyes
closed, imagining his hard flesh bones skin on hers,
pressing into her, feeling her tits, putting his cock there
there there.
Next day at school, and forever after, she will not look
at him, she promises to herself, never, not ever.
That evening, Morag starts talking to Christie, who is
paring his fingernails really disgustingly with his jackknife.
She does not talk to him much these days, and so he
is surprised now.
"Christie - remember those stories you used to tell me
when I was a kid?"
"Sure. How could I forget? Why?"
"Tell me them now, some."
"Great jumping jesus, Morag, I thought you would've
been past all of that."
"Yeh. Well."
Why does she want to hear? She doesn't know. But the
times when she was a kid and Christie would tell those
stories, everything used to seem all right then.
"Okay, Morag, if you want. Let's see."
CHRISTIE'S TALE OF PIPER GUNN AND THE REBELS
Now Piper Gunn lived there along the Red River on his
farm for more years than you could shake a stick at. And
him and his woman had a fine family, too, five sons and
five daughters, the boys all strapping and husky, and the
girls all tall and as beautiful as tiger lilies. And Piper
144 The Diviners
Gunn and his wife grew old, in time, and yet both together,
for as is well-known, when the Angel of Death spread
his wings out for them, they kicked the bucket the selfsame
day, for neither could live without the other, so the
story goes.
(You're romantic, Christie.)
Hush, girl, I'm about as romantic as a pig in a trough
and that's the bloody christly truth of the matter, but can
I help it if that's how Death finally took up old Piper and
his lady?
Now, then, when Piper was a real old man, and not
working the land that much any more but leaving it all to
his five sons, it happened that the halfbreeds around the
settlement got very worked up. They decided they was
going to take over the government of the place. So they
got themselves a rebel chief. Short little man he was, with
burning eyes. His name was Reel.
(Louis Riel, Christie. We took it in school. He was
hanged.)
That's the very man. Well, but he wasn't hanged for a
hell of a long time after the time I'm telling you. So this
Reel or Riel, however you want to call him, him and his
men took over the Fort there, and set themselves up as the
government.
Now, all the Sutherlanders, over the long years, had
kind of forgotten how to fight, eh? Peaceful farmers, they
were, and their sons reared to that way. Not a mother's
son of them remembered the old days in the old country,
except for Piper Gunn and a few oldtimers. They were not
what you'd call a spineless lot, oh no. But they'd grown up
here, farming. So when Reel took over, with his gang of
halfbreeds, they didn't know what to do. There was a lot
of chewing the fat, but nobody moved. Reel and his men
started doing a little shooting, do you see, and killed one
or two Englishmen. But the Sutherlanders didn't trust the
goddamn English, them bloody Sassenachs from Down
East, no more than what they trusted the halfbreeds. They
The Nuisance Grounds 145
kept themselves to themselves. So they sat on their butts
and did nothing.
(The government Down East sent out the Army from
Ontario and like that, and Riel fled, Christie. He came
back, to Saskatchewan, in 1885.)
Well, some say that. Others say different. Of course I
know the Army and that came out, like, but the truth of
the matter is that them Sutherlanders had taken back the
Fort before even a smell of an army got there.
(Oh Christie! They didn't. We took it in History.)
I'm telling you. What happened was this. Piper Gunn
says to his five sons, he says. What in the fiery freezing hell
do all of you think you 're doing, not even making a stab at
getting back the bloody Fort? So his five sons, they said,
We're ready to try if you can think up a way of raising all
of them Macphersons and Macdonalds and Camerons
and MacGregors and all them. Piper Gunn rises to his
feet, and him taller than his five sons even though pressing
eighty, and not stooped one inch, no sir, straight as an
iron crowbar.
I've played the pipes in sorrow, says he, and I've played
them in joy and I've played them in bad times and in good,
and I've played them to put the heart into the souls of
men, and now III play them for the last bloody time.
Will we come with you, then? asks his five sons. I'll go
alone, says Piper Gunn, for that was his way. So walk he
did, along every farm on the river front, there, and he
played the entire time. He began with the pibrochs,
which was for mourning. To tell the people they'd fallen
low and wasn't the men their ancestors had been. Then
he went on to the battle music. And the one he played
over and over was "The Gunns' Salute." A reproach, it
was.
The Sutherlanders listened, and they knew what he was
saying. They gathered together and Piper's five sons with
them, and they took the Fort at the rising of the day the
very next morning. The army from Down East got the
146 The Diviners
credit, of course, but the Sutherlanders were a proud lot
and didn't give a christly damn. They let it be.
And Piper Gunn went home and hung up his bagpipes
and they have been silent from that day to this, for he died
soon after, and no one ever dared play them, for no one
could ever play the pipes like Piper Gunn himself could
play them.
(I like him, though. Riel, I mean.)
That so? Well, he had his points, no doubt.
(The book in History said he was nuts, but he didn't
seem so nuts to me. The Metis were losing the land - it
was taken from them. All he wanted was for them to have
their rights. The government hanged him for that.)
Metis? Huh?
(Halfbreeds.)
Well, well, hm. Maybe the story didn't go quite like I
said. Let's see.
(No. That's cheating, Christie. Thanks for telling the
story, I liked it fine. Really.)
You're welcome. I'll send you the bill at the end of the
month.
Memorybank Movie: Down in the Valley, Act II Early spring, and the air still has a bite in it despite the
sun. The snow, so clean before, is melting dirtily, honeycombed
with black patches, leaving the winter's hidden
accumulation of dogshit and tossed-away empty cigarette
packets soggily soiling the streets. Slush everywhere. Maples
and elms have not yet begun to bud, but out beyond
town, in the valley, the pussywillows are making greyj[
furred beginnings.
It is also Grade Eleven, and there are a few boys in the
class, but in the Grade Twelve class there are none. All in
either the Army or the Airforce. One or two have recklessly
joined the Navy, but the sea does not have much appeal
for the prairie boys, being too distant an element.
Morag is walking home, carrying an armload of books.
"Hi, Morag."
The Nuisance Grounds 147
He has, it is clear, been waiting at the corner of Hill
Street. Slouched against a telephone pole. Looking heavier
than before, in his thick rough-textured khaki uniform
with the badge of the Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders
on the sleeve. Rank - Private.
"Skinner! How come you're here?"
"Everybody is. Overseas leave. Wanna come for some
coffee?"
She has scarcely spoken to him for two years, since that
day in the valley. He quit school a year ago and moved
back to the Tonnerre shack. Then he joined the Army and
left town. Morag is surprised at how glad she is to see him.
"Sure. But can I drop off these books first?"
"Okay by me."
They go into the Logan house. Prin, rocking with sleepglazed
eyes, all at once looks up with what for her, these
days, is enormous alertness. Which is to say, she opens
her eyes, half rises, thinks better of it, and lowers her
heavy obesity, her soft barrel bulk, wrap-around clad,
back into the safeness of the rocking chair. She hardly
ever moves these days, except from rocker to table to bed.
Morag gets the meals. Prin hardly ever talks any more,
either. But will not see a doctor. Even Christie, who worries
seldom, worries now.
"Prin - this is Skinner, I mean Jules Tonnerre. I went
to school with him. He's in the Army. You know?"
Morag feels embarrassed, adding this bit about the
Army. But she is not certain Prin will notice or recognize
the uniform.
"Pleased to make yer acquaintance, Mister," Prin says,
in an oddly girlish voice, formally, as though with reference
to some long-forgotten formula learned in a distant
past.
"Hi." Skinner looks away.
Morag goes upstairs to change out of her school tunic,
which would look dumb and kid-like beside an Army
uniform. When she comes down, Christie has come in and
is talking to Skinner. Christie, of late years, has taken to
148 The Diviners
chewing tobacco. The spittoon of his choice, culled from
his own private happy hunting grounds, is a large china
chamber pot with mauve violets on it. He hawks massively
into it now. Morag glowers, then thinks that whatever
Christie Logan is like, he's probably not a patch on Lazarus
Tonnerre.
"Whatcha doing with yourself these days. Skinner?"
Christie says.
"Fighting for King and Country. Can't you see,
Christie?"
"Yep. Well, then, boy, stay alive if you can. That's all
that matters, though why it should the Lord only knows."
Skinner's eyes narrow.
"I joined for the pay, Christie. I don't aim to get hurt if
I can help it."
"That's the spirit, boy. It's never the generals who die,
you know. Don't let the buggers on either side get you."
As they walk up along Main Street, towards the Parthenon
Cafe, Skinner says something that astounds
Morag.
"He's quite a guy, that Christie."
"I'm glad you think so."
"Don't you?"
"He's never tried to do anything," Morag says. "He
thinks it's just great now because the Town Council have
bought him a beat-up old truck for work. He thinks he's
pulled a fast one on them because no one ever suspected
he could drive. He learned on a Model-T years ago and he
drives that truck as though it were a horse. Everybody
laughs at him."
Skinner is laughing too.
"Well, let them. You don't like him being the Scavenger,
do you? What if nobody would do it, eh? He's worth a
damn sight more than a lawyer - all those guys do is screw
things up."
At the Parthenon they sit in a booth and drink coffee.
Now they are both suspicious of each other again. Skinner
is looking hard at her, studying her face as though trying
The Nuisance Grounds 149
to read what lies behind her eyes, inside her skull. Is she
trying to do the same with him? If so, neither of them
seems to be getting very far. For a while they don't speak.
Is there too little to say or too much?
"Why'd you leave the Pearls' place and go back to the
valley?" Morag asks finally.
He reaches out and puts one of his long thin hands on
hers. Only for a second. Then he takes it away.
"Really want to know? I guess Simon Pearl didn't
spread it around, then, eh?"
"No."
"Well, it was this way. I got some fancy notion I'd like
to be a lawyer, see, on account of if you've always been
screwed by people it seemed a good idea to do some of the
damage yourself for a change. Right? So I asked old Simon
how a guy would get to be a lawyer. He didn't actually
laugh out loud, but he kinda covered his mouth with his
hand to hide the smile. Then he tells me it's a fine thing to
get an education, but a person like me might do well to set
their sights a bit lower, and he will ask Macpherson at the
ba Garage to take me on as an apprentice mechanic after
Grade Eleven. So I walked out. I thought of breaking his
jaw, but then I thought it'd only land me in the clink and it
wasn't worth it. So I went back to the valley. My old man
never batted an eye. Just said, You're back, eh? Well, give
us a hand with this barrel - it's about ready to be put in
the jugs. We had a hell of a party, just him and me. Sat
around with me singing and him playing out of tune on
the mouth organ till near morning. He's not such a bad
guy. He didn't give a fuck when I joined the Army, but
he'd never turn me out. He'd never turn any of us out. He
don't care if we leave, but we can stay if we want to."
"I'm sorry," Morag says. "I mean about Simon -"
"There's no call to be. I don't give a damn. I never have
and I never will."
"Where's your sister these days?"
"You mean Piquette? She took off as soon as her leg
was okay. She had th of the bone as a kid - maybe you
150 The Diviners
remember. She's married to a guy in Winnipeg. Al Cummings.
I think she's got herself a first-rate no-good, but
that's her business. He'll leave her one day. I hope to
christ she leaves him first."
"How do you know? You can't tell."
"I can tell. He'll never look you in the eye. Also, he's
always telling Piquette what a lousy housekeeper she is.
It's quite true, she is. But he's a dirty bugger himself. It
don't help much."
The Parthenon begins to fill up with the saddle-shoe
gang, girls in long loose sloppy-joe sweaters and plaid
skirts, boys in grey flannels and smart tweed jackets. All the kids. The jukebox.
"C'mon," Skinner says brusquely. "Let's go."
No one says anything as they walk out. Miklos thoughtfully
holds the door open, relieved to see them go. To
Miklos, the word Tonnerre spells only one thing. Trouble.
There will, of course, be plenty of comments after they've
left. They both know this, and walk stiffly, not speaking.
"Jesus, I hate this town," Skinner says finally.
"Me too."
"Hey, Morag, come down to my place and meet my old
man?"
She glances at him. They both know. She feels nauseated
with indecision. Then doesn't care.
"Sure," she says. "Why not?"
The valley road is like a miniature river, the deep ruts in
it running with brown muddy water. The snow still lies in
the bushes on either side of the road. Morag has her
overshoes on, and Skinner's Army boots are impervious
to the wet. They splash along, and he takes her arm so she
won't slip. Suddenly she feels good, and laughs.
"What's the joke?" he says.
"Nothing. I just feel okay again, that's all."
"Hey, that's good."
He stops and breaks off a couple of twigs of pussywillows.
Hands them to her.
"Orchids," he says.
The Nuisance Grounds 151
"My, that is the first time anybody ever gave me orchids.
Thanks."
"Well, there's a first time for everything," Skinner says.
He hasn't meant to say that, probably. Then, of course,
they both fall silent again.
The Tonnerre shack is really a collection of shacks. The
original one has now decayed and is used as a chicken
house. The main shack has been put together with old
planks, tarpaper, the lids of wooden crates, some shingles
and flattened pieces of tin. Around it lie old tires, a roll of
chickenwire, the chassis of a rusted car, and an assortment
of discarded farm machinery. The backhouse stands
at a slight distance. There is also a small shack, built in the
same manner as the main one, but newer. Skinner steers
her towards this one.
"Mine," he says. "I built it when I came back down
here."
Inside it is warm because there is still a fire going in the
stove which has been made out of an old oil-drum,
bricked around at the bottom. Wooden boxes are the
chairs. There is a bucket of water and a dipper, an enamel
basin and a slop bucket. A coal-oil lamp hangs from a
nail. There is a wooden chest, with a padlock. And
Skinner's books from school. On the walls, pin-ups of
movie stars, women with big breasts and carmine mouths.
Also the pelt of a skunk, black and white.
"Make yourself at home," Skinner says.
By this time they really do both know.
"You remember that time at the bridge, Morag?"
"Yes."
"I scared you, I guess. I was sorry, but I couldn't say,
after."
"It's okay."
"And all that I told you, about Ina Spettigue, was a
pack of lies," Skinner says. "She wouldn't have given me
the time of day, then. She would now, but the hell with
her. Anyway, I just wanted to clear that up. Could you do
without those glasses, there?"
152 The Diviners
Then they kiss for a long time, his tongue delicately
exploring the inside of her mouth. His hands stroking her
breasts. She has wanted this, it seems, now, for a long
time. He is lying on top of her, and through all their
clumsy layers of clothing she can feel his cock, long and
hard.
"C'mon," he says. "We can't leave all these clothes on,
eh?"
She hesitates, although only momentarily.
"Skinner - what if somebody, you know, barges in?"
"They won't," he says grimly. "They know better."
She believes him. She is astonished to find she is not
scared. What if it hurts? Well, so what? And anyway it
won't. She takes her clothes off quickly, expertly, as
though she has been accustomed for years to doing so in
front of a man. She feels no shyness at all. Only the need
to feel him all over her, to feel all of his skin. Her own
body, her breasts and long legs and flat stomach, all these
seem suddenly in her own eyes beautiful to her, and she
wants him to see her.
Then she looks up at him, above her on the bed. She
never knew before that a man would look so beautiful, his
shoulder bones showing under the skin, his narrow hips,
the big ribcage, the warm smooth brown skin, the black
hair between his legs, the long tense hard muscles along
his legs and his arms, his long hardsoft cock nuzzling her.
She thrusts up at him, locks her legs around his. As
though she has always known what to do.
"Easy, easy," he says. "Oh God - not so quick, Morag.
I can't "
And goes off on her belly before he can get inside her.
"Oh hell," he says, after a moment, still not breathing
steady. "I'm sorry."
But she clings to him. Still moving towards him, holding
his shoulders desperately in her arms.
"Please. Don't go away."
Then he realizes, and helps her.
The Nuisance Grounds 153
"Hey, that's fine. You're gonna come all over me."
And she does. The pulsing between her legs spreads and
suffuses all of her. The throbbing goes on and on, and she
does not realize her voice has spoken until it stops, and
then she does not know if she has spoken words or only
cried out somewhere in someplace beyond language.
Silence. He is very lightly stroking her shoulders, her
face, her closed eyelids. She opens her eyes. They smile,
then, at each other. Like strangers who have now met.
Like conspirators.
"That wasn't so bad for you, after all," he says.
"It was - oh Skinner "
"Hey, could you call me by my real name, eh?"
As though now it were necessary to do this. By right.
Does she understand what he means? Is this what he
means? What is he really thinking, in there? But you have
to take it on faith, she now sees. You can't ever be sure.
She nods.
"Okay. I will. Jules."
He laughs.
"You say it kind of funny. Jewels."
"How, then?"
"Jules."
"Jewels."
"You better learn French, kid."
"Do you know it?"
"No. Not that much, any more. Not that much, ever.
Just a bit, mostly swear words. I guess we used to know a
few things when we were kids, but it's mostly gone now.
My old man grew up speaking quite a bit of FrenchCree,
but he's lost most of it now. You got nice legs, even if you
do say my name wrong."
This is true. Morag has got nice legs, and has always
wondered if anyone else would ever think so.
The fire has died, and the shack is cold. They dress. He
does up her dress for her, and she helps him on with his
Army jacket. They laugh a lot, now, over nothing, over
everything. Nothing bad wil
I again. Nothing can ever tou
They are safe, here.
i Then she remembers.
"When're you going, Jule;
I He lies back on the bed, a
1} "I gotta go back to camp
"Tonight?"
"Yen. We're coming bac
B! parade. Wait'11 you see me i
|1 kilt is some sight, I can tell yi
to call the Scots regiments tl
'.r a twerp in that getup, to tel
i we don't have to put it on th
| "Why're they doing that?
I "Because the Cameron H
nawaka boys, is why."
J "I see."
j I "C'mon, let's go over to n
;, home-brew or at least some
| The main shack has a b
; looking stovepipes. Val, Jul<
* The two younger boys, Pai
^ around like sparrows, but wl
J quiet and watchful, and take
•; There are some bunk beds,.
ing pots and pans on wood
half a loaf of bread and a qi
^ one wall there is a calendar
|i colour picture of spruce tr
|; black against a setting sun, a
| a Bleeding Heart, his chest
I tine-shaped heart pierced wi
blood in neat little drops.
Lazarus is sitting in the i
looks like it has been g«
Grounds, springs protrudin
Morag has not seen Lazarus
The Nuisance Grounds 155
on Main Street on a Saturday night. Once he must have
been a very large man, taller than Jules, and broader, but
now he looks a bit shrunken, his belly fat and loose, but
his ribs bending in upon themselves. He has the vestige of
a handsome face, bonily handsome in the way Jules' face
is now. The same lanky black hair as Jules.
Now everything is changed. Morag feels uncertain
again. Scared. What is she doing here? Do they feel she is
intruding? She looks at Jules and sees that things are now
changed for him, too.
"Who the hell are you?" Lazarus says.
Morag is unable to say anything. Jules scowls at his
father.
"She's Morag Gunn," he says. "You know. From over
at Christie Logan's place."
"Oh. Yeh. I know now."
Lazarus begins coughing and keeps on until it seems
he will retch. There is a glass full of brown sour-smelling
liquid, with bits of white floating scum on it, on the floor
beside her chair. He reaches for it. Stops coughing at
last. Then he rises and stretches. Pulls in his belly. Looks
Morag up and down. The same look on his face as on
Skinner's, before. Morag is shocked. Lazarus - an old
man. How revolting. Yet she feels his man-energy burning
out towards her, all the same, so strongly that for a
second it almost draws her in.
Jules knows, too, and puts his arm around her
shoulders. Definitely. And, towards Lazarus, menacingly.
Lazarus laughs, showing several upper front teeth
missing. Refills his glass from a bottle, and holds up the
bottle.
"My woman," he grunts. "This here is my woman,
now."
"I'll be going now. Dad," Jules growls.
For an instant Lazarus looks - how? Stricken.
"You gotta go now. Skinner?"
"Yeh. There's an Army truck waiting at the bus station
to pick us all up."
Lazarus makes as
Then changes his min
"Well, you look ou
there, eh?"
"Yeh. Don't worry.
Jules says goodbye
and Morag leave. He c
Walking up the hill
town, now nearly dar
begins talking.
"How old you think
"I dunno. How old'!
"Thirty-nine. He loi
he was the same age I
sure. I'm never gonna ^
today. He don't like m
for a woman sometime
a brawl. I guess he we
was Metis, too, from
thought Manawaka we
she thought she was j
him. Some king. Kinj
she took off. But Jesu
I've seen him get so n
thing, that he'll hit h
there, until the knuckl
"Why? Why?"
"I dunno. Things g
sometimes and goes u
city, and he always c<
town never done anytl
it's the same everywhe
shit. He only got to Gr
he's ever held was secti
the Depression. Som<
shooting jackrabbits.
meat, even if it was on
The Nuisance Grounds 157
"He's not done too badly, when you think of it. You
never starved."
"Sometimes damn near. But yeh. He hasn't done so
terrible. But try to tell him that. Jesus, he was some
fighter in his day, though. He's had his nose broken four
times. I've seen him take a hundred-andeighty-pound
man and lift him and throw him about twenty feet. I
guess the time I hit him he could've killed me, even then,
if he'd put his mind to it. Now I think back on it, he
didn't do a damn thing. Maybe he was surprised. Or
maybe not. When I joined the Army and had a bit of
money, I told him I'd pay for him to get the dentist to
put in some teeth for him, there, in place of them I
knocked out that time. But he said no, he was getting
along okay without them."
"Did he really used to tell you those stories when you
were a kid, Jules?"
"Yeh. Sometimes even now, when he's drunk, but he
don't remember them so hot any more."
"Tell me them," Morag says.
"You wanna hear? Why?"
"I don't know. I guess I like stories, is all."
"You're a funny girl, Morag."
But he puts an arm around her, and they walk the chill
mudcarpeted streets beside the empty trees and the quiet
half-dark houses, and he tells her. Stories for children. As
they walk together with their arms around one another,
like children away from home with the night coming on.
Then they are at Logans' on Hill Street. They kiss, and
want one another but cannot because there is no time left
and no place to go.
"So long," Jules says. "I'll be seeing you."
And goes.
The next day, Morag stands at the corner where Hill
Street touches Main. The Queen's Own Cameron High158 The Diviners
landers march through the main street of Manawaka. It is
very exciting. People wave and shout. The soldiers grin a
little but do not look around. Eyes front. They are in dress
uniform, khaki jackets and tartan kilts, the Cameron
plaid. The pipers walk ahead, leading. They are playing
"The March of the Cameron Men." It has a splendour
in it. You could follow that music to the ends of the
world.
It is in fact to the end of their world that most of these
men are following the music.
The news of Dieppe changes the town of Manawaka. It
will never be the same again. Not until this moment has
the War been a reality here. Now it is a reality. There are
many dead who will not be buried in the Manawaka
cemetery up on the hill where the tall spruces stand like
dark angels. There are a great many families who now
have fewer sons, or none.
Morag reads the casualty lists. Column after column,
covering page after page, it seems, in the Winnipeg Free
Press. Among the men from Manawaka, she looks for
those she knows.
Chorniuk, S. (That would be Stan Chorniuk, from the ba
Garage.)
Duncan, G. (That would be Mavis' cousin George.)
Gunn, F.L. (From Freehold, but no relation to Morag.)
Halpern, C. (Jamie's brother.)
Kamchuk, N. (Nick, who quit school after Grade Ten.)
Kowalski, J. (Steve's brother.)
Lobodiak, J. (Mike's brother John, the handsome one.)
Macalister, P. (The banker's son.)
Macdonald, G. (Gerald, who used to work in the butcher's.)
MacLachlan, D. (Lachlan's son Dave, who would've taken
over the Manawaka Banner.)
Macintosh, C.M. (Chris, son of the High School janitor.)
McVitie, J.L. (The lawyer's son, Ross' brother.)
The Nuisance Grounds 159
And on. And on.
She has looked first to see, and there is no Tonnerre
listed. Did he get away? It is somehow difficult to believe
that anyone could have got away.
The newspapers for days are full of stories of bravery,
courage, camaraderie, initiative, heroism, gallantry, and
determination in the face of heavy enemy fire. Are any of
the stories true? Probably it does not matter. They may
console some.
What is a true story? Is there any such thing?
The only truth at the moment seems to be in the long
long lists of the dead. The only certainty is that they are
dead. Forever and ever and ever.
Morag lies awake, thinking of the last time she saw Jules.
Wondering if she ever will see him again. If he will survive.
SKINNER'S TALE OF LAZARUS' TALE OF RIDER
TONNERRE
Well, my old man, he told me this about Rider Tonnerre,
away back there, so long ago no one knows when, and
Lazarus Tonnerre sure isn't the man to tell the same story
twice, or maybe he just couldn't remember, because each
time he told it, it would be kind of different.
Anyway, there is this guy, away back then, and they call
him Chevalier - Rider - because he handles a horse so
good and because his own horse is a white stallion name
of Roi du Lac, King of the Lake, and how Rider got that
horse is - he got it in a kind of spooky way, because once
in a dream he saw it and it spoke to him and told him to
spend one whole night beside this certain lake, see, which
everybody believed was haunted or like that, and Rider
did that, even though anybody else would've been scared
to, see, and just about dawn, this huge white stallion came
up out of the lake and stayed with Rider ever after. Of
course it could've swum from the other side, or something,
but the way Lazarus told it, that horse had special powers.
160 The Diviners
I dunno if it ever talked except that once in a dream,
though. And that Rider, there, he could also ride a bull
moose, and sometimes he used to do that, just for a joke,
and to scare the hell out of guys who bragged how strong
and great they were.
Another thing is that Rider was also called Prince of
the Braves. He wasn't all Indian, though. He was Metis,
only back there, then, our people called themselves BoisBrules. Burnt wood. I dunno know why. Maybe the fires
they made to smoke the buffalo meat. Maybe their own
skins, the way they looked.
Okay, so this Rider, eh, he is so goddamn good on a
horse he can outride any man on the prairies. They have
races, see, and he always wins, him and King of the Lake.
And Rider's rifle, now, it's called La Petite, and he's so
good that he can be going full gallop on that stallion, and
he never misses a buffalo at one thousand yards or like
that. He's about seven-feet-tall, and he wears a big black
beard.
Now, one time there was a bunch of Englishmen - goddamn
Anglais, as they used to be called - and they came
in to take away the Metis land and to stop the people from
hunting buffalo. And these guys had a bunch of Arkanys
with them.
(Arkanys?)
That is how my dad called the Scotchmen. Men from
Orkney, I guess. So a bunch of the Metis, there, they said Shit on this idea: they're not coming here to take over our
land and stop us from hunting. But they sat on their asses
all the same and didn't move. So that Rider Tonnerre, he
says We're gonna hunt these Anglais and Arkanys like we
hunt the buffalo, so c'mon there, boys. It was some place
around Red River, there, and they see all these Englishmen
and their hired guns the Arkanys.
(Hired guns? I bet they weren't!)
Sure, they were. Anyway it's just a story. So Rider
Tonnerre and the others, they make an ambush, see, and
the other guys fall for it and ride straight in. So Rider, he
The Nuisance Grounds 161
starts picking them off with his rifle. La Petite, and the
other Metis do the same. The English and the Arkanys try
to shoot back, but they're not doing so hot, and in the end
every single one of them got killed. And one of Rider's
men made up a song about it, only my old man, he don't
remember it. But he said his father, Old Jules, used to sing
it sometimes.
(Hey - I know. That would be "Falcon's Song," and
the battle would be Seven Oaks, where they killed the
Governor.)
That so? I never connected it with that, because my
dad's version was a whole lot different.
SKINNER'S TALE OF RIDER TONNERRE
AND THE PROPHET
Another time, a long time later, I guess, because Rider
Tonnerre was an old old man, anyway, another time,
there, the government men from Down East, they're really
getting mean and they plan on getting the Metis land,
all of it. They are one hell of a mean outfit, and at least I'm
damn sure that much of the story is really true. They send
in men to take all the measurement of the land, so's they'll
know how much they got when they get it. So Rider
Tonnerre, he says to himself The hell with this. He is an
old man, so he knows he can't be leader, see? But he
knows somebody who can. Somebody who is just waiting
the chance. Now this guy is - I guess you'd call him
Prophet. He is like a prophet, see? And he has the power.
(The power?)
He can stop bullets - well, I guess he couldn't, but lots
of people, there, they believed he could. And he has the
sight, too. That means he can see through walls and he
can see inside a man's head and see what people are thinking
in there. He's Metis, but very educated. How the hell
he ever got to get that way, I wouldn't know.
(You're talking about Riel.)
Sure. But the books, they lie about him. I don't say
Lazarus told the story the way it happened, but neither
162 The Divil
did the books and they're one hell
they made out that the guy was m
(I know.)
Well, the Prophet, then, he's a \
than Rider Tonnerre.
(I thought he was supposed to t
No. Very tall. And he carries a b
time - this protects him, like. He
see? Well, so here is our guys, not
to do, and the Prophet is tryinj
they're actually doing at the momi
and screwing. So then. Rider Ton
all the families of our people and
jackfish would have more guts tha
this really shamed them. They re
body to tell them to get up off t
rifles for a different kind of hunt.(
the Prophet, and they took the Fo
(They lost it again, though.)
Yeh, the government from Dow
thousand soldiers, with cannon i
wasn't the end of it, by God.
war out wi
It would be some time later, out w
around there in Saskatchewan, am
who was just a young guy then, he
good hand with a rifle, and he we
Prophet's men, because the Metis
there, for their land, see? Having
around Red River. So they got th
the Crees and Stonies and like tha
(Big Bear. Poundmaker.)
Yeh, those chiefs. And more. Li
their names. They weren't as go
people, but they were pretty dam;
lot of men. Anyway, the way my gi
The Nuisance Grounds 163
the way Lazarus says he told it - is that when Jules got
there, things were going good. The Prophet and his guys
and the Indians and their guys, they'd just beat the shit out
of the Mounties at someplace, and everybody was feeling
pretty fine. But what happens then? What happens is that
the government from Down East sends in this fucking
huge army, see? Not just with rifles, hell no. They've got
the works. Cannon, even machine guns probably, if they
were invented in those days. So the Metis are trying the
old ambush, like a buffalo hunt. Well, Jules is dug in
really fine, there, covered up in a pit with poplar branches
and that. And he's sniping and picking off soldiers, and he
gets him maybe a dozen or so. The guy they call Dumont,
the lieutenant, like, he wants to attack in real full strength,
but the Prophet, he's walking around with his big cross,
waiting for the sign. From God, I guess. And Dumont's
losing his mind because he wants to attack so bad he can
taste it, but the Prophet keeps stalling. And Jules and
them, they're still picking off as many soldiers as they can.
Well, the Prophet waits for the sign a bit too long, because
by that time the big guns begin. Jules stays right there in
his cover, eh? All that yelling and firing and the big guns he
figures he's a dead duck if he breaks his cover. Guys
dropping all around. Dead horses. Jesus, I always thought
too bad about the horses, eh? They never done a thing to
deserve it. But got shot just the same. Anyway, Jules picks
off fifteen or so of the Eastern men before he gets a bullet
in the thigh. Then he passes out.
When he wakes up, he's all covered in stiff blood, and
he can hardly move, and he's still buried in poplar
branches, and the whole goddamn thing's all over and
everybody else is gone. He doesn't move for one whole
day. He can't, on account of his bullet wound. So then he
crawls out and makes it to a farm somewhere, our people,
and lives there for a while. Then he gets the hell out, and
winds up here, finally, having brought a Saskatchewan
Metis girl back with him. Oh yeh - and the name of that
Place, the last battle, it was Batoche.
164 The Diviners
(They hanged Riel, the government did.)
Yeh. They hanged him. Dumont got away, though, just
like my grandad.
SKINNER'S TALE OF DIEPPE
?
Memorybank Movie: The Flamingo The rcaf has a training base at South Wachakwa, and
this is a boon for many of the Manawaka girls. Not especially,
however, for Morag. Sometimes she goes to the
Saturday night dances at The Flamingo, with Julie or
with Eva, who has become pretty in her pale and gutless
way and who dances every dance because it isn't only
gentlemen who prefer blondes, it is every goddamn smartaleck
in the whole Airforce. Morag is too tall for many of
them, not actually taller than they are, but five-eight and
they prefer tiny frail creatures like Eva, who they can look
down on and who will say Gee! Really? to everything they
say. Morag has tried but is not the type. Sooner or later
she either finds herself talking, which does nothing for her
popularity, or else sinks into a semi-hostile silence, hating
their assumed slickerdom, the way they are contemptuous
of the girls they are trying to make. Not as though it might
be something both might want to do, but only as though
the girl were a mare to be mounted by a studhorse.
The hell with them. They never talk to you as though
you are actually there, but only put a knee between your
legs and get a hard-on against you while pretending to
dance.
She hankers after them, their tallness, the sexy sweat
smell of them. She wants them. She wants them to want
her.
When asked to dance, Morag does not know how to
flirt. How do girls learn? Does she really want to join the
circus, be a performing filly going through her prancing
paces? Pride says Hell, no. Longing, on the other hand,
says Try anything. She tries. What are the words? I'll bet
The Nuisance Grounds 165
you say that to all the girls. Not much of an opener if
they haven't actually said anything. Gee, you're some
dancer.
The words won't come up into her mouth. How corny
could you get, to talk words like that? The boy with whom
she is dancing clamps a damp hand on her breasts and
shuffles along, veering her backwards to "Tommy Dorsey
Boogie."
"Not very talkative, are you?" he says.
Morag swallows her nonexistent saliva. What is it
makes your mouth so dry here?
"Where - where are you going, once you're finished
training, I mean?"
The airman shifts his gum to the other side of his
mouth, just outside her radio-receiving-station ear.
"How should I know?" he says.
"What do you think of Manawaka?" Desperation.
What would Betty Grable say, under similar circumstances?
With a bust like hers, what would she need to say?
Well, Morag's isn't so bad, either. But B. Grable isn't
about nine feet tall.
"This town? It's a dump," the boy is saying. "I come
from Calgary. Now there's some place."
"Yeh. I guess so. I've never been "
Anywhere. Except Manawaka. This will change, though.
By God and the Apostles and all the Saints, it will.
"I don't aim to stay here," Morag finds herself blurting.
"I'm gonna get to college when I've got enough money.
I'm through High School now, I've just got a job. I'm
working on the Manawaka Banner."
Silence from him. Busy with the gum. Spearmint.
"That's the town newpaper," she adds.
"Oh?" the airman says. "Well, thanks for the dance."
The dances are played in sets of three. You are supposed
to keep the same partner for three tunes. This is the end of
the second one.
Morag bolts like a shot elk to the Ladies' Powder Room,
upstairs. Locks herself in the John. Her refuge, as of old.
She laughs, but qu
laugh aloud would b< the girls who are gath
lipstick for the millioi dies' all evening.
Well, tonight wasn
emboldened by a go
asked him if he liked
raised on a chicken fa
she had said poultry.
Morag walks out o
soft and fragile as a
dirndl skirt, new. V
Morag.
"What is it, Eva? \
"No," Eva says. No
staring with unblinkil
falls out of the nest an
any kind of danger. "
worry. But - oh Mor;
"Oh my God, Eva.
"What'll I do?" Ev
to tell my dad. He'll v, You know him."
"Yeh. Well, look, I
guy - I mean "
"He says he'd reall;
little more softly now,
here skirt and blouse.
so. I'm not kidding y<
"Well, then -"
"He's got a wife in
The Nuisance Grounds 167
Happy endings all the way for Eva Winkler, born to
grief as the sparks fly upward.
Downstairs, music.
"Eva - I just don't know. I don't know at all what you
should do."
Christie, years ago. The parcel in the garbage tin. / buried it in the Nuisance Grounds - that's what it was,
wasn 't it? A nuisance.
A kid. Shakespeare. Milton. Not very likely, with Eva
Winkler, admittedly, but you never could tell. Well, even
an ordinary kid. A real kid, who would grow up.
"You could - I mean, people do have them adopted."
"It ain't that part of it worries me," Eva says. "I'm
ascared of my dad. He'd never forgive me for getting in
trouble."
Morag and Eva walk home together. Eva shivers, cries a
little but not much.
And aborts herself that night with a partly straightened-out
wire clotheshanger. As Mrs. Winkler whispers in
horror, then goes back to sit with Eva, too frightened to
do anything. But later on, doing something becomes necessary.

"My goddamn girl's plenty sick with her monthlies,"
Gus Winkler bellows at the Logans' midnight door. "She
been bleedin' like a stuck pig, there, my woman says.
What I do, Christie, eh? Goddamn women."
Christie drives Eva to the hospital in the Scavenger
truck. Morag sits up until he returns.
Gutless. Eva? Now really so, but not in the other way.
What could Morag have done? Was there anything?
Maybe not, but it will stay with her forever. She will never
be rid of it. How will Eva feel? If she lives.
"She'll live," Christie says, returning. "Dr. Cates says
she'll live. Suppose that's a good thing, although I
wouldn't bank on it. She won't be able to have any kids.
Maybe that's lucky, too. Och aye, Morag. What a christly
bloody life."
168 The Diviners
"What did Dr. Cates tell Gus?"
"That the girl was anaemic and she haemorrhaged."
- "Did Gus -?"
"Yeh. He believed it. Old Gus has never been none too
bright. Jesus, he's a stupid man, thank God."
"What happened to the -"
Christie's watery and increasingly red-rimmed blue eyes
harden.
"I seen Eva's mother while Gus was yelling at the boy
when we come back. Never you mind, Morag. It'll be seen
to."
Another candidate for the town's unofficial cemetery.
Eva, when she returns finally, walks a little stooped.
Goes out to work as a hired girl. Some not-too-fussy guy
will marry her someday, maybe. Or maybe not.
Morag recalls herself two years ago, and the chance
she took, was willing to take, and what might have happened
if the event had worked out differently. It never
occurred to her, then. Now it does. Now she knows one
thing for sure. Nothing - nothing - is going to endanger
her chances of getting out of Manawaka. And on her
own terms, not the town's.
But it's not fair. It's not fair. It's the man who has to
take the precautions, and if he doesn't, forget it, sister.
There are other ways. But how would you find out, or get
whatever it is, if not married? Maybe you might in a city,
just maybe, but not here.
Jules?
She remembers how it was, and the feeling of his skin
all over hers. Wants him again, as she often often does.
Well, too bad. Nothing can be done about it. No answers.
Is he alive, even? No reports. No news. She reads
the casualty lists, always.
When she was a young child, she used to believe that
everything would be all right once she was grown-up and
nobody could tell her what to do. Now she wishes someone
could tell her what to do.
The Nuisance Grounds 169
Memorybank Movie: The Banner Lachlan MacLachlan, editor and owner of the Manawaka
Banner, is not a difficult boss, although sometimes
unpredictable. A bulky, thickset man, bald except for a
fringe of grey around the back of his skull. Wearing
heavy hairy tweed suits even in summer. Suffering often
from hangovers, at which times he closes the door into
his office and sips Alka-Seltzer or Cokes, answering only
to urgent questions, of which there are few. Apart from
the three printers, Morag comprises Lachlan's entire
staff. He has until recently done it all himself, but his
son's death has depleted him. At first, Morag was shy
and a little frightened, for Lachlan never ever smiles,
much less laughs. But now they get on. She fetches the
Alka-Seltzer on the bad days, and calls him Lachlan,
like everybody else in town does.
Morag has her own desk. A roll-top oak desk with
drawers. A typewriter. Just like a real reporter. She has
learned typing at High School. Jock MacRae, one of the
printers, has taught her how to read proof. If Lachlan
doesn't feel up to doing the layouts, Jock does them and
is teaching Morag. Morag writes or rewrites:
Obituaries
Town Council meetings
Courthouse cases (if any)
Rotary Club dinners
iode meetings (the Daughters of Empire in fruit-salad-like
hats)
School Board meetings
News (e.g. Accidents, Broken Legs, Lightning Striking
Barns, etc.)
Local Reports from South Wachakwa, Freehold and so on.
Many of these items are written down by people who
were there, and given to her. She then rewrites them in
newspaper style, as Lachlan has taught her. She is not
170 The Diviners
permitted to rewrite the Local Reports from South Wachakwa
and Freehold.
Mrs. H. Pearl, widow of late Henry respected farmer spend
the weekend visiting with her son Simon and wife in Manwaka
and a good time had by all at a tea given in her hounor
by Mrs. Cates wife of Doct Cates son of late Alvin
Cates of South Wachakwa Mrs. Cates had red roses on a
silver baskt and four kinds cake served. Glad you had a
good visit Mrs. Pearl and welcom back!
Morag thinks this is hilarious.
"Lachlan - can't I rewrite it? I mean."
It is one of Lachlan's poorer mornings, but he struggles
bravely against headache, nausea, and cramps in
various parts of himself.
"They don't want it rewritten, Morag. They want it as
it is. You can clean up the punctuation, grammar and
spelling. That is all. As I have said before, if my imperfect
memory serves. God help me, I have all the symptoms
of a pregnant woman this morning - except I suppose
they don't normally twitch or imagine their eyeballs
are falling out. Mea culpa. Now stop fussing about those
reports, girl."
"But-"
"But whatV Lachlan's voice is low but slightly menacing.

"They make the Banner look like - well, like a smalltown
paper."
"They do, eh? Well, that is precisely what it is, Morag.
And if you think your prose style is so much better than
theirs, girl, remember one thing. Those people know
things it will take you the better part of your lifetime to
learn, if ever. They are not very verbal people, but if you
ever in your life presume to look down on them because
you have the knack of words and they do not, then you
do so at your eternal risk and peril. Do you understand
what I am saying?"
The Nuisance Grounds 171
Morag gazes at him, embarrassed and angry and partly
comprehending.
"Yen. I guess so. A lot of people here look down on
me. I don't think of myself as looking down on anybody,
Lachlan."
"No? Well, maybe you better have another think
about that one, then, to make quite sure. And for God's
sake quit feeling set upon. You're not trapped. The doors
are open. You couldn't say the same for some. I know
whereof I speak. Go on, get out. Tell Jock he's to handle
the layout for Simlow's sale handbills. Green newsprint,
tell him. Not that puke-coloured yellow. Green."
"Do you want some coffee, Lachlan?"
"Get out," Lachlan says heavily. "And bring me four
aspirin and a cold Coca-Cola. Make that two Cokes.
Tell Miklos to charge it against what he owes me, the
chiseller."
The Junior League, young women from the city, bring
out an exhibition of prints of paintings to Manawaka,
for the enlightenment of the local populace, and Morag
wanders around the United Church basement where she
used to go to Sunday school, looking. A thirtyish woman
in sleek grey skirt and blue twin-sweater set with
pearls (real?) at her neck sits smiling graciously at the
three people who have thus far turned up. It is all very
embarrassing.
And then
The picture is of the head of a girl, features so finely
cut, so entirely beautiful that you know all at once this
would be how an angel or the Mother of Christ would
have looked if ever such had existed. The eyes meet
yours, look into yours, without flinching or avoiding.
Her hair you could call tresses, as it says in very ancient
tales and the bardic songs, hair in long twisting tendrils
of light brown coppergold filled with the sun and coming
from the sun. Like a queen in the old old poems, like
172 The Diviners
Cuchulain's young queen, the woman beloved by all
men.
Morag stands for a long time, looking.
"Lovely, isn't it, dear?" the twin-set and pearls lady
says.
Lovely. What a word. Like using a marshmallow to
picture God. But beautiful is nearly as bad. How could
you say? How can there be words for that face, for what
lies behind those eyes? There have to be words. Maybe
there are not. This thought is obscurely frightening. Like
knowing that God does not actually see the little sparrow
fall.
Morag goes back to the Banner office and writes the
report four times. Shows it to Lachlan. He reads it carefully.
Then looks up.
"It's a pretty good report," he says. "But - this picture
wasn't painted recently by someone in Winnipeg,
Morag. It's part of a larger painting. Venus Rising from
the Waves. It was painted by a man called Botticelli. A long
time ago. In Italy. I'll bring you a book that tells about it."
Morag takes the sheets of newsprint and crumples them
small into her hands.
"You would only have to alter it a little," Lachlan says,
not looking at her.
"No."
"You learn hard, with that stiff neck of yours," Lachlan
says. "There's no shame in not knowing something.
You're not alone."
"That's where you're wrong," Morag says.
The report is never printed. But when Lachlan brings
the book, she spends a long time looking at it.
Memorybank Movie: Down in the Valley, Act III Winter, and the snow squeaks and scrunches dryly underfoot,
even on Main Street where the Banner office is.
Morag has new fleece-lined leather boots and a grey tweed
coat with a real beaver-lamb collar, but there is no way of
keeping warm in thirty-below weather.
The Nuisance Grounds 173
Lachlan is already at the office. He summons her.
"There's been a fire down in the valley, at the old
Tonnerre shack, Morag. The older girl - what's her
name? - and her two kids were caught in it. You better go
down and see what's happened. Rufus Nolan's called in
the Mounties, but he'll be there as well - he'll tell you."
For an instant Morag fails to understand what caught
in it means. Then realizes.
"Lachlan - Piquette and her kids - are they "
"Dead. Yes, I believe so."
"I can't go, Lachlan."
"What do you mean, you can't go? Of course you can
go. Rufus or somebody'll give you a lift back, likely. It's
not that far."
"I - don't want to go, Lachlan."
"Oh christ. Of course you don't want to go. Who
would? But you're the one who thinks the Banner shouldn't act like such a smalltown paper. Here is a genuine
news story. Now go."
The wind worsens at the rim of the town, knifes at her
as she flounders through the snow on the valley road. The
bare black branches have been enfolded and cloaked with
last night's snowfall, and would delight her with their
radiance under other circumstances.
Morag has met Piquette on the streets occasionally,
since Piquette returned to Manawaka. They have not
spoken, except to say Hi to one another. Piquette, once
slender, has gown flabbily fat and walks with the lurch of
the habitual drunk. She has been arrested several times,
like her father before her, for outrageously shrieking her
pain aloud in public places, usually in the form of obscene
insults to whoever happens to be handiest. Her
husband took off and left her, just as Skinner said he
would, and the two children, two small boys with large
solemn dark eyes, appear to be about one and two years
old. What went wrong? Or did it go wrong so long ago
that there is now no single cause or root to be found?
Morag could at least have talked to her. But Piquette
174 Ths Diviners
wouldn't have wanted to. How can Morag be sure of that?
She is, though.
At the Tonnerre place, there is not a lot of noise going
on. Valentine left home after Piquette returned, so the two
younger brothers are by themselves, and are now walking
towards Jules' shack, which still stands. No one is crying.
There is a stillness in the frozen air.
The Tonnerre place, both the original shack and Lazarus'
later addition, has been burned to the ground and is
now only a mass of tangled still-smoking charred timbers
and twisted shapeless blackened metal. Rufus Nolan
stands bulky and bewildered in his navy blue greatcoat
and absurd policeman's cap. The town fire truck is leaving.
There is nothing for them to do now. The Mounties
have evidently been and gone.
"What happened, Mr. Nolan?"
"Them stovepipes must've been old as the everlasting
hills," Rufus says. "Lazarus and the boys were away. The
girl was probably drunk. The place must've gone up like
tinder."
Lazarus stands alone, his face absolutely blank,
portraying nothing. He looks at Morag but does not see
her.
Dr. Cates stands talking to Niall Cameron, the undertaker.
There is no town ambulance. Niall has brought his
old black hearse instead.
"Well, there's no point even examining them," Dr.
Cates is saying. "You can tell even from this distance, all
right."
The smell of smoke hangs thickly in the frosty air. And
something else, a sweetish nauseating odour.
"Somebody will have to help me go in there and get
them," Niall Cameron says in a hard low voice.
He stands there, bareheaded and tall, running one
woollen-gloved hand nervously over his light brown hair
and looking towards the ruins of the shack, the pile of
blackened debris where three generations of Tonnerres
The Nuisance Grounds 175
have lived. Morag looks, too, and then realizes what is still
in there. She can see only smokened metal and burnt
wood, but there is something else in there as well.
Burnt wood. BoisBrules.
Lazarus shambles over to the two men.
"I'm going in," he says. "They're mine, there, them."
Dere mine dere, dem.
Niall Cameron's face twists momentarily as though in
some inexpressible pain. Then he shakes his head.
"It will take the two of us," he says. "Hold that end of
the stretcher, Lazarus, will you? Where's the goddamn
drawsheet? Oh, here."
Morag turns away. Vomits terribly into the snow. When
she is able to look again, the job is done and the back
doors of the hearse are closed. Niall Cameron walks over
to her and puts one arm around her shoulders, pulling her
upright again, forcing her upright.
"For God's sake, Morag Gunn, what are you doing
here?"
"Lachlan - but he didn't know it would be -"
"Lachlan's out of his head," Niall Cameron says furiously,
"and you can tell him so from me. Do you want a
lift? No, I guess not - I'm sorry, Morag. That was stupid
of me. I'd forgotten the fire truck had gone."
The only vehicle here now is the hearse. Dr. Cates has
come down with Niall Cameron. Rufus Nolan has come
down with the now-departed Mounties and is at this moment
climbing into the hearse.
"It's okay, Mr. Cameron. I know you didn't - well, it's
okay. I can walk back."
He turns to Paul Cates.
"All right, Paul. Let's go."
Dr. Cates looks very white and sick.
"You know, Niall, I'm almost glad Ewen isn't here. He
fixed the girl's legs, years ago."
That would be Dr. MacLeod, who died some years
back. He was the one who had overcome the th in the
176 The Diviners
bone, who had made it possible for Piquette to walk properly.
And dance, briefly. And attract Al Cummings.
"He was probably the only one in town who ever did
anything for her, then," Niall Cameron says in his harsh
bitter voice.
"Should I say anything to Lazarus?" Dr. Cates asks, as
though asking himself.
"What is there to say?" Niall replies. "There's nothing
can be said now. Get in, Paul."
The hearse pulls away. Morag begins to walk. Looking
back, she sees Lazarus.
He is still standing alone there in the snow.
At the office, Lachlan pours Morag a rye and hands it to
her without a word.
"Niall phoned and gave me hell," he says finally. "I'm
sorry, Morag. I didn't realize "
"I know."
"Wasn't there another girl? A younger one?"
"Val. She went away a while ago. I don't know where
she is."
"Where's the older brother?" Lachlan asks. "Do you
know?"
"He was at Dieppe," Morag says. "But I don't think he
got killed."
She recalls then that Lachlan's son did.
Without warning, taking herself by surprise, she puts
her head down on the desk and cries in a way she does not
remember ever having done before, as though pain were
the only condition of human life.
In her report, Morag mentions that Piquette's grandfather
fought with Riel in Saskatchewan in 1885, in the last
uprising of the Metis. Lachlan deletes it, saying that many
people hereabouts would still consider that Old Jules back
then had fought on the wrong side.
The Nuisance Grounds 177
Memory/bank Movie: Beginning and Ending,
or Vice-Versa The War is over. The boys who survived are being sent
home. Morag is leaving Manawaka in the fall, to go to
college, having been adding as much as possible to the
bank account which Henry Pearl started for her, when her
parents died, on the proceeds of Louisa Gunn's piano and
anything else he could manage to get out of the Gunn
farmhouse before the mortgage company moved in.
Leaving Manawaka. At last. At last. Jubilation. Also,
guilt.
Prin scarcely moves at all now, just sits in her chair,
growing heavier and more silent all the time, living only
inside her head, if anywhere. Morag has quit trying to talk
to her. Dr. Cates says it is premature senility and he
doesn't know what to do. Prin can still look after herself,
or usually, the toilet and that, but needs help going upstairs.
Who will get the meals when Morag goes? Christie
will have to.
Christie is in none too good shape himself. He drinks
very little any more, but his attacks of strangeness have
increased all the same. Impatiently, Morag sometimes
feels he brings them on purposely. It used to take the
bottle. Now he can do it unaided. First stage, the ranting.
The music of the pipes is sometimes described as ranting, and that describes Christie. Human Bagpipes Logan.
Blaring up and down, sometimes pacing the kitchen as he
does so, here a pibroch, there a battle march, etcetera.
Fraud. Fraud. Who does he think he's kidding?
Christie has grown even scrawnier with time, and his
Adam's apple is even more frenetic in his throat than it
used to be. He dresses in the same old beat-up overalls,
rarely bothering to change them even when they stink of
the Nuisance Grounds.
"Mine was a great family, then," he declares. "The
Logans of Easter Ross, by christ, they used to be a great
bloody family. This Is the Valour of My Ancestors. That
is a fine motto."
178 The Diviners
"Oh Christie."
"The Ridge of Tears," Christie roars. "That was the
war cry. Oh Jesus. Think of it. The Ridge of Tears. And
the crest, then. A passion nail piercing a human heart,
proper. I always wondered what the hell proper meant,
and now I'll never know, for who is there to tell me?"
"What does it matter, Christie? It was all so long ago."
The Gunns have no crest, no motto, no war cry, at least
according to what it says in the old book Christie still
hauls out from time to time. Just as well. It's all a load of
old manure.
"It matters to me," Christie rants. "By heaven and all
the stars of midnight and by my own right hand and by
the holy cross its own self, I say unto you it bloody damn
well matters to me, then. What have I done with my life,
Morag? Sweet bugger-all. I used to think what was there
worth doing? Maybe I was wrong. Oh jesus, I was wrong.
A disgrace to my ancestors. You get the hell out of here,
Morag, you hear, and make something out of yourself. I
used to think the only clean job in the world was collecting
muck. I chose to be the one who'd collect it. But now I see
we're all of us rotting in it all the same, myself as well. It
was the pride in me done it. 1 see it now."
Pride? In being the Scavenger, Keeper of the Nuisance Grounds? He is really wild tonight.
"May I be forgiven," Christie mourns at the top of his
voice. "May I be forgiven, but I'm damned if I know who
to ask for that. There is no forgiveness in the bloody
world. None."
"Christie. Sh-sh. It's all right. Sh."
"Them tales I used to tell you. You never knew why I
done it."
Oh God. Not this again.
"Hush, Christie."
"I meant well, Morag. That's a christly awful thing to
be carved on a man's tombstone. Here Lies Christie ia>gan
- He Meant Well. And how can a man even be sure of that?"
The Nuisance Grounds 179
Ramble, ramble. And then he would sit in silence, for
hours, sometimes shaking all over until the spell passed.
Morag goes out into the soft summer evening. Going
into the Regal Cafe for cigarettes, she meets a man coming
out. She stops, does a doubletake. Skinner Tonnerre.
"Jules? Jules!"
He is in civilian clothes, grey flannels, grey sports
jacket, snappy grey fedora at an angle on his head. The
same angular brown face and slanted eyes. But older.
Different. He grins. Neither of them makes any move
towards the other. "Yeh, it's me. Got back the other day.
How're you doing, Morag? You look different."
"How do you mean?"
"I dunno. Older. I don't mean it bad. You look great."
"Are you - are you staying, Jules?"
"Who, me? You gotta be kidding. I just came back to
see - well, how things are. I'm getting out as soon as I
can."
"How's - your dad?"
Jules' eyes avoid hers.
"Not so hot. It was a bad thing happened, there."
"Yes. I - I'm sorry."
"I heard you went - well, Val sent me the clipping from
the Banner."
"Yes."
"Did you -" he searches her face shrewdly, almost angrily.
"Did you see them? Lazarus won't talk of it. Did
you see her, Morag?"
For a moment Morag contemplates saying Yes, telling
him Piquette suffocated quickly, wasn't touched by the
flames. But cannot. He wouldn't believe her, anyway.
"No. Only Niall Cameron and your dad. They went in,
and - you know."
Jules nods.
"Was it bad - the place?"
"Yes." It is all she can say.
She gets her cigarettes and walks along Main Street
with him. He does not take her arm or touch her.
"I looli
if you -"
"Yeh.'
guess. Al
were scar
Yeh,and
ing to sor
"Not y
"I nev<
wolf, thai
Cliche.
the town
from him
"Did il
"Yeh. (
really say
Guess yoi
that's Jo}.
time."
"You s
"Yeh. :
shot in tl
were spill
Yes y
squirming
"Skinr
For thi
around h
move. Ca
"That'
his eyes, <
"How
"Like,
Always
horses. T
John I
kicking tl
could tak
The Nuisance Grounds 181
"Well, skip it," Jules says. "How about you?"
"Going to Winnipeg this fall. To college. And I'm never
coming back."
"Hey, that's something, eh?" He drops his arm from
around her. "Go to college and marry a rich professor,
how about that?"
"Yeh, I can see it all now. I don't think. What're you
going to do?"
Jules shrugs.
"How should I know? I don't much care. Maybe something
will turn up. I don't have to do anything all that
much. I'm not like you."
True. He isn't. She stiffens.
"You're just like Christie." Disapproval in her voice?
Disappointment?
"I'm not," Jules says. "I'm just like - never mind. Well,
you'll do okay."
"Why do you say that?"
"You want it so bad I can just about smell it on you.
You'll get it, Morag."
"What's «?"
Jules stops walking. They have reached Hill Street. He
is not going to walk home with her. He grins, but not in
the old way, not conspiratorially. Not quite hostile, but
nearly. To him, she is now on the other side of the fence.
They inhabit the same world no longer.
"I wouldn't know," he says. "But I guess you do. Well,
so long. See you around, eh?"
And walks away. As before, not looking back.
Morag does not think about him for very long. She will
not. Will not. She has to think about getting ready to
leave. Soon. Very soon now.
In the night, the train whistle says Out There Out There
Out There.
PART THREE
Halls of Sion
Five
morag sat at the table in the kitchen, with a notebook
in front of her and a ballpoint pen in her
hand. Not writing. Looking at the river. Getting started
each morning was monstrous, an almost impossible exercise
of will, in which finally the will was never enough, and
it had to be begun on faith.
Last night, sleepless until three a.m., long and stupendously
vivid scenes unfolded. Too tired to get up and write
them down, she still couldn't shut the projector off for the
night. Got up and jotted down key words, to remind her.
Staring at these key words now, she wondered what in
heaven's name they had been meant to unlock.
Jerusalem. Jerusalem? Why? Gone. What had she
meant by it?
The postcard from Pique yesterday. No address.
Mustn't think of it. Morag didn't want to put the hooks
onto Pique, nor to have Pique at this point put the hooks
onto her. But a somewhat more newsy letter would be
appreciated. Idiotic. How many newsy letters had Morag
written to Prin and Christie, after she left Manawaka?
That was different. Oh, really?
The long sweep of infrequently mown grass down to
the river. The elm outside the window, still alive although
for how long who could say? The small cedars,
spearing lightly featheringly upwards. The fenced-off
185
186 The Diviners
patch, where once Sarah Cooper had begun a we
garden all those years ago. Now it had gone to w
seed-headed grasses, what a variety, must be
And purple thistles, regal, giant. And those flow pale yellow snapdragons, called Butter-and-Eggs.
late summer, the goldenrod. And those little pin
sernames and those bright orange and browr bristled flowers called - ha! - Devil's Paintbru
birds liked the place, especially the goldfinches
their restaurant, all those seeds. Morag regardec
garden of amazing splendours, in which God die
work. Catharine Parr Traill would have profoun
agreed, likely.
Morag: Now listen here, Catharine, don't bug m<
eh? All right, I know. You knew more about wile than I'll ever know. But you would have said th
were plenty of wildflowers in the woods etceter out taking up half the yard with them. You woi
gently have grown turnips, carrots, peas, scarlet beans and other nourishing plants, as Maudi<
does. I am caught between the old pioneers and
pioneers. At least Maudie can't give names to t]
flowers, as you did. Imagine naming flowers will
never been named before. Like the Garden o
Power! Ecstasy! I christen thee Butter-andEggi
Catharine P. Traill: You are exaggerating, as us
dear Morag. I, as you know, managed both t books, with some modest degree of success, will
same time cultivating my plot of land and real
dear children, of whom I bore nine, seven of
lived. No doubt, my dear, were you to plant an c
you would also soon find your writing flowii grace, not unlike the river yonder.
Morag: You are right, Mrs. Traill. You are correct.
I don't have your faith. In the Book of Job it s;
generation passeth and another generation corn the earth endureth forever. That does not an^
Halls of Sion 187
strike me as self-evident. I am deficient in faith, although
let's face it, Catharine, if I didn't have some I
would not write at all or even speak to any other person;
I would be silent forevermore, and I don't mean
G.M. Hopkins' Elected Silence, sing to me or any of
that - I mean the other kind. The evidence of my eyes,
however, does little to reassure me. I suspect you didn't
have that problem, just as I suspect you had problems
you never let on about. The evidence of your eyes
showed you Jerusalem the Golden with Milk and Honey
Blest, at least if a person was willing to expend
enough elbow grease. No plastic milk jugs bobbing in
the river. No excessive algae, fish-strangling. The silver
shiver of the carp crescenting. My grandchildren will
say What means Fish? Peering through the goggle-eyes
of their gasmasks. Who will tell old tales to children
then? Pique used to say What is a Buffalo? How many
words and lives will be gone when they say What means
Leaf? Saint Catharine! Where are you now that we
need you? C.P. T.: I am waiting.
The screen door slammed as someone entered. Not C.P.T.
reborn.
"You talking to that same lady, Morag?" Royland enquired.

She looked at his bulky hunched greyness. Wearing, of
course, his plaid flannel shirt in this Pit-of-Hell weather.
His neat greybeard blown very slightly in the humid blastfurnace
breeze.
"Yeh. You never fail to catch me at it, do you?"
"You're alone too much, Morag. As I may have mentioned."

"Even if surrounded by a multitude with banners, Royland,
I would still talk to ghosts. I got a postcard from
Pique yesterday. Want to see it?"
"Sure. Of course."
Postcard: View of Vanci
side of city. Many boats,
kind and another. Build
sively blue water.
On the back, with no .
This city the end. They li
Arnold clash by night rij do not relate so why figh
Tom seagulls fabulous.
I "Hope this finds you \ 1 "Sometimes I think I ki
times I don't. I know it
same. You know someth one planet called Earth
' millions, like a snake she ; I with all the old skins si
inside the creature for qu
Ij to find you're living nov
\ and sometimes you can
I ture as it is now and som
"Pique'11 be back so
goes away for good. It' 1 going into town. You nee
i "No - but thanks. An< I it."
| When Royland had g I newspaper and looked it
11! There was the picture
I appointment. Not just t i not now. President of a i
li My God, what a hand | Another shed skin of
pening again, again, as i
i perhaps the film would n
Halls ofSion 189
Memory/bank Movie: Farewell and Hallelujah Morag says goodbye hurriedly to Prin, who, obese and
silent and almost motionless now except for the awful crik-crik-crik of the rocking chair, hardly seems to know
that Morag is leaving once and for all. Like a tub with
eyes. The vague eyes, though, are suddenly wet with uncontrolled
unwiped tears. What has been going on, all
these months and years, in Prin's skull? Morag, and probably
Christie also, has tried to assume that nothing was.
Now she is not sure. How much has she treated Prin as a
dumb beast, these past years?
"I'll write, Prin. Honestly I will."
The hulk of anonymous oxflesh which was once Prin
Logan (christened Princess in another world) now speaks,
the hoarse guttural tones of someone who has almost forgotten
human speech.
"You be - good girl, now. Dear."
Dear. Morag, as a very young child, eating jelly doughnuts
with Prin, being protected from Christie's sometimes-stinging
tongue, his oddness.
Morag bends and kisses the pasty pouched face, overwhelmed
with past love and present repulsion. She
straightens and sees the look on Christie's face - stricken.
He drives her to the cpr station in the old garbage
truck. She thanks God it is night. Prays prays no one she
knows will be taking this train. She has chosen to go by
train because most of the kids going to the city for university
will be taking the bus.
"Goodbye, Christie. I'll - write."
"Yen. You do that, Morag." No conviction in his voice.
"Well, so long."
She resolves to prove him wrong by writing back regularly.
Once a week. At least. Knowing she won't. She
dreads Christie standing on the platform, looking at her
until the train actually pulls away. But he doesn't. He
doesn't even wave to her once she's inside the coach. Just
turns and walks back to the garbage truck.
190 The Diviners
The train clonks slowly into motion, and soon the wheels are spinning their steelsong clicketyclickclicketyclick,
and the town is receding. There go the rusty-red
grain elevators, the tallest structures around here. There
goes the cemetery. There go the Nuisance Grounds, forever
and ever.
Morag settles herself. Exultant. On her way. She is
alone in this coach, the plum plush seats puffing out ancient
dust with every clank and sway of the train. No other
passengers, it seems, on the night train to Everywhere.
Only Morag Gunn, swifting into life.
Then - panic.
Alone in the coach, Morag Gunn, erstwhile of Manawaka,
prudently goes into the John before she will allow
herself to cry. The conductor might happen along. She
can bear anything, she knows, really, but not for the people
to see.
Memorybank Movie: Higher Learning - The Lowdown A year older than almost everyone in her class - this does
make a difference. There are four men who are even older,
returned veterans, but they are all married. Or does the
difference reside more in the fact that so many of these
kids went to High School together in the city? Or is it
Morag's own goddamn fault, being both proud and humiliatingly
shy? Thinking she looks gawky, not knowing half
the time whether other people are kidding or not.
The others flow in and out of classrooms and cafeteria,
and she does, too. Usually by herself. So what? This is
what she's wanted, to be here, and now she's here.
The late September dust fills the city streets, and the
prairie maples are yellow, leaves blowing against her face
as she walks to the streetcar stop. Manawaka has sidewalks,
too, but the cement there isn't as hard on your feet
there as it is here, perhaps because there you sometimes
walk on the roadsides, through the grass.
She sees the night city rarely, with neon signs of crimson,
yellow, blue, shrieking cigarettes or hotels or brands
Halls ofSion 191
of cars. Lights should be blazing, impressive. Perhaps if
you couldn't read these would be. By dark she's usually in
her room, in the place where she boards, studying.
Her boardinghouse is away to hell and gone. North
Winnipeg, half a mile beyond the end of the Selkirk
Avenue streetcar line. No wonder Mrs. Crawley was so
delighted when Morag turned up. She'd probably had a
hundred others turn down the room. Morag had thought
it might not be possible to find another room. Idiotic. The
Crawleys rent only the one room. It is a small house and
Morag's room is about the size of the one she had at
Christie's. The size of a large cupboard. She doesn't care.
She's used to it. The room will be freezing in winter, she
foresees. It has a bed, a dresser and a chair. She uses the
dresser top as a desk.
Mrs. Crawley is a Catholic, although not all that devout.
Above Morag's bed, when she moved in, there hung
The Bleeding Heart of Jesus. It looked familiar, and then
she remembered - the Tonnerres' place. Even without this,
the picture would be hard enough to endure, Jesus with a
soft, yielding, nothing-type face and a straggling wispy
beard. His expression that of a dog who knows it is about
to be shot. As usual in these pictures, the Heart Itself is
shown in violent purplish red. His chest having apparently
been sawn open to reveal It, oozing with neatly symmetrical
drops oflifeblood, drip-drip-drip. All tear-shaped.
"Why did you take Our Lord down, Morag?" Mrs.
Crawley enquires.
Not sternly, just sort of wearily. Mrs. Crawley is still
quite a young woman, in her late twenties, fluffy short
beige hair the colour of a camel-hair coat, and meek blue
eyes which only rarely spark with the momentary insistence
that she, too, may possibly be real. She and Mr.
Crawley have four young kids. Mrs. Crawley sighs a lot.
"I'm - I'm sorry." Morag struggles. "It's hard to explain.
I was brought up "
What a great lie she is about to perpetrate. As if it
would make any difference what church had been her
192 The Diviners
spiritual home, so-called, in her tender years. She would
still have wanted to throw up every time she looked at the
Heart. Mrs. Crawley, however, is sympathetic.
"It's okay, Morag, you never mind, then. I understand
you've been raised a Protestant. I'll take it for the girls'
room."
Lucky girls, now two and four. But Mrs. Crawley is no
bigot. Rather, she is wistful and sometimes defiant.
"I'd never go against my Faith, Morag," she declares.
"but all the same, I sometimes think - well, you know - if
I'd known before I was married what I know now, I'd have
had some fun, eh? Not that we do anything to prevent
God's Will, of course. We're expecting again, did I mention,
and soon I'll be bloated up like a stout old lady with
the wind. I wasn't a bad-looking girl."
"You're still good-looking," Morag cries, torn with the
necessity of saying two things at once, "and anyway, you
should've seen the snobbishness that went on in the
church where I went as a kid. The United, it was."
Mrs. Crawley nods, but isn't really concerned with
Comparative Religion.
"Well, it's nice of you to say I'm still not too bad-looking,"
she says. "I got such awful stretch marks on my stomach
and thighs after Marnie. Still, who sees them but Jim?"
Sad. Sad. Morag vows to have umpteen lovers but no
husband. No kids. No stretch marks (what are theyT). Mr
Crawley is balding although only thirty-two, and is skinnily
pale. He comes home very tired from the Meat
Packers where he works, which is no wonder when you
consider he has to heave around sides of beef and he looks
as though he'd have trouble hoisting a five-pound bag of
flour. He is not, Morag has gathered, of a very romantic
temperament. Romantic is Mrs. Crawley's word. It means
he believes in making love once a fortnight, at most. Mrs.
Crawley is perpetually riven, wanting love and not wanting
any more kids. It is a trying situation.
Mrs. Crawley cooks mainly boiled cabbage and wie
ners, or boiled turnips and (very small) portions of bacon.
Halls ofSion 193
With gobs of watery mashed potatoes. It isn't very different
from Christie and Prin's house. Which is disappointing.
Morag considers seeking another room. But how can
she, after Mrs. Crawley has confided all that about her sex
life, and so on? Also, they need the money. A dilemma.
Morag knows she will dislike living here more and more as
the winter clenches in, and will be unable to move.
If Mrs. Crawley were tough, hard-spoken and angry, it
would be easy. It is her flaccid lack of fight which makes it
impossible. As with Eva Winkler, whom in some ways she
resembles. Morag gags inwardly at the weak, against whom
she has few defences. But she resents and fears them.
All the same, Morag talks more with Mrs. Crawley
than with any of the golden-appearing college kids. She
knows they are not all golden, not all happy, not all inheritors
of some as-yet-unspoiled Garden. She isn't that
stupid. She has seen the worse-off ones walking alone and
quietly, or else trying to ingratiate themselves, clownlike,
into the brazen multitude. These walking wounded she
avoids like the plague. It might be catching.
One day, walking the narrow cracked sidewalks from
the end of the streetcar line to the Crawleys' house, the
bare lean board houses reminding her of Hill Street and
the leaves still splendid with the last of the upblazing autumn,
she hears the geese.
The Canada geese are flying very high up in their wide
V-formation, the few leaders out in front, the flock sounding
their far clear cold cry that signals the approaching
frost. Going somewhere. Able to go, at will. Last year she
saw them and thought This time next year III be away too. Now she is away. Away is here. Not far enough away.
Morag watches, angrily grieving and loving, until the
geese have passed over.
Winter, and snow of many textures. Hard-packed snow
on Portage Avenue and the downtown streets, dirty from
the trampling boots. Deep, dry snow, creaking underfoot
194 The Diviners,
I on the ten-million-mile trek from street
| on lawns and little-used roadsides, the c
high, crusted and white like royal icir
| break through the crust, the snow unde
i powdery as icing sugar. Snow everywhe
boughs are transformed overnight int
| traceries, candelabra, chandeliers of trei
g i| them as though from within. In the mi
terns on the bedroom window, paintec
Beautiful, but bloody cold. The breath
your throat, and your lungs feel full of i
!| I Morag's room is so cold in the morni \ bear to snake slowly out of bed. The C
| not efficient and Mr. Crawley does not s
in the evenings, as Mrs. Crawley fears fi \ \ Morag would rather take the chance, ai
| necessary, in a blazing spendour, glori
however, not up to her. Taking a bath
those truly devoted to cleanliness wouk
the Crawleys' tepid bathwater and stee
| winter. Morag is one of these (what if Is
II ley kids are not. Twice a week they sen
| their mother exhaustedly forces them i
III window is right beside the tub, and 1 | \ does not fit properly. December seeps ii
Morag studies in bed, the dirty win I drawn around her. Feels ill. Writes
I Christie, saying she has flu and will n< nawaka for Christmas. Flu or cowardio
Christie sends her a money order fo
I cries, under the wine eiderdown, bitlei
I does not change her mind. Reads Parad
i
i Memorybank Movie: E
I Morag is daring the world of the elect,
gi college newspaper and who in the lite
II mainly selections from their own prosi
|; story is concealed inside the first volur
Halls ofSion 195
tory of English Literature which she holds nonchalantly
under her arm. In the Veritas office, she finds herself
standing awkwardly beside a short rather stocky girl
with auburn hair. The girl, who is Ella Gerson, is in
Morag's year but they have not spoken before. Ella is
holding a copy of Das Kapital nonchalantly under her
arm.
"I'll bet," Morag says, grinning, "you've got a poem or
something stashed away inside that."
Ella looks, at first, amazed. Then strikes a hand across
her forehead in what later comes to be known as the
Sarah Bernhardt gesture.
"Good God!" she cries, although not so loudly that
anyone else can hear. "My guilty secret has been discovered.
How'd you know?"
Morag holds up Taine.
"Short story."
"Oh. Well, hell, and I thought I was being so original."
"I wouldn't have thought of Marx," Morag says admiringly.

"If you'd been me, with my mother, you would've,"
Ella says.
They wait some more. Hoping to catch the eye or polite
enquiry of one of the in-group. No dice. Cacophony surrounds
them. Slender blonde girls with breasts bouncing
under Shetland wool sweaters dash past bearing copy.
There are cries of Who's gonna make up Page Five? and
other technical terms, which fail to impress Morag, as she
understands their meaning. Should she offer her services?
They'd laugh, probably, to hear about the Manawaka
Banner. She thinks of Lachlan with a fondness she never
felt for him when she was there. The Veritas editor. Mark
Trilling, strolls past, pipe clenched in teeth, frowning in
leonine fashion, as befits one in this high calling.
"Ah, the heck with it," Ella says, snapping her fingers.
"I'm gonna mail it in."
"Yeh, me too, I guess," Morag says. "I don't trust the
mail, though."
an openness o
can't make it
she now sees,
"Did you h,
"Yes," Ella
hadn't."
Ella does n
turns out.
"Want to c<
house sounds J
"I'd really 1
terrible. Mrs.
you know."
"Yen. I kno
When expl;
view. She says
"Whatever
sake?" Ella sh
Then they I
though - aboi
Some, anyway
warm and invi
"How coulc
"Tell me ho
This is a po
"Yeh. That'
Halls ofSion 197
Morag hands it over. As it is longer than a poem, the
waiting period is prolonged. Morag smokes five cigarettes.
In comparison with the reach of Ella's poem, the story is
pure unadulterated crap. She longs to snatch it back. But
longs even more to know what Ella thinks of it. It concerns
a young farmer during the drought, who nearly
gives way to despair, but who finally determines to stay
alive and to stay with the land.
"I think it's good," Ella says.
"No kidding?" Morag says hungrily. Then reality sets
in once more. "The trouble is, I can see that the ending is
kind of implausable, the way I've set it up, but I don't
know what to do about it. Not yet, anyway."
"Implausible, nuts," Ella says. "Lots of people did
stay, didn't they?"
"Oh sure, but "
"The barns weren't overcrowded with hanged farmers,
were they?"
"Well, no, but "
"It would have been more implausible," Ella declares,
"if you'd had him going through with the rope on the
rafter bit."
A friend for life, Ella. Even though Morag knows the
story is badly flawed and suspects that Ella knows, too.
"You really think so?"
"Sure. Did you -1 mean, did you ever know anyone like
that, Morag?"
"No. It's not based on anyone real."
And yet, in a way, it is. She sees the distortion and sees
why the story had to end this way. The child, in some way,
although without realizing it, saving the father's life. The
father going on living. Could it have ended any other way,
the story? No. Anyway, the child isn't her. She realizes
almost with surprise that this is true. The child isn't her.
Can the story child really exist separately? Can it be both
her and not her?
Ella is looking at her oddly.
"What's the matter, Morag?"
198 The Diviners
. "I - don't know. Sometimes I get - well,!
feel all that normal."
Ella shrugs.
"So - who wants to be normal, anyhow?
"I do," Morag says with passionate c
Ella, / do. I want to be able to talk to boy
want to be talked to. Only I can't seem to ^ it."
"Boys like that are schmucks," Ella s
"But yeh, I know what you mean."
"You too?"
"Yeh. I went out with this guy a coupla v
I thought Now this is It. Here is your oppor\
bella. So what did Ella the schlemiel do? D
how masterful and handsome he was? Not sl began talking in her winsome way about M;
polarity. Why? Why? I'll never see him aga
"Well, then, why?" Morag is laughing mockery.
"I don't know," Ella says gloomily. "Itj
phoney, somehow, all that whole mutual fla
why should I pretend to be brainless? I'm n
"I know," Morag says. "And yet I envy j Trevor so much that I damn near hate then
glamorous and adored and get married an
still try to kid myself that I don't want thi
want all that. As well. All I want is everythi
Ella strikes a theatrical wrist to her foreh
"Engrave it on my tombstone."
Morag goes often to the Gersons' house a:
sion. A small white-painted house, always I
Ella's father died several years ago, and Mr
keeps on the bakery, working there during s
coming back at nights to make dinner for he
ters.
Mrs. Gerson is a tall strapping woman ^
Halls ofSion 199
brisk and bossy but also loving. She does not complain
about the large amount of work she has to do. It never
occurs to her that it is large. Her daughters are her life.
She considers herself blessed.
"A nice house like this," she confides to Morag, "I
never thought I would have. You should only have seen
the place where me and my husband lived when we first
married, in Poland, that was. A hovel. I could tell you
things."
She stomps out, evenings, to left-wing meetings. If she
can bring up her daughters to be socialists, she will not
have lived in vain.
"Ella, she's okay in that way," Mrs. Gerson says, "but
Janine and Bernice I sometimes doubt."
The girls shout with laughter.
"Mumma, you wait until I marry a rich insurance man
or like that," Janine says, "and you won't turn down a
little luxury. A mink coat, maybe?"
"A mink coat, who needs it? I'd die of shame to be seen
in such a thing."
Ella is the middle daughter. Janine is at High School.
Bernice is a hairdresser. Both Janine and Bernice, like
their mother, have dark hair.
"Ella, can I ask you something?" Morag says.
"Ask. I'm inscrutable, but ask."
"How come your hair is auburn? Did your father "
Laughter from the Gersons.
"Poppa would love that," Ella says. "No. Bernice did
it. It was supposed to turn out blonde. That was part of
the Glamour Campaign, see? This new advanced technologically
perfect method."
"Such nonsense," Mrs. Gerson sniffs. "I told her, you
don't like the colour God gave you? You think you can
improve on it?"
Mrs. Gerson believes in God and Marx simultaneously,
and is not dismayed by her daughters' suggestion of disparity
in such a dual faith.
"You don't dye the hair," Ella goes on. "You sort of
200 the Divuitr.1
bleach it. Only when Bernice got mine down to its basic
element, here I was this colour."
"I thought it was really lucky," Bernice says. "Blonde
would've only made you look cheap, anyway."
"And who says I am so expensive?"
"Brat."
But Bernice, queenly and twenty-three, is their oracle in
the area of beauty. Bernice knows which shade of nail
polish to wear with which colour of dress. Bernice knows
perfumes and lipsticks and shampoos like she knows her
own name. This is great, from Morag's point of view, but
she soon realizes that it has given Ella the feeling of being
a hopeless incompetent. As Bernice prattles on about eggand-lemon
shampoos, the new Tropicoral lipstick and
nailpolish set, and the best way of removing facial hair,
Morag and Ella give each other the Sarah Bernhardt gesture,
meaning in this instance, woe. They will not, they
feel, ever attain the status of high priestesses at Beauty's
Altar. They will, indeed, be lucky if they get even one fool
inside the temple door.
"You're crazy, both of you," Bernice says disgustedly.
"I don't know what you're complaining about. You could
both be gorgeous if only you'd put your minds to it."
"Our minds are on higher things," Morag suggests.
"Listen, higher than a man's belt buckle Ella's mind
never yet got," Bernice declares, "and I bet you're not any
different, either, Morag. Want me to do your hair? Look
it's lovely, that real shiny black, but the way you wear it
those braids over your head make you look like an oldmaid
schoolteacher. No kidding."
"Now, Bernice, you leave the girl alone," Mrs. Gerson
says severely from the kitchen, where she is ironing.
"She's right - her mind is on higher things. She studies.
Reads. Not like some people, you know what I'm talking,
who quit after Grade Twelve and turn themselves into
such a lady they can't even hang up their own nightgown,
what a lovely way to be, such encouragement to give a
young girl, who needs it?"
Halts of Sion 201
"That is Mumma's Bernice Speech Number One," Janine
murmurs. " Next comes a brief rundown of the entire
Russian revolution."
"Such disrepect."
Mrs. Gerson slaps the iron down on the ruffled blouse
and irons furiously. She in fact adores Bernice and stands
in admiring awe of her daughter's prowess in the beauty
game. She complains proudly about the house being cluttered
up with Bernice's boyfriends. She feeds them eggbread
and bagels and strudel and coffee in huge quantities
until Bernice, embarrassed, tells her to lay off - it looks
like she's feeding them up for the slaughter. She then goes
to the other extreme and starts chatting to them about the
iniquities of the City Council - all quite true, but it does
not make a hit with Bernice.
Bernice does Morag's hair - a home permanent, because
Morag cannot afford to go to Miss Bonnie, where
Bernice ministers to the better-off. When the apparently
endless process is finally over, Morag looks at herself in
the long mirror in the Gersons' bathroom. Her hair is still
quite long, and falls darkly shining into a pageboy style,
very little curl, just enough to make the hair curve under.
She feels peculiar. Not like herself. Yet better. Hopeful?
"Hey, it's terrific," Ella cries. "It looks like a million
bucks."
Janine and Mrs. Gerson add their fulsome praise. Hernice,
looking proud, says that she knew all along it would
turn out lovely.
Morag has never known anything like this kind of house
before. Its warmth is sometimes very much harder to take
than any harshness could be, because it breaks her up and
she considers it a disgrace to cry in front of anybody.
When she finally admits this, out of necessity, the girls
leave her tactfully alone. Not so Mrs. Gerson.
"Mumma, come here" Ella hisses.
"I know what I'm doing," Mrs. Gerson says adamantly.
She marches into the bathroom, where Morag has not
thought of locking the door.
202 The Diviners
"So, what's the disgrace, Morag? Look at me - d
spend maybe half my life crying? It never meant ai grace. It never meant I couldn't mop up, after, an< my nose a little, and get back to work. So cry, chik
Morag Gunn, nearly twenty, five-feet-eight, yo\ puts her head down on the shoulder of Ella's moth
cries as if the process had just recently been inv
What the hell is she crying about? Because of the 1
stab of hope she felt when she looked in the mirro
cause she fears she can't carry through with the ncm
and because in some ways she doesn't even want t<
cause it shouldn't all be necessary but it is? Becau
never knew until now that she has missed her mot
much as her father, for most of her life? Becau;
thinks of Prin and feels ashamed at not wanting
her? Because she wants her own child and doesn't t
she will ever have one? Because she wants to write i terpiece and doesn't believe she will ever write an;
which will even see the light of day?
Because life is bloody terrifying, is why.
And under the tears, much deeper, Morag see;
why she feels close to Ella's mother. It is not only
Gerson's ability to reach out her arms and hold p
both literally and figuratively. It is also her strength.
ag doesn't know yet if she herself has the former abi
she doesn't, it will go badly for her. Because she kno'
has the latter. How is it she can feel totally inadequa
yet frightened of a strength she knows she possesses
Flash - flash - all these thoughts like neons flicker;
and off in her head while she sobs ludicrously on
Gerson's shoulder. Finally straightens up and blow
nose.
"Now, you'll have a nice little bit of dinner wit]
Mrs. Gerson reassures, "and then you go home an
don't study tonight, eh? You relax a little, you read a
for pleasure, you don't have to think of an essay on
This magic combination is Mrs. Gerson's reme* most of the psychic ills to which the human skull is
Halls ofSion 203
After the gefilte fish, Dostoevsky's The Idiot. What could
cheer you up more?
Ella's ma has adopted Morag in some way or other, and
is going to give her the same benefits as her own daughters
receive. Cannily, she leaves the hcpsu (History of the
Communist Party in the Soviet Union) until later on. For
now, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Turgenev.
"Take, take, we're not in a hurry to have them back."
Thus it is that Morag Gunn sets a tentative and
cramped toe inside the Temple of Beauty at the same
moment as she first truly realizes that English is not the
only literature.
Memorybank Movie: Brooks The New Image, courtesy of Bernice, does not actually
alter Morag's social life out of all recognition. Still, she is
asked out several times, albeit by boys in whom she is not
interested. She feigns interest, though. Aims to please.
She would go out with Dracula if he asked her, probably.
This a despicable attitude to have. She has it. It is not the
loneliness of not going out which she cannot bear. She is
in fact rarely lonely when alone. It is the sense of being
downgraded, devalued, undesirable. She knows men feel
pain, too. But does not yet wholly believe it, having never
really seen it, except in Christie. Or Lazarus. Or Lachlan.
Or, in some way she doesn't understand, Niall Cameron.
But like Christie, their pain seems in another dimension,
pain perceived frighteningly by her, scarcely to be looked
at. Also, not immediately relevant to her situation. They
are old and she is not.
What about Jules? Yes. Sometimes she thinks of him,
and remembers how it was, and wonders where he is and
how he is getting on. But will not will not think of it much.
Refuses to think of it.
She discovers, not greatly to her surprise, that the location
of her boardinghouse does little to enhance her popularity.
Once a boy finds out that she lives half-a-mile from
the end of the streetcar line and he has to flounder back
204 The Diviners
out again after taking her home and wait fc
streetcar in the midst of a semi-blizzard or the
that sometimes puts frost straight into the blo
he usually never asks her out again. Then, too
leys' arctic front porch cannot be called the ide
necking. Morag feels herself burning up will
uncomplicated lust the moment she is touched
She is not modest or shy about having her brea
thighs felt up, nor is she unwilling to press her
him and feel the the hardness of his cock insi
flannels. This she knows is called leading him c
not honourable on her part, as she is too sea
allow him inside her. Scared not of sex but
pregnant. She suffers the lack of real sex as r
does - at least, if he suffers more, he must r
plenty. Both, no doubt, have the same solitary
he, however, knew this about her he would sec
ever. Unfair, but factual. Passion, however, is
some degree by the Crawleys' porch in mid-Fel
cannot ask the boy into the livingroom. What i
Crawleys woke and came downstairs? There ;
solution except to move. This she is now afra
case it should turn out to be: (a) no better; (b
not the porch but herself, insufficiently allurin;
"I make boxes for myself," she tells Ella, "
get furious when I find I'm inside one. Do yoi
be a lifelong pattern?"
"I don't know," Ella says honestly, althougl
she would have preferred to be reassuring.
Ella's poem comes out in Veritas and Morag
glad as if it had been her own. Also, unbe
pressed.
"Did you mail them your story?" Ella asks.
"Yeh. But I don't imagine they'd bother ret
mean, think of the postage."
Why did she submit it under her own nam
writing Morag Gunn in cold blue ink.
Halls ofSion 205
"At this moment," Morag says, "my life seems odious.
Apart from your poem getting in, I mean."
"Well, even with that," Ella says, "mine is not exactly
one huge barrelful of chuckles."
They stamp snowbooted tweedcoated down the street
to Ella's, singing, not caring who hears.
There'll be a change in the weather
And a change in the sea,
And most of all there'll be a change in me,
'Cause nobody wants you when you're old and grey -
There'll be some changes made Today
There'll be some chay-ay-anges made.
They cannot imagine ever becoming old and grey. Simultaneously,
they live every day with the certainty of this
fact, and with the fact of their own deaths. They seldom
discuss this strange presence. There is no need. They know
it from one another's writing. It is the unspoken but real
face under the jester's mask. They do not pry, nor do they
invade each other's areas of privacy. They simply recognize
the existence of these.
Morag goes alone into the cafeteria after a late class.
Very few people there, she is glad to see.
"Hello, Morag Gunn. Come here."
She looks, and it is Dr. Skelton, who teaches the Seventeenth-Century
Poetry course and the Milton course. He
is English (from England, that is) and has an impressive
accent. He is also about ten feet tall - well, six-four anyway,
and with a fine-boned handsomeness that gives him
an aristocratic look, or what Morag imagines must be
aristocratic. He wears dark framed glasses, which suit
him. He's not terrifically old - in his thirties. His hair is
prematurely grey and there is something nice about that,
with the youngness of his face. He is, of course, swooned
over by various birdbrained females in the class who
couldn't care less about John Donne but just go to twitter
206 The Diviners
over Brooke Skelton. Morag, who secretly thinks he is a
prince among men, scorns such obvious ploys, although
when she can think of some reasonably intelligent comment
or question, she speaks it. She has never spoken to
him out of class. In the cafeteria, he is always surrounded
by his clutch of disciples, who hardly allow the poor guy a
second's peace over a cup of coffee. Morag has sometimes
wanted to join them, but pride forbids.
"Hello, Dr. Skelton."
He motions to a chair, and she sets her coffee on the
table beside his. In his hand is a copy of Veritas. Today's.
She hasn't seen it.
"I've just read your story," he says, smiling.
Morag snatches the paper from him, now unaware of
his presence. There it is. Fields of Green and Gold by
Morag Gunn. They've certainly set it up rotten - about a
million typographical errors, and why did they have to use
that airy-fairy type for the title? The story itself. Hm. The
ending is rubbish. How could she?
She becomes aware again of Dr. Skelton. What must he
be thinking. Amused?
"I quite liked it," Dr. Skelton says. "In fact, I thought it
extremely promising."
"Really?"
"Yes. Really. Are you so surprised?"
"I'm astounded," she says, truthfully.
"The ending is sentimental, I think," he says, "but "
"I know. I know it is. The story needs to be rewritten."
"Well, if you'd like me to take a look at any more of
your stories, I'd be happy to do so. I might be able to
point out a few things which would be helpful."
"Thanks. Oh - thank you."
She must not gush. She clamps her mouth shut. Dr.
Skelton smiles, easily, as though if she has been awkward,
he hasn't noticed.
"I'm generally free on a Thursday, after four. You can
come up to my office then, if you like."
Morag phones Ella in the evening. They talk for one
Halls ofSion 207
hour, approximately, about this strange happening. Mr.
Crawley, timid though he usually is, comes and stands
beside the phone, finally, making gestures at his watch, so
Morag has to hang up. She goes to her room. Stays up
until three in the morning, writing another story. This
story is totally unsentimental. Also, totally worthless. She
perceives that not even for Dr. Skelton can she write a
story which wasn't there to be written. A humbling
thought, but not daunting.
Nothing will ever daunt her again.
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
Our eyes, upon one double string.
Dr. Skelton glances up at the class.
"What would you say that Donne meant by this metaphysical
image? Miss Gunn?"
The only thing that daunts Morag is her sudden realization
that she wants greatly to make the right comment so
as to impress Dr. Skelton. Is there such a thing as the right comment? Watch it, girl. But when she begins talking,
Donne's lines take hold of her, and she forgets about
everything else, even the curious eyes of classmates, who
always gawk at anyone who opens their mouth in class.
"I thought it was pretty difficult at first," she says, "and
maybe I don't really get it, but it seems to me if you can
get inside the image, sort of, then it's amazing that anyone
could catch in words that kind of closeness - I mean, two
people who love each other are separate individuals, but
they're both seeing everything, including themselves,
through the other person's eyes. At least, I think that's
what it means, partly."
"Good," Dr. Skelton says.
But before he can go on to make his own and more
complex comment, Morag rushes in once more.
"What I can't understand about Donne, though, is how
he can write lines like that, really terrific, and like in some
of the Holy Sonnets - 'Death, be not proud,' for instance,
208 The Diviners
and - well, I think he's the greatest poet I've ever readjust
about, but how is it he can know so much about people's
feelings and then write so many cruel lines?"
"Which cruel lines did you have in mind?" Dr. Skelton
enquires, looking surprised.
The class is beginning to enjoy this. Morag is beginning
not to enjoy it. But will not stop now - pride forbids it.
"Well, like 'For God's sake hold your tongue and let me
love.' That's a very cruel line. Supposing the lady had
been able to write poetry - I mean, you wonder what she
might have said to him."
"You would not take it kindly. Miss Gunn, to be asked
to hold your tongue?"
Laughter from the class. Morag's face feels unpleasantly
warm - does it show?
"No. No, I would not."
"Well, quite right, too," Dr. Skelton says, seriously,
frowning a little at the class's general levity. "But Donne,
surely, must be seen as a man of his historical time."
"Oh, of course. I understand that. But you can accept it
with Milton, better, somehow, despite all those really awful
things he says - 'He for God only; she for God in him.'
You think, well, he was all bound up with so many things
that were going on in England at the time, and where
people's feelings were concerned, except his own, maybe
he just didn't know any better. But - well, you wouldn't
have expected it of Donne, so much."
"You admire his poetry to a large enough extent that
you would like to admire all his concepts as well?"
"I guess so. Yes."
"But concepts were different then."
"Yes. I - guess so."
"I'm not sure that particular theme is really integral to
an understanding of Donne's poetry," Dr. Skelton says.
"But on the other hand, it can only be a good thing to
care enough about a poet's works to want to go back in
time and discuss the matter with him. Which is what you
almost seem to want to do. Miss Gunn."
Halls ofSion 209
Morag considers. Then smiles.
"That's right."
The class convulses. Laughter is rampant. Which does
not matter at all, because Morag is well beyond the reach
of it.
Morag is sitting in Dr. Skelton's office. He is leaning back
a little in his swivel chair behind his desk. He has just
finished reading one of Morag's stories, and is thinking
what to say about it. The story is about an Austrian
nobleman who comes to this country complete with the
peasants from his family's lost estate and who tries to
create a replica of that feudal system here. Needless to say,
he does not succeed, and his end is both nasty and mysterious.

"Quite frankly, it seems a little implausible to me, Morag,"
says Dr. Skelton, who has taken to calling her by her
first name out of class.
"Yes, I guess so. That's my fault for not being able to
do it properly. Because it's based on something that really
happened."
"Good Lord - where?"
"Up Galloping Mountain way."
"I like your idiomatic expressions," Dr. Skelton says,
smiling.
Morag draws herself away from the desk. Country girl.
Up Galloping Mountain way indeed. Illiterate.
He sees her face.
"Did you think I meant that sarcastically, Morag? I
didn't. Your speech has a directness which one often does
not encounter in academic circumstances. Where do you
come from?"
She does not say.
"Oh - nowhere, really. A small town."
"Your family lives there?"
"I don't have any family, actually. I was brought up
by"
By no one. She cannot
name.
"I was brought up by sor
of my parents," she finishe;
My parents died when I wa
"You seem very calm ab<
as though from a great dist
his face relents and she see
disapproval is in fact a kinc
"It happened when I w:
says. "I don't remember it. <
I was too young to be affec
Untrue. But she does no)
would be even more untrue
"And these - acquaintan
"We were never - close.''
"Have you had a lonely si
not prying; he needs to kno'
"In a way, I guess. Perha,
Dr. Skelton smiles, as the
amusement or pity.
"You're proud, I would g
"I can't bear pity," Mora:
Dr. Skelton's face is no Ic
"You needn't worry," he
me, ever."
Ever? That is a long tir
interpret him.
"I had a relatively solitar;
"I was born in India. My fa
school not far from Calcutt,
was pretty much alone as a;
"But if it were a boys' sch
"No. I didn't go to school
boardingschool when I was
"That's - awful. Like tha
Ba Black Sheep.'"
"Not quite like that," E
Halls ofSion 211
easily browbeaten. Nor quite so shortsighted, either. I liked
the school once I got used to it. Still, in retrospect, I don't
remember childhood as a golden era."
"It must be interesting to have a past like that, though,"
Morag says, regretting the naive words as soon as they are
uttered. "I mean, India and like that."
"Fascinating." Dr. Skelton grins. "Exotic as all hell.
Don't hunch up your shoulders, Morag. I didn't mean that
as any slur against your response. It was interesting. I loved
India as a child. I used to go back on holidays. I still miss it.
What sort of a past do you feel yours was, then? Or perhaps
you're still too young to have considered it very much."
"I'm twenty," Morag says. "Or nearly. I don't feel - I
don't know, I just feel as though I don't have a past. As
though it was more or less blank."
She will not - she will not - tell him about the town, and
Christie, and all. Scavenger Logan. No. Not ever.
"That's a strange thing to say, Morag. Almost more
interesting than having a past."
"You mean - An aura of mystery surrounded herf"
They laugh. Morag feels she has never felt so close to
anyone before, except of course Ella, which is different.
"Come on, mysterious one," Dr. Skelton says. "I'll drive
you home."
"You can't. I live away to hell and - I mean, my boardinghouse
is away out in the North End."
"No matter."
The car finally skids and slithers successfully through the
snow, and they reach the Crawleys' house.
"You were right," Dr. Skelton says. "It is away to hell
and gone. Why do you live here?"
"It was the first place I looked at, and I thought I
wouldn't find another. Now I don't like to move. They're
nice people."
"I like you, Morag." He reaches up and removes her
glasses, simultaneously removing his own. "Life has many
hazards for the not-fully-sighted - have you noticed?"
He then kisses her. It is not a friendly or teacherly salute.
212 The Diviners
It is knowledgeably hard, his tongue exploring her mouth,
not coolly or hesitantly but with insistence. Morag responds,
as usual, instantly, but more so than ever before. If
he should ask her to strip in the exposed and icy car and
make love with him here and now, no holds barred, she
would do so.
Dr. Skelton breaks away. Heavy breathing from them
both.
"I've wanted to do that for quite a while," he says. "Here
- have a cigarette."
Cigarettes for safety. Morag, shaking, takes one.
"Dr. Skelton "
She stops. You cannot call a man Dr. Skelton when he
has just kissed you with his entire body.
"Brooke," Brooke says. "At least, out of class."
He sounds miserable, and she enquires with her eyes.
"Oh, nothing," he says. "It's just - well, goddamn, I'm
thirty-four and you are a child."
"No," Morag says clearly. "I am far from a child, Brooke
- you know that."
"Do I? When you're fifty, I'll be sixty-four. You wouldn't
be happy."
"I would. I would. I've never before "
"You seem very sure."
"I am," Morag says. "I always am, over things that matter.
I always know. But what - what do you like about me?"
He kisses her some more before replying.
"What do I like about you? I don't even think I can say.
You're not exactly beautiful, but you will be. I don't know.
You've got a kind of presence."
He laughs, as though being serious is a treat at the moment.

"Perhaps it's your mysterious nonexistent past," he says.
"I like that. It's as though you are starting life now, newly."
Morag's feelings exactly. Now, however, now that it matters,
she would like to tell Brooke everything, to make sure.
Clowny Macpherson. Piper Gunn and the Bitch Duchess.
Halls ofSion 213
Gunner Gunn and the War. The snapshots. Christie ranting
the Logans' war cry, the pathetic motto and crest. The
Nuisance Grounds. Prin, so long ago. The valley - the Tonnerre
shack.
No. No.
"You'd better go now, Morag," Brooke says gently. "Go
now, my dear. If you stay here, I'll turn the car around and
drive you back to my flat, and that wouldn't be a good
idea."
Why not? But she does as he says. His car chuffs off
through the loose whiteness of the road.
If she cannot be with him from now on, and live with him
inside her and outside her in every way, she will not be able
to bear the pain. She is all at once without shame of any
kind, totally unscrupulous in what she would do, totally
vulnerable. She will do whatever he wants her to do.
It will never happen. He would never consider marrying
anyone like her. If he knew where she had come from. Or if
he knew what she was really like, for that matter. Could she
be exactly what he wants? What does he want? She will find
out. She will conceal everything about herself which he
might not like. None of Christie's swearing.
It will be useless, though. It will never happen. He will
change his mind. Or believe the age difference matters.
She is numb with too much hope, too little hope.
They are walking down Portage Avenue. Brooke reaches
out for her hand. Students may see. This matters less and
less.
"You know, love, you have a quality of innocence that's
very moving," he says. "I don't mean nai'vete. I mean genuine
innocence. I'm not like that. I've lived too long for that,
and in too many places. But it's a quality I love in you."
She wants to tell him she is not like that, either. She also
has lived too long for that. The state of original grace ended
a long time ago.
214 The Diviners
"Brooke - I think I should tell you about my childhood
All about it. I think I should."
He laughs a little.
"All right, if you really want to."
Brooke's apartment is the size of five minutes. A minia
ture livingroom with hideous pale mauve walls which th<
previous tenant fancied and which he cannot be bothered to repaint. Bookshelves everywhere. A worn sofa covered wit! a very large and elegant white Kashmir shawl with intricate
ly embroidered flowers and strange unworidlike birds ii
coral and black and leafgreen. A leather chair. A table
Prints of Renoir and van Gogh on the walls. Some pieces o
Benares brass - a vase, several bowk enamelled in sof
turquoise and clear brilliant red, patterns of birds and flow
ers and leaves, from a world too far from this one. Thi
kitchen is actually more of a large cupboard with sink an< two-burner hotplate. The bedroom contains a large an< beautiful walnut spool bed, Brooke's desk, an austen
dresser. The bathroom is so small you couldn't swing a ca
in it (if you should ever desire to engage in such an activity
where do these phrases come from?). Morag thinks thi
apartment (flat, to Brooke) is beautiful.
"Shall we have some sherry before you tackle the egg!
and bacon, which is all there is here at the moment fo
dinner?"
"Please," Morag says, having recently learned to say
simply, Please, instead of Oh yes thanks I'd just love some or, worse. Okay that'd be fine.
"Now what's all this about your nefarious past?" Brookf
says, smiling.
"Not nefarious. But - well - Christie and Prin Logan, th< people who brought me up -"
"Prin?"
"She was christened Princess."
Brooke bursts out laughing.
"No - it wasn't all that funny. She - they - were quitf poor, you see, and "
Halls ofSion 215
She cannot go on. She looks away from Brooke and sees
Hill Street.
Brooke is holding her now. She realizes she is crying.
"Hush," he says. "Hush, love. Listen - don't tell me. All I
want to know is this - were they cruel to you? I mean, did
they ever - well, mistreat you? Or did the man - you know ever
try anything?"
Morag stops crying instantly.
"No. Of course not. It was nothing like that. Nothing like
that at all."
"Well," Brooke says, "it has been known to happen, you
know."
"Yes," Morag says. "I know."
"You know in theory," Brooke says, "but you don't really
know. My dearest love, you're very young."
She knows in more than theory, about some things. Vernon
Winkler, as a small boy, being beaten by Gus. Eva
crying in the dancehall, and the night that followed, and
Christie taking the small unformed corpse (could it be
called that? what would it have looked like?) and giving it
burial. The valley, the snow and the fire.
"I don't think I ever felt all that really young," Morag
says apologetically.
"Nonsense," Brooke says, holding her more tightly. "You
were and are. That's one thing I love about you. You're
serious, but you're happy, too. You've got a talent of laughter
that's lovely and heartwarming. It restores me, and I
love it."
"Brooke - I am happy, with you. And anything else -
Manawaka and that - it's over. It doesn't exist. It's unimportant."

"That's right, my love. Don't talk about it - it only upsets
you. I only want to know you as you are now, my tall and
lovely dark-haired Morag, my love, with your very touching
seriousness and your light heart. Never be any different, will
you?"
"Never. I promise."
216 The Diviners
Then they are exploring one another's bodies, and
Brooke, lying on her, is hard and demanding, and she rises
to him. Now neither of them wants to stop, or can.
"A damn sofa is no place to make love," Brooke says
grimly, and despite themselves they both laugh.
The bed, true, is better. Morag feels no hesitance about
peeling off her clothes. She is, in fact, undressed first.
"Let me look at you," Brooke says, when they are lying
together. "Oh my love, you're so goddamn beautiful."
He, too, is beautiful. His long body is taut, spare, lean. His ribs can faintly be seen under the skin, and the hair on
his chest is light browngold, the colour his hair was before it
became grey. His cock is proud, long, ready, and she wants
to touch it but wonders if he would think this too forward of
her, so soon. He sees where her glance is, and smiles.
"Don't be alarmed, love," he says. "Women always wonder, the first time they see a man naked and erect, if there's
enough room inside themselves. Well, there is."
"Yes."
The first time they see a man naked. Should she tell him?
But she cannot. What would he think of her? But is she
deceiving him? Perfidious Morag. If she tells him about
Jules, he will leave her. She cannot. Would he understand?
Would any man? She does not think so, and cannot bear to
take the chance.
"Put your hands there, my love. There - that's good.
You're not shy - you have no false modesty. I knew you
wouldn't."
Then their skins are close and touching all over, arms and
legs entwined around one another, close close. And then he
breaks away and fishes a small purple envelope from under
the pillow, and takes out the safe, and she looks away, all at
once embarrassed at this intrusion of some world outside
their two selves, a world of drugstore and smirks.
Soon it is all right again, though. But when he tries to go
into her, and she wanting him with every blood vessel and
muscle in her, it hurts her. She tries not to let on, but her
Halls ofSion 217
body betrays her and she flinches. Brooke is desperate,
hardly able to hold back but unable to go on hurting her.
Then he collapses, away from her.
"Oh christ, Morag. I can't hurt you. I can't."
"Brooke - I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
She has failed him. He strokes her hair, her face, her
breasts. Then lights cigarettes for them both.
"Hush, love. It doesn't matter. I shall just have to be well,
as gentle as I can, and patient."
"Brooke, I don't mind if it hurts the first time or so "
He grins wanly.
"I'm not very experienced with virgins," he says. "Well,
at least it's proof positive, isn't it?"
"What if I hadn't been?" she asks.
There is a chill in her voice which her own ears catch, but
mercifully he does not seem to notice.
"But you are, love, so the question doesn't arise, does it?
Idiot child, I wouldn't have thrown you out on the street. I
would've been - well, disappointed, I expect."
"Why, Brooke?"
Now she is remembering overhearing a conversation between
two boys in the college cofiee shop. / was all set to
throw her the ice and it wasn't one of your two-bit rings
neither and then she gave in and whaddya know I wasn 't the
first on that road so I thought the hell with that jazz.
"I don't know, love," Brooke says. "I suppose I like to
feel that it's something you've only experienced with me.
It's - well, if I didn't care about you, I wouldn't feel that
way, would I? I think most men would feel that way about
their woman."
Their woman. Her clenched and doubting guts now dissolve
with gratitude and care.
"Am I your woman, then, Brooke? For sure?"
He laughs and draws her close.
"For sure, my darling. For absolute bloody certain."
His wife, then? Morag would be willing to be his mistress,
fancy woman, kept woman, moll, or whatever. Just so he
218 The Diviners
doesn't leave her. Just so they can always be together, always
and always.
- "Brooke - I love you so much."
"And I love you so much, my love. Aren't you going to
ask if I intend to make an honest woman of you?"
"Well, you haven't made a dishonest one of me yet. Not that that was your fault."
"Oh, it's like that, is it? You're asking for it, then, love?"
"Yes. Yes."
"Well, this time I'll make a dishonest woman out of you.
Oh my love, just relax and try to trust me."
"I do trust you, Brooke. And I'll try "
It still, however, hurts like hell. She wants only to focus
upon him, upon the two of them together. But remembers
how, in medieval times or somewhere, if the sheets weren't
bloody, the bride was considered a disaster and a jezebcl
and might be sent packing home to Ma and Pa. Imagine
being sent packing to Christie and Prin for that reason.
Prin wouldn't understand what was going on. Christie
would laugh his fool head off.
For one unbelievable and appalling second, Morag is suddenly
homesick for Manawaka. Then the moment of innertalk
passes and she is again with Brooke.
"Brooke "
"My love - oh God, I can't keep it any longer "
And he goes off, inside deep deep inside her herownsell
and she is inhabited by him at last.
Afterwards, when they are their separate selves once
more, they are not separate.
"Morag, listen, my love, it'll be better for you soon. It
really will. I promise you."
"I know. I do know. And it was fine - it was fine, anyway."

"Morag?"
"Mm?"
"Listen, dear one. I've been offered a post in Toronto,
full professor. Would you like Toronto, do you think?"
Halls of won 219
Would she like Toronto? Would she like Paradise? With
Brooke, and away from the prairies entirely.
"Of course I would. Of course. Of course."
But so strongly does she feel about this response that her
voice comes out like a croak. She clears her throat.
"Sorry. Frog in my throat. Oh Brooke - Toronto would
be great."
Dramatic effect is somewhat marred, second time. Frog
in the throat? What a gruesome expression. Who could ever
have thought that one up? Ugh. Those clammy clambering
teeny saurian legs in your gullet, for God's sake? Worse,
more hideous than crab-claws but why think of that now for
heaven's sake, crabs another word for vd or is it lice? She
doesn't know enough. Why think of any of that with the
cleanest best man ever to walk God's earth? But why did he
say Women always wonder if there will be enough room in
themselves, etcetera, and then said Not much experience
with virgins. Well, no one would expect or want him to be a
virgin at thirty-four and what a disaster it would've been if
he had been. Crab is also Cancer the zodiac sign, Morag's
sign, and they always say lucky in career but not so hot luck
in love, although oriented towards children and family.
What a load of garbage. But to have Brooke's children that
is what she now sees is necessary in the deepest part of
her being. What a sign to have, though. Cancer, and why
think of that in connection with a frog in your throat?
Words words words. Words haunt her, but she will become
unhaunted now, forevermore.
Brooke is lighting two more cigarettes and smiling at her.
"That's settled, then, I guess the spring would be a good
time to be married, would you have thought, Morag?"
Yes. Yes. Anytime. How about tomorrow?
"Yes. It would be a really good time to be married,
Brooke."
Then she thinks of something else.
"Shall I go on in university there, Brooke?"
He considers.
220 The Diviners
"Quite honestly, love, I don't know what to think about
it. If you want to go on, of course you've a perfect right to
do so. On the other hand, you might feel a bit awkward
about attending classes, with your husband teaching there."
"I - don't know."
"Well, you won't need the degree. My salary won't
exactly be princely, but I can afford to keep a wife. Why
don't you audit some classes? Or simply read. Education
isn't getting a degree, you know. It's learning, and learning
to think."
True. Hm. And if she isn't attending classes, she will
have time to read and also work at her own writing. And
care for the house, naturally.
"Another thing, love," Brooke says. "What about seeing
a doctor? I mean, a diaphragm would be better."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes. Definitely. More reliable. We don't want accidents."

Accidents. He means kids.
"All right, then, I will, Brooke. But I want a child of
yours, Brooke. You know?"
He laughs, but very gently.
"My true love, lots of time for that. Let's not think of it
now, shall we? Get yourself fixed up, won't you?"
"Yes. Of course."
The doctor's office is small and very dark. Probably in
external fact it is normal-sized and normally lighted.
When finally summoned Morag finds an unknown resource
within herself and does not whisper, stutter or
slump.
She explains that she is about to be married. The doc,
oldish, with a thin tired face, fixes her with a beady raven's
eye.
"Well, suppose you come back to me when you are married, eh?"
Halls ofSion 221
What if she'd turned up with a Woolworth's brass ring
on her left hand? He would not have turned a hair, likely.
"What if I get pregnant before "
"Would that be the end of the world?"
No. No. It would be fine. For her. But but but. It has to
be two people's decision. It would be difficult, moving to
another city and that. Not to mention the money. None of
which would bother Morag, but then she is not the one
who has to worry about the money and all.
She leaves. She does not see whether the expression on the doctor's face is one of boredom, or resignation, or
sympathy, or what.
In the waitingroom, going out, she finds herself powerful
with fury. She goes to the reception desk and makes
another appointment. For the day after her wedding.
Dear Christie:
I have something to tell you. I am going to get married. His
name is Brooke Skelton, and he teaches English here in the
university. He is an Englishman (I mean, from England) and
is a really fine and wonderful man, and I am very happy. As I
am not yet 21,1 guess I would have to have your permission,
although am I legally adopted by you? But I guess you would
be classed as my guardian. I feel sure you will say okay,
though.
We are not having a real wedding, just very quiet, so we're
not actually having any guests, as it seems a waste of money. I
hope you don't mind. I will come to see you beforehand, as we
will be moving to Toronto soon afterwards. Brooke would
just love to come along, also, but cannot, unfortunately, as he
will have examination papers to mark and can't get away, but
I will show you a picture of him, and no doubt he will write to
you.
I hope this is okay with you, and I hope Prin is reasonably
all right.
All the best,
Morag
FR1;222 Jfic diviiici^
Dear Morag Well
you are getting married that is some news all right and
I wish well to you and him. You know damn well I would not
say no and it is your life and I hope all goes well too bad he is
English and not Scots ha ha. Come home when convenient.
Prin not good in herself these days.
Yours,
Christie
Memorybank Movie: Hill Street Revisited The house is just the same, only worse. Perhaps Morag
notices it more now. The sour smell is sourer. The exposed
light bulb in the kitchen looks bleaker, dimmer,
than before, the old sideboard more cluttered with newspapers
and unironed clothes, Christie's shaggily upholstered
chair more shabbily torn and worn.
"Hello, Christie."
He is fifty-six, only. He looks about seventy, his hair
sparser than she recalled, his badly shaven jaw more
tweedlike with sprouting hairs, his eyes less blue, more
clouded. As expected, he also stinks. But has put on a
relatively clean shirt for her visit. The effect is somewhat
diminished by the fact that the shirt was made to wear
with a detachable collar which has got itself detached
permanently and is no doubt among the dustballs under a
bed or sofa.
"Hello, girl. By all the saints, then, and by the lord
Harry, and by the "
"Yes. Well. How's Prin?"
"She's - she's took to her bed now, Morag. Doesn't
rise, these days. Can't hardly manage to rise. She ain't
old, you know."
"No. I know."
The hulk in bed is barely discernible under the thick
welter of blankets and eiderdown. Christie pulls away the
sheet from the face. Prin's skin is the colour of uncooked
pastry, yellowish-white. Christie shouts, as though to
.i..lls ci/Sion 223
penetrate the veil of the years which comes between Prin's
mind and now.
"Here's Morag to see you, Prin."
The eyes nutter open, and a smile, small and faint as the
ghost of a child, crosses the puffy lips.
"Morag- Morag?"
"Leave me be, with her, for a bit, Christie, will you,
then?"
"Sure, girl. Whatever you say."
Morag sits down beside Prin's bed. Prin smiles again,
trustingly, like a young girl about to be married.
Morag becomes different, in this house. Older, older.
With Brooke she feels young, too young sometimes, ignorant.
Here she feels too old, too knowing. She should stay
here and look after Prin, look after both of them. But
cannot. Will not.
"Prin, I'm going to be married."
The faraway eyes try desperately to focus on Morag's
face, to understand.
"Marry? Morag - little girl."
A soft giggle from the mound, as though somewhere
inside that skull there is the image of an unchanging little
girl. Morag who will never grow up, never go away, never
be different, always four or six years old.
No use. No use trying to explain. Morag reaches out
and holds one of Prin's swollen hands, the left one on
which the wedding ring has long been overwhelmed and
lost in the fat flesh.
Then an odd thing happens. What causes this swift and
then swiftly vanishing streak of almost pure lucidity? Do
the very very old have flashes of pure and painful sight,
sweeping senility away for a second's unbearable perception
of everything, everything? Prin, the doctor says, is
prematurely senile. Her voice, this instant, is as clear and
sweet as it might have been when she was a young girl. But
what she says is neither sweet nor, at first, clear.
"That Colin," Prin says. "He never done that for my
224 irif ijiviiiki^
Christie. Saved him, like. Or maybe he done it. I dunno.
He was a boy, just a boy, and that scared. Poor lamb. The
poor lamb. He would cry, and Christie would hold him.
Sh-sh. There, there. It's all right now. He's all right now,
that Colin. Ain't he?"
Then the shutters come down over the eyes again, and
although Prin's eyes remain open, they are seeing something
Morag doesn't see, the fields or faces from a long
way back.
"Yes, he's all right now, Prin."
Colin Gunn. Christie's tale of Gunner Gunn and the
Great War. How Colin saved Christie, staved off his dying,
that time away out there, on that corner of some
foreign field that is forever nowhere. It hadn't happened
that way, then, or probably not. It had happened the way
Prin said. Christie holding Colin in his arms. Colin probably
eighteen. Eighteen. Amid the shellfire and the barbwire
and the mud, crying.
After a while, Morag goes back to the kitchen. On the
table is a pot of tea and two cups. She recalls the halfbottle
of whiskey.
"Here - I brought this for you, Christie."
"Well, thanks a million, Morag. That was real kind."
Kind. Half a bottle of whiskey. Not even a whole bottle.
They sit and drink in silence. Then Christie, slowly, begins
and she is terrified lest he launch into one of the old rants.
He does not, however, do so.
"Married, eh? When will it be, then?"
"In about two weeks, Christie. It's not a - I mean, it's
just going to be very quiet - no one there, really "
She has all the subtlety of a two-ton truck. He's not
stupid.
"It's okay," Christie says, his voice suddenly cracking
like fire. "I wouldn't turn up, Morag. Never fear. I'd have
to borrow a suit from Simon Pearl, eh? Think he'd lend it
to me?"
"Oh Christie - I'm sorry. I never meant "
"Sure you meant," Christie says, pouring himself
Halls ofSion 225
another huge slug of whiskey. "No need to fib to me,
Morag. I have known you since you were knee-high to a
grasshopper. Listen here, now, don't worry. I can tell you
plain, and without fear nor favour, and this is the Almighty
God's almighty truth, and I'd swear the same on a
stack of Bibles and on the blood and bones of the whole
clan of Logans from the time of Adam - look here, it's a
bloody good thing you've got away from this dump. So
just shut your goddamn trap and thank your lucky stars."
"Do you really think that, Christie?"
"I do," Christie says, knocking back the whiskey. "And
also I don't. That's the way it goes. It'll all go along with
you, too. That goes without saying."
But it has been said. The way it goes - it'll all go - that
goes. Does Christie bring in these echoes knowingly, or
does it happen naturally with him? She has never known.
"You mean - everything will go along with me?"
"No less than that, ever," Christie says.
"It won't, though," Morag says, and hears the stubbornness
in her own voice.
Christie laughs.
"Who says so, Morag?"
"I say so."
In some ways she would welcome one of their old arguments.
But it is better to change the subject.
"Christie - how do you manage here?"
"I'm still working, for Christ's sake," he growls.
"I know. I meant - with Prin, and all."
"Oh - that. Eva comes in on Saturday and washes Prin
and changes her bed and that. I can make do for the rest.
Prin has to use the bedpan now. But hell's bells and
buckets of blood, girl, if I can still heave around them
trash barrels, I can heave around my own woman when
need be."
Coals of fire on the head. He doesn't mean it that way.
Or does he? With Christie you never ever really know.
"Eva - Winkler?"
"The same."
220 I he Diviners
"Where - what's she "
"Married one of the McKendrick boys - he farms out
by Freehold. The family was that put out, you would have
bust a gut laughing."
"You mean, his family?"
"Of course. You wouldn't think old Gus Winkler would
object, would you? He was glad to get rid of her."
"Did <jus ever find out? I mean "
"No," Christie says, frowning. "It ain't ever talked
about here, neither."
"You needn't worry. I wouldn't. Has she got a - is she well,
it's only a year."
"No kid yet," Christie says, "nor won't be."
"Who told you?"
"Eva did. They're going to adopt. She works her fool
head off, that girl. Thinks she should be grateful to young
McKendrick for marrying her. He knows, you see. She
told him. She would. The Winklers was never well-known
for their brains."
"I see. Oh Christie -"
"Yeh, it's a bugger all right. So you go, Morag, and
don't look back, you hear?"
Eva, coming into town on Saturdays, coming here and
bathing Prin, hoisting that whalewoman, unwholewoman,
unwholesome flesh, wholly alone inside her lost mind.
"I hear, Christie. I'm - I'm sorry."
Christie's eyes take on almost the same blue sharpness
they once had.
"Don't ever say that word again," he says. "Not to me
nor to anyone, for it's a useless christly awful word."
"I can't help it."
"Nobody can't help nothing, Morag, so best shut up
about it, eh?"
The next day she goes away again.
Brooke meets her at the bus depot.
"Was it all right, love?"
nans oj sion ill
"Yes. But I missed you. I'll never go away from you
again, Brooke. Never. Not even for a day."
They go to Brooke's apartment, and this time she wants
him more than ever, and there is no apprehension in her,
only the simple need to be with him and to feel him inside
herself. His entry into her is gentle and fierce, and they are
close close close.
"Brooke - Brooke "
"Yes. Yes. My love "
And then no words no words at all, and after all there
are no words, none.
She wants, then, to tell him, to praise him. To let him
know. But there isn't any need, because he knows. They
lie very still and close together, still joined, not speaking.
Both shaken by the mystery they have known.
Memorybank Movie: Leavetaking Morag and Ella are skimming along the street on the way
to Ella's house, and it is real spring at last and the time of
the singing birds has come. The sidewalks no longer flow
with torrents of muddy water, the ex-snow. Small leaves
are beginning to appear on the elms and maples, and the
winter-anaemic grass shows signs of recuperating after all.
The little stucco or frame houses look barer, greyer, without
the whiteness of the snow on and around them. In a
few yards, people are painting their front doors or
porches.
"Hey, Ella, what means The voice of the turtle is heard
through the landV
"Well, you see, turtles have got this very soft croaking well,
more sort of creaking voices, heard only in spring.
You have to listen very carefully. It helps to be a member
of the Turtle Watchers' Association."
They are running running through the warm cool air,
their laughter unabashedly loud, brash, brazen.
"Have you ever heard a turtle dove?" Ella enquires.
"Hell, no," Morag says. "I didn't know that turtles did dove."
228 The Diviners
Suddenly Morag feels bereft, about to journey to a
strange land, knowing no one there.
"Ella, I'll sure miss you. I feel - well, you know - at
home at your place. We'll write - letters, I mean. We won't
ever lose touch, will we?"
"Of course not," Ella says. "Of course not."
Then they look at each other, frightened that this will
not prove to be so, that friendship may not be weatherproof.
Or frightened that neither of them can know what
will happen, or how many years are ahead, or what
manner of years they may turn out to be.
"It's terribly good of your mother to have the reception,
Ella."
"Her pleasure. As you know."
"Does she cry at weddings, your mother?"
"Like the Assiniboine in flood."
"Do you think it's kind of silly, for me to be married in
white?"
"What's so silly? A nice virgin like you, white you deserve."

Laughter. Spring. Like kids. Running. Wisecracking.
They are almost twenty, both of them. Will Morag be able
to act like this, when she feels like it, after this day?
"Ella, I'm kind of scared."
"Don't be dumb. All right - change your mind, then."
"No. I didn't mean that."
"It happens to everybody, so I'm told. Quit worrying.
Brooke's probably nervous too."
"Brooke's never nervous."
Is he?
Six
the air always cooled off at night here, with the
breeze from the river, thank heavens. Morag turned
on a small lamp on the sideboard and poured herself a
careful scotch. Pure malt whiskey. Royalty cheque on
small continuing sale of previous books received yesterday
and this was the celebration. Or Thanksgiving libation, as
the case might be. The case. Did anybody actually buy
scotch by the case? Imagine sauntering into the liquor
store and saying casually I'll take a case of Glenfiddich.
Morag sat down in the big old armchair beside the
kitchen window. The chair she had purchased in McConnell's
Landing for two bucks fifty, and Maudie Smith had
cleverly and beautifully recovered and recovered it in grey
felt embroidered with leaves and flowers in brash shades
of pink and green. Damn Maudie for being able to turn
her hand to anything. Or rather, bless her for being so
generous with her time and her work.
On the scotch bottle was the motto of the Grant clan. Standfast. Morag sighed. Didn't any of them ever have
mottoes such as, let's say, Take It Easy or Rest Your Soull Nope. Stiffen the spine. Prepare to suffer, but good. The
Logan crest with the pierced heart, ye gods.
She wished all at once that she could talk to Christie.
As he had now been dead for some seven years, that was
not exactly possible. How great if one could believe in a
re-encounter beyond this ridge of tears. When They Call
229
230 The Diviners
the Roll Up Yonder, I'll Be There. How Christie would
laugh at that. Would there be a special corner of heaven,
then, for scavengers and diviners? Which was Morag, if
either, or were they the same thing?
But the need to talk remained. She had long ago given
up feeling guilty about long-distance phone calls. She
settled herself on the high stool beside the side-board, and
dialled.
"Hello - Mort?"
"Hi, Morag. How are you?"
She began coughing. It never failed when she began to
speak to Mort, he being a doctor specializing in respiratory
ailments and obviously not a champion of nicotine.
"Morag, I hate to mention it "
"Yen, I know. Mort, I have been trying to cut down."
"Listen, dear, I don't want to lecture you "
"Mort, you never stop lecturing me. And you're right.
You're right. Only I always cough worse when I begin
talking to you. I'm addicted, and have the will-power of a
flea."
"Some flea, she writes a shelf of books. Want to talk to
Ella?"
Shrieks and snorts of young laughter in the background.
Then Ella's voice.
"Morag - hi. How is it? How are you?"
"Well, not bad. How are you?"
Ella, who was presently raising five-year-old twins, had
now four books of poems and was working on a fifth
while also doing a certain amount of freelance radio work
in her spare time. Good God, what spare time? Her first
marriage, undertaken the year after Morag and Brooke
married, had foundered. She had waited a long time for
Mort. Now they were four people, a family.
"Oh, I'm fine, actually," Ella said. "It's going to be all
right, but I get this feeling sometimes of living too many
lives simultaneously."
"I know. Jesus, do I ever know."
"So what's with Pique, then?"
Halls ofSion 231
"She's coming home," Morag said heavily. "She
phoned last night. I'm a bit apprehensive. I mean, I'm glad
she's coming back. Naturally. But she's split up with Gordon."
"So?"
"So,
did I pass that on? I mean - what if she can't have
any kind of lasting relationship?"
"It is not passed on with the genes," Ella said sternly.
"Anyway, if you would kindly examine your own life, you
would see that quite a few people have been lasting in it."
"Yeh. Most of them are dead, however."
"Morag. Listen. Christie is dead. Prin is dead. I am not
dead. McRaith is not dead. The Smiths are far from defunct.
Pique is with us. I could name you a dozen others,
but I trust you get the point. Look, kid, why don't you
come and stay with us for a while?"
Kid. The word they called each other, way back when.
Meaning friend.
"Jesus, Ella, thanks. But I can't. I'm not alone all that
much, and anyway, I've got to try to work."
"So are you?"
"I don't even know. Yeh, I guess so. I always thought it
would get easier, but it doesn't."
"No. It doesn't." A pause. Then, attempting cheerfulness,
"By the way, my mother sends you her love. We had
a letter today."
"How is she? I can't imagine her in retirement. Does
she find it difficult?"
"You should know her better. Difficult, hell. She's a
member of the New Left. Actually, yes, I guess she finds it
difficult. But she manages."
"The New Left, for God's sake?"
"Well, it's not a party, you know."
"Oh heavens, Ella, I know at least that much."
"More a way of thought. I don't imagine she is about to
hoist a rifle and woman the barricades or that. She's
learning a lot, though, she says. Bernice is embarrassed.
Her husband doesn't approve of that kind of mother-in-
232 The Diviners
law - better Mumma should be hovering over the grandchildren,
forcing unwanted food down their gullets. Janine
goes along with it, though, so that's a help."
Janine, last seen as a High School kid, how many years
ago? Now producing tv plays, and, resolutely, no children.
Bernice, ex-priestess of Beauty, a matriarch with
six, assorted ages from twelve to twenty, she herself still
avidly following the new shades of lipstick. Well, good for
her. In a way.
"Give your ma my love when you write, eh? She'll survive
until she dies. Well, maybe I will, too. I wish I didn't
worry about Pique. It serves no purpose, but it's hard to
break the anxiety habit."
"It'll be all right. You'll see. I'll phone you next week.
Phone instantly if you - well, if the need arises, eh?"
"I will. Listen, I can hear the twins raising Cain - you'd
best go. Thanks, Ella. I feel better."
This was true. Morag poured some more whiskey and
sat looking out the window, with only one small lamp on
in the kitchen, so she could see the night river with stars
floating like watercandles in it. No sounds except the
sometime shushing of wind through the light-leafed willows
and occasionally the ghostfluttering of the wings of a
flicker, hunting the moths that were clustering around the
house windows, moths that always insanely wanted in,
however dim the light inside.
How would Brooke remember those years? Not the
same, obviously. A different set of memories from
Morag's.
Memorybank Movie: Raj Mataj The unfamiliar city frightens Morag. Too many cars. Too
much noise. When they go out, she holds tightly to
Brooke's arm. He laughs, but is pleased. The apartment is
small, but beautiful in Morag's eyes. They have filled it with
secondhand furniture which they have painted in startling
colours, orange and royal blue, lemon yellow. Brooke's
prints are on the walls, and the huge bookcases are filled to
Halls of Sion 233
overflowing with his books. His desk is in a corner of the
livingroom, and if he is working in the evenings, Morag sits
quietly, reading, so as not to disturb him.
"Are you finished for the night, then, Brooke?"
"Yes, and about time, too. Twenty blasted essays I've
marked tonight. You've a good girl, sweetheart, to sit there
so quietly all this time."
"I don't mind. I was reading. Would you like some
coffee now?"
"Please."
She is reading her way steadily through the novels on
Brooke's shelves. English and American. Translations
from French and Russian. Brooke is very good about
discussing these with her. She is alone most days, and the
apartment is easy to care for, so she has all the time she
needs for reading. When they go out in the evenings, or
when they have some of Brooke's colleagues in, Morag
says very little, mainly listening. Picking people's brains.
Now Brooke sprawls tiredly on the chesterfield, stretching
out his long legs onto the Indian rug which they have
brought with them and which Brooke has had for a long
time, having inherited it from his parents' home in England.
Brooke's parents went back to England when they
retired from India, and lived there until first Brooke's
mother and then his father died, a few years before the
war. By that time Brooke was teaching in Canada, so he
had the carpet and a few other things sent out to him. He
has not been back to India since he last went out on
vacation when he was sixteen, just before his parents retired.
He tried to get there during the war, but instead had
spent the duration, infuriatingly for him, as an officer in
an Army training camp in Quebec. He refuses to talk
about this period of his life, because he hated every minute
of it except when on leave in Montreal, where there
were lots of women. He talks about India sometimes,
though, and with a kind of muted and concealed homesickness.
Morag wants to know everything about him,
about his previous life, so that she will know all of him.
2 j4 lnv Liivirwrs
"Brooke, tell me more about the kind of place you
lived in when you were very young."
He takes his coffee from her, and puts his other arm
around her shoulders as she sits down beside him.
"What's this? A bedtime story?"
"That's it." She smiles, then doesn't. "It seems such a
strange sort of childhood. Weren't you lonely?"
"Not especially. Not then. I played with the servants'
children. I was allowed to, when I was small."
"Not later on?"
"Well, no."
"I think that's horrible," Morag says.
"Unfortunate, yes, probably. Just one of those things.
It was the custom in those days."
"What was your house like?"
"I remember it," Brooke says slowly, "as a very large
whitewashed establishment with a great many rooms, and
garden which was almost a jungle, filled with purple bougainvillaea
and "
The way Brooke tells it, Morag visualizes a huge Victorian
structure, white as alabaster with slatted wooden
shutters drawn against the sun. There would be a wall,
also white, around it, and in the garden a tumultuous
variety of strange trees and flowers, greens and purples
and scarlets in strange shapes. Bright-plumaged birds, unheard
of here, would have strutted and swooped there,
their voices raucous or else silver. Would it have been like
that? Morag cannot ever know, not being able to see the
pictures that must grow inside his head when he talks of
it. She is glad, however, that he cannot look inside her
head and see Hill Street, about which she does not talk.
"Wasn't it very poor, there? The country, I mean."
"Yes. Yes, it was. We didn't often go to Calcutta, but I
remember some of the markets there, where they sold
carved ivory and teak and brass and all manner of baubles
to Europeans, and the beggars there - most of them
crippled, all skin and bones. Sometimes they used to
maim children purposely, to use them as beggars."
Halls of Sion 235
"That's terrible."
"Yes. It was."
His face is grave, almost apologetic, as though he has
seen things he would rather she didn't know about.
"Is it better now, there?"
"Not a damn bit better," Brooke says bitterly. "Worse,
if anything, I should think. Whatever anyone may say of
it, the passing of the British Raj wasn't the answer."
"But Brooke - surely you can't believe it was right for
them, the British, even for you, to have lived there like
that, in that way, house and servants, while -"
Brooke puts his cup on the coffee table and strokes her
breasts lightly.
"Little one," he says, very gently, "there is no real
justice in this world. I don't say it was fair. It was just the
best that could be done under the circumstances, that's
all."
"But-"
"Hush, love. You don't know. You just don't know."
True. She does not know.
"What was you mother like, Brooke?"
He smiles, although not with amusement.
"It's odd," he says. "I remember her always, even when
they'd retired to England, as a kind of shadow, a quiet
grey shadow of a woman, never daring to raise her voice
to him. When I was a youngster she used sometimes to
make feeble efforts to intercede on my behalf, but it never
worked. Never. Not even once. I suppose I resented that,
at the time. It always seemed she ought to have been able
to do something. I guess I felt sorry for her as well. He was
a difficult man."
"What did he do? To you?"
Brooke shrugs.
"Well, he was a schoolmaster, remember, and very keen
on discipline. He used to cane the boys at school - he
reserved that pleasure for himself, incidentally, and never
let any of the Indian teachers do it. He caned me, too, but
he had subtler punishments as well. Caning was simple.
236 The Diviners
Once he made me sit on top of a large steamer trunk, tied
to it, actually, just outside the front gate of our compound,
where everyone passing by, Europeans, and Hindus from
Brahmans to outcasts, could see me. On my chest was a
placard which read / Am Bad. Rather a gruesome sense
of humour."
"Oh Brooke "
He laughs.
"I was supposed to stay there until I begged for his
forgiveness. What I'd done I can't remember now. He also
thought he could make me cry -1 remember being certain
that was what he expected and wanted. I must've been
nearly six. I didn't cry, though, and I didn't apologize. My
mother wept buckets, as I recall, wringing her hands like
someone out of a Victorian ghost story. Not that it did
any good. Finally he had to cart me back inside."
"That's appalling, the whole thing."
"He was a charmer, all right," Brooke says, his voice
cold. "Well, never mind. At least it taught me to stand up
for myself."
"Yes, like dropping a kid in the ocean, half a mile out
and saying - learn to swim. He might, but what a way to
have to do it."
"It came in handy all the same," Brooke says, "when I
went to boardingschool in England. If you weren't reasonably
tough-fibred there, you were reduced to a quivering
jelly in a very short time."
"You make it sound like prison."
"No, not really. I quite liked it, as a matter of fact, once
I got used to it. There were awful things about it, but one
learned how to cope with them. It was a military school,
mainly for the sons of officers. It was considered a desirable
place to attend. The boys there were all given ranks."
"What?"
"It's true," Brooke grins. "I was absolutely determined
I wasn't going to be pushed around. We used to have kit
inspection and drill and things like that. I worked at it like
fury. I was a Sergeant at the age of eight. What do you
think of that?"
He is laughing, but Morag cannot. She stares at him.
"You can't mean it."
"Come now, love," he says teasingly, "don't take it so
seriously. It wasn't so bad. I rather enjoyed it. I didn't
mean to turn this into a horror story. It isn't."
"I think it was pretty awful of your parents to ship you
off like that."
"They didn't have many alternatives. My mother didn't
like it much, I suppose, although she never said so. Anyway,
one thing I do know - I shall never be like my father
was. Never. How his students must have railed inwardly
against him. As I did."
"You couldn't possibly be like that in any way at all.
Your students adore you. I did, when I was a student. I still
do, although in a slightly different way of course."
"How - different?"
"Sexier."
"Well, that is what I call the beginning of a good bedtime
story."
Nowadays, when they make love, they almost always
come at the same time, and often sleep the night in each
other's arms, still joined. Sometimes in the morning he is
still inside her, and they separate slowly, reluctantly, but
their inhabitance of one another never really ceases and
never will.
"Brooke - couldn't we make love and not mind if we
had a child? I mean, just let it happen if it will?"
He outlines her face with his hand, as though his fingers
are memorizing it.
"Aren't you happy as we are, Morag?"
"Of course. Of course I am. You know that."
"Well, relax then, my love. Plenty of time."
That night Brooke does not sleep well. He is restless,
turning away from her, and finally he begins moaning in
his sleep, a weird low anguished voice, totally unlike his
238 The Diviners
waking one. Morag puts a hand on him and finds the hairs
on his chest wet with sweat.
"Brooke - wake up."
"What? What's the matter?"
"You were having a nightmare."
"Oh - was I? Thanks, love."
"Brooke - you were talking, sort of. I could only make
out one word."
"Oh? What was it?"
"It sounded like Minoo. Is that a Hindi word?"
"It's - well, not exactly. It's a name."
"For a man or a woman?" She despises herself for
asking this, and not unnaturally Brooke is annoyed.
"Oh for heaven's sake, Morag. It's a woman's name. I can't think what it meant. Now can we get some sleep,
please?"
"I'm sorry, Brooke. I didn't mean "
But he is asleep again. What does it matter? It doesn't.
Morag does not own him or what goes on in his head, nor
does she imagine he has not been with many women. If
age sixteen, he would have been old enough. It would not
matter at all, had he not sounded so hurt, in ways he
would never admit to, when awake.
She wants to console him, for whatever it was, but how
could you do that for hurts which must have gone deeper
than he wants to know? He is enormously strong within
himself. But once he wouldn't have been. Once he would
have been a six-year-old who had to teach himself never to
give in, never to reveal his pain. What was it really like for
him, away back then? Why would he not say? If he cannot
tell Morag, who can he tell? Perhaps no one.
This is a frightening thought. She pushes it away, but
lies unsleeping for a long while, beside him.
Memory/bank Movie: The Young Morag Skelton, age twenty-four, has now lived in Toronto
for four years. She is able to go downtown without getting
hopelessly lost. She has long since learned the various
Halls ofSion 239
colleges of the university, which city bookshops are the
best, where to buy clothes that Brooke will like on her,
and how to do verbal battle with hairdressers in order to
achieve (even if only partially) the style she wants, without
submitting to the outlandish creations which they always
seem to want.
She does not venture downtown very often, because
unfortunately the city still scares the bejesus out of her.
She does not, however, mention this fact to anyone.
Her long straight black hair has been cut much shorter
and permed in the prevailing manner of the day, described
by Helen of Miss Helene as just a few soft curls, Mrs.
Skelton, and a little swirl over your brow. She feels slightly
peculiar each time she gets her hair done, but Brooke
likes her this way, and she has to admit it does look more
feminine.
She watches her diet carefully and is slender. She wears
lightly tailored suits in the daytime, with pastel blouses,
sometimes frilled. In the heat of the summer, cotton
dresses with flared skirts. Her shoes have what is known
as Illusion heels, so that she will appear to be wearing
high heels without adding too much to her height. In the
evenings, meeting academic friends, she goes in heavily for
the little black cocktail dress, not necessarily black, of
course. She looks smart.
She is a competent cook. Her apricot bread and peanut
butter cookies are splendid, and her chocolate cake with
fudge icing is beyond compare.
She reads a great deal.
She asks the janitor of the apartment block if people
are allowed to keep cats. He says No.
She grows African violets, which are pretty, and potted
parsley, which can be used as a garnish on such dishes as
tomato jelly.
She writes short stories and tears them up.
One day she throws a Benares brass ashtray through the
kitchen window.
Appalled, she flashes down to the back alley and re242 The Diviners
"I think these are quite good," Brooke says finally.
"They certainly need a little polishing, and I'm not sure of
the plausibility of either ending, to tell you the truth, but yes,
they're definitely worth working on, I'd say."
She is hungry for approval, but suddenly cannot take
what he is saying.
"Brooke," she says in a hard voice, "they aren't any
good. They're trivial and superficial."
He looks at her in surprise.
"Well, if you don't like them, love, then of course that's
up to you."
He glances at his watch.
"My God, Morag, we'd better hurry with dinner. My
Third Year Honours English students are coming around
tonight - had you forgotten?"
"Oh Lord. I'm sorry, Brooke. I had forgotten."
The students, two girls and six boys, troop in about
eight o'clock. They drape themselves around the room,
some of them sitting on the floor. Brooke sits in the one
armchair. He is warm with them, calm even when they
make ridiculous statements, dependably friendly and yet
never making the error of trying to be one of them. They
are confident and yet a little shy with him, arguing tentatively
but willing to be convinced when he points out
(always carefully, never stabbing any of them to the heart)
the flaws in their judgements. Tonight Gerard Manley
Hopkins is the subject of talk. Morag sits on a low stool
by the window, occasionally chipping in but mostly listening.

"I can't help feeling," one of the boys says, "that at
least some of the obscurity is done for its own sake - you
know, really just to baffle the reader. A kind of intellectual
game, the purpose of which - subconscious, no doubt was
to prove that Hopkins' intellect was superior to
most."
"Well, let's face it, his intellect was superior to most,"
Morag finds herself saying. "But you're right about the
Halls ofSion 243
spiritual pride, which is what I take it you mean. And also
self-pity, in a poem like 'Thou Art Indeed Just, Lord.' The
point is, he knew it. But you're wrong about the obscurity
- almost always, if you can get inside the lines, you find
he's saying what he means with absolute precision. 'Sheer
plod makes plough down sillion shine' - I'm not sure it
really does, but it couldn't be expressed more concisely
and accurately. Or where he says 'No worst, there is none.'
My God, think of that. There really is none "
She stops. There is silence. Embarrassment.
Then Brooke smoothly leads the discussion into different
channels.
When the young have finally departed, Morag turns to
Brooke.
"I shouldn't have butted in like that, Brooke. I am sorry."
Brooke draws her close to him.
"Hush, child. It's all right. It doesn't matter a damn.
Truly. Everybody makes exaggerated statements from
time to time."
Morag abruptly pulls away from him.
"Brooke -"
"What's the matter? For heaven's sake, Morag, you're
awfully touchy today."
"Brooke, I am not your child. I am your wife."
Brooke laughs, but partly in annoyance.
"Is that it? I've offended your pride? My God, Morag,
can't you see I only used the word as an expression of
affection? Remember how you and Ella used to call each
other kidi What's the difference, except that I meant this
a little more tenderly and in a different kind of relationship?"

Oh God. Quite true. And she has lashed out at him for
it.
"Brooke, I'm sorry. I really must be unbalanced. I'm
sorry. I love you, Brooke. I do love you."
"I know, my love. I know."
244 TTv Diviners
Memory bank Movie: Spear of Innocence Morag begins writing the novel almost unexpectedly, although
Lilac has been in her mind for some time. She has
no idea where the character has come from. She has never
in her life known anyone remotely like Lilac Stonehouse,
the fluffily pretty girl from a lumber town who lights out
for the city. An old story, but in this case (hopefully)
somewhat different, because Lilac's staggering naivete is
never presented as anything but harmful and in fact it damages not only herself but others. Innocence may well
be the eighth deadly sin.
Morag has no idea how long it will take to complete the
novel, nor how much rewriting will have to be done, but
once started she writes quickly. She knows more about
Lilac than Lilac knows about herself, but how to convey
this? It is being written in the third person, but from
Lilac's viewpoint, and as this is a limited one, people have
to be communicated to the reader solely through their
words and acts, which Lilac often does not understand.
The difficulties of having a main character who is virtually
inchoate. When actually writing, Morag is certain she is
getting it across. When not writing, she is certain she isn't.
A seesaw existence.
"What is it you're writing?" Brooke asks.
"A novel, I think."
"A novel? Well, may as well aim your sights high, I
suppose."
"Do you think - no, honestly, Brooke, tell me - do you
think I'm trying to run before I can walk?"
"That remains to be seen, doesn't it? The novel is a
complex structure."
"Don't I know it," Morag says glumly.
"Here - no long face, please. Come on, smile, love."
Morag smiles.
"That's better," Brooke says. "How about a movie tonight?"

"Lovely. I'd love to. I'll flash up the dishes and be ready
in ten minutes."
Halls ofSion 245
In fact, she would like to go back to Chapter Three.
Lilac, going to work in the seedy nightclub, Crowe's Cave,
for the first time, hasn't been presented properly. Lilac
should be more hesitant - a combination of hesitancy and
brashness. How to get that across?
Unfair to Brooke. Who is, after all, supporting her
while she bashes away at the typewriter. And who loves
her. And whom she loves.
Morag thinks of her smile. The eager agreement to go
out. How many times has she lied to him before, or is this
the first time? No, it is not the first time. She never thought
of it that way before. It never seemed like lying. Now it
does.
Brooke is depressed tonight, as he frequently is. The
movie does not interest him, and they leave in the middle.
At home, he pours them both a gin and tonic.
"Brooke - what is it?"
"Oh, I don't know. The First Year class this year is
singularly lacking in wits. It's discouraging, I suppose. I
sometimes think this is a hell of a way to spend one's life.
And if you do make contact, ever, more often than not
you never know it."
"That's not quite so," Morag points out. "Your Third
Year class is full of good kids, and you know perfectly well
you make contact with them."
"Yes, I guess so. I sometimes wonder."
"Brooke, there's absolutely no doubt about it."
"You may be somewhat prejudiced, my love."
"Of course I'm prejudiced, damn it. But I'm not blind. I
can see how they feel about you."
How is it that she once imagined him to be totally
certain of himself? No one is, of course. But with Brooke,
you have to get within very close range before you can see
it. His vulnerabilities are not on display. He learned his
lesson almost too well as a child.
"What would you have preferred to do, then, Brooke, if
not this?"
Brooke smiles ironically.
246 The Diviners
"I don't know - run a tea plantation, perhaps. Somewhere
in Assam, somewhere very remote, away from the
varied awfulness of this world."
"I know. I think I can understand that."
"There is, however, no place, really, to go or to get
away."
"Brooke, why don't you get a job teaching in India?"
He shakes his head.
"No, little one. I couldn't go back. It's all changed too
much. I wouldn't know it. I wouldn't feel at home there
any longer."
Trapped in a garden of the mind, a place which no
longer has a being in external reality. Is everyone? Not
Morag. She wouldn't go back to Manawaka for all the tea
in China or Assam. And yet the town inhabits her, as once
she inhabited it.
"Brooke - that's terribly sad. I'm sorry. I wish there
were something I could do."
"It's the human condition," Brooke says abruptly.
"There's nothing anyone can do about it."
"I can't accept that, Brooke. I just cannot accept it."
"Well, all right. There is something you can do, then.
Keep on being happy and cheerful - it's a kind of leaven.
It's what I need from you."
/ will never let him see the Black Celt in me. Morag,
shortly before marriage. It seemed an easy thing to undertake,
then.
"Brooke, I will. Be - the way you said. I will."
Will is a strange word. Will she, then, by an act of will?
And if this act of willing, however willingly undertaken, is
false to her, can it be true to Brooke?
That night Brooke has the same (same? who can tell?) nightmare, the one which recurs every six months or so,
and speaks the same name.
Minoo.
She cannot bear the weird monotone of his voice. She
shakes his shoulder.
"Brooke - wake up."
Halls ofSion 247
"Oh God. Not again? What a bore for you."
"I don't mind. Who was she, Brooke?"
He rubs his eyes and sits up in bed.
"Did I say - yes, I suppose I must've. Well, I may as
well tell you, not that it's all that important. She was a
Hindu woman - really, at this point, I have no memory of
whether she was young or old. She seemed old but she
may only have been a girl. I was about five or six. She was
my ayah."
"Your what?"
"Ayah. She looked after me. She was very - oh, I don't
know - very affectionate and tender, I guess, and there
was not much of that kind of feeling around our house.
My mother spent nearly all her time lying in a hammock,
suffering from migraine. Minoo used to play with me, and
build little stone forts for me, and "
"Go on."
"Well," Brooke says, reaching out for a cigarette and
lighting it slowly, "actually, when I couldn't get to sleep she would get into bed beside me, and hold me in her arms
and stroke me. I mean, all over. I used to have an orgasm
or whatever is the equivalent in a child, and then I'd go to
sleep. It was quite a common practise there, as I later
learned. Not, however, among Europeans."
"It may be somewhat different from Dr. Spock's recommendations,"
Morag says, "but I can't see anything so
heinous about it."
"No," Brooke says. "There wasn't. But one evening my
father came into the bedroom."
"Oh. I see."
"That was, as a matter of fact, the reason why, next
day, he beat me and tied me to the steamer trunk outside
the gate, with the sign I Am Bad on me."
"Brooke, that was terrible."
"Not really," Brooke says. "It's a nuisance that it
comes back to me, that's all. But it certainly strengthened
my resolve. I hated him forever after, and I suppose as a
child I must've wondered if he was right about it, but at
248 The Diviners
least it taught me at an early age that life is tough and one
has to be pretty tough, as well, to stand up to it. I learned
to run my life my way, to keep a firm control over things
so that the external forces would batter at the gates as
little as possible."
"And yet, earlier tonight, when you were depressed, you
said it was the human condition and nothing could be
done about it."
"Oh, that. Well, yes, I guess that's more or less fate, that
kind of depression. But one can make oneself less vulnerable
to the external blows, at least."
"Too much so, perhaps. Brooke - listen. We hardly
know a thing about one another. I mean, not really. Even
after nearly five years. It's necessary that we find out. I
don't think either of us has ever admitted how we really
feel about a lot of things. I'm not the way you think I am.
And you're not the way I thought you were, either. I just
didn't know. I like you better like this. Maybe I wouldn't
have, four years ago, but I do now. We've got to find out a
lot more."
"We may do," Brooke says, putting out his cigarette
and patting her gently on the rump, "but I also have an
eight-thirty class in the morning. Let's get some sleep."
This cannot be said to be an unreasonable viewpoint in
any sense. If you have to get up at seven you don't lie
awake all night yakking about your childhood and so on.
How much of Lilac's childhood remained with heri All. It always does.
Morag usually stops writing about four, so she will have
time to get outside the novel before Brooke arrives home.
She does not always manage. Sometimes she forgets that
time, outside, is passing.
This afternoon she has forgotten, because Lilac has
aborted herself in a way that Morag recalls from long ago.
And yet it is not Eva for whom Morag experiences pain
now - it is Lilac only, at this moment. Morag finishes the
Halls ofSion 249
episode, moves away from the typewriter, walks around
the apartment, smoking, trying to shed the tension instantly,
which is impossible. It is five minutes to six.
The key in the door, and Brooke comes in.
"Hello, love."
"The dinner isn't ready," Morag blurts. "It isn't even
begun."
He stares at her.
"For God's sake, Morag, are you ill? What's the matter,
love? You're shaking."
A moment ago she felt aggressively defensive. Now she
is ashamed to say.
"It's - no, I'm all right. It's just that I've reached a kind
of crucial point. I mean, with the novel."
Brooke laughs, relieved.
"Is that it? Heavens, I thought you'd been suddenly
stricken with something serious."
/ have. I have. But she does not say this. Odd - if you
had a friend who had just aborted herself, causing chaos
all round and not only to herself, no one would be surprised
if you felt upset, anxious, shaken. It is no different
with fiction - more so, maybe, because Morag has felt
Lilac's feelings. The blood is no less real for being invisible
to the external eye. She wants to explain, but feels too
tired.
"Well, never mind," Brooke is saying. "It doesn't
happen often. We'll go out to eat. You run along now and
make yourself look presentable."
She wants only to go to sleep for about fourteen unbroken
hours. But goes and puts on a decent dress and
does her hair. It is, after all, kind of him. It really is. He
might have been angry and has not been.
She takes three aspirins and tries to make herself look
especially nice.
Seven
work over for the day, Morag walked. The road
past the house was dirt only, supposed to be maintained
by the municipality, but no voters worth mentioning
lived along here, so the ruts were deep and old. Small
red-branched dogwood bushes were now in white clusterflower.
The purple and white wild phlox were so rich and
heavy with their July perfume that they seemed almost
out of keeping here, amongst the plain coarse grass and
the dust.
Red-winged blackbird. You would not guess their concealed
splendour, seeing them on a branch with their
wings folded. Only when they took off, the outfanning of
those scarlet feathers hidden among the black.
A groundhog fatly scuttled from the path. Morag liked
them - they seemed portly and innocuous, vine-gobblers,
meaning well. But Royland said the groundhogs' holes
made the cattle trip and break legs. Idiotic groundhogs,
uncarnivorous, scuttlebustling about on their own tiny
business, not one of your great antagonistic creatures, no
dinosaurs or jaguars they, yet busting the legbone of some
dumbly innocent cow all the same.
Morag always carried a stick when she walked these
roads. So as to fend off the following: mad dogs frothing
with hydrophobia; killer foxes; coyotes or some few ancient
wolves which might have survived here since pioneer
times, unknown to anyone, but possibly lurking in the
250
Halls ofSion 251
underbrush, panting to pounce; and poisonous snakes, of
which the snake book said this area had none.
Morag returned to the house. The swallows were positively
dangerous, as always at this time of year, divebombing
anyone who came within eyeshot of the nest,
which was above the kitchen window - a goblet-shaped
structure of mud and straw, with its patio on either side.
The fledglings were nearly ready to fly, and took up all the
space in the nest, so the parent swallows slept on the mudand-straw
patio these nights. Admirable parents. Intelligent.
Joyous.
"It's okay," she told them now, as they flew to within
an inch of her head. "I'm no threat to your young."
Imagine dying from a fractured skull delivered by a
hysterical parent swallow. A novel death. In a novel,
who'd believe it? Novel. Odd word. Swallows never actually
hit, though. They possessed fine radar.
The kitchen door was open. Morag had closed it when
she went out.
"Hi," Pique said.
"Pique!"
Morag hugged the girl, and Pique did not seem to
mind. Seemed even glad to be here. Looking just the same
- tall, slender, almost skinny, long straight black hair
loose around her shoulders, dressed in blue jeans and
what appeared to be a man's shirt of ancient vintage with
sleeves cut off short and unhemmed, wide leather belt with
old brass buckle which she hadn't had before but which
had an oddly familiar look.
"How are you, honey?" Morag asked, holding the girl
at arms length as though searching for signs of malnutrition,
ill-treatment by world, or sadness of any variety.
Shadows under Pique's eyes. Sleepless nights? Worry?
Over what?
"You look a bit tired," Morag said.
Pique laughed.
"I'm okay, Ma. I hitched from Toronto, and didn't have
such good luck. I am a bit tired. That's why I was kind of
252 The Diviners
delayed, the luck. I'm starving. Got any peanut butter?
I've just arrived this second. Has Gord phoned? I sure as
hell hope not. What hassles. He won't go away. I don't
want to damage the guy, but what can I do? Where's your
bread - in the fridge? Yeh. You shouldn't eat white bread,
Ma, it's very bad for you. How are youV
"Fine. Fine." Morag lit a cigarette, hands unsteady.
"It's good to see you. Are you okay, really?"
Pique grinned, dark brown slightly slanted eyes filled
with faint golden lights, sparks.
"Relax, Ma. Shall I make us some coffee? Where's the
percolator? You shouldn't drink that instant slop. It's
plastic. Sure, I'm all right. Really. Can't you see? I had a
pretty good time. Some times weren't so good. They hate
kids hitching, some places. They'd really like you to be
dead. Really dead, for real. It's the anger that scares me."
"Yeh. Me, too."
"Because they don't know it's there inside them," Pique
said. "They think they're sweet reasonableness, and it's you that's in the wrong, just by being, and not being like
them, or looking like them, or wanting their kind of life.
It's the anger you can feel, even if they don't lay a hand on
you. It's, like - well, visible. You can see and taste and
smell it. You know?"
"I can guess. I've seen it, under other circumstances,
when I was a kid."
"I wondered about that," Pique said, in between
mouthfuls of sandwich, "when I went to Manawaka. I
guess it's changed a lot, on the surface. Underneath - well,
I dunno."
"Did you see "
"I don't think I can talk about it, just yet," Pique said
carefully. "I'll tell you about it later on, maybe, sometime.
I don't think Christie's old house is there any more. Lotta
new little tacky houses on Hill Street."
"I couldn't bear to see it. Although it could hardly look
worse that it did then."
"Prosperous town, I'd say."
Halls ofSion 253
"Yes. I suppose so. Did you go down in the valley?"
"I'll tell you later, I said."
"Sorry."
"That's okay. Got any oranges or bananas?"
"On the sideboard. Where'd you get the jazzy belt?"
"From my dad. He gave it to me. He had to shorten it a
lot. It was his."
"Of course. I knew I'd seen it before."
"I saw him in Toronto, Ma."
"I know. He phoned me."
"He did7 Why?"
"I don't know," Morag said, feeling slightly annoyed.
"To say he'd seen you, and what did I mean, letting you go
off like that. He has his reasons for saying that, though."
"That's funny," Pique said. "He didn't take that line
with me. He said he knew why I had to go out west and
that. He did, too."
"Yeh. Well, maybe he only said that to me because he
thought it was what I'd expect to hear. I think he really
phoned to tell me he'd seen you and you were okay. He
always thought I was kind of "
"What?"
"Bourgeois. Square."
"Square. I love your idiom, Ma. It's like an old dance
tune from the forties."
"Brat. You wait. Yours will be passe, too."
"Well, were you, like, squared"
"It all depends where you stand," Morag said. "To him,
I suppose I was, at least in some ways. He thought I
wanted things that he didn't care about. I did, too, but
then, later, I didn't."
"What things?"
"Oh - respectability, wall-to-wall carpets and that."
"Did you really? Poor Ma."
"Indeed. But it wasn't all that bad. It wasn't like that at
all, really. I can't explain."
"My dad gave me some songs," Pique said. "That was
the best thing he gave me."
254 The Diviners
"He told me. That's good. That's fine."
Hypocritical Morag. Jealous of the fact that he had that
to give. Like A-Okay's poems. Could you hand over a
stack of books to someone? Only to someone who wanted
to read, presumably. Maybe Pique would read Morag's
out of curiosity when Morag was pushing up daisies. But songs. And he had been singing them so long ago, long
before everyone in sight began going around singing their
own songs. Lucky bugger. God knows he'd had a rocky
road, withal, though.
"I never thought he'd actually teach them to me,"
Pique said. "He'd sung them that one time before, you
remember? No, twice - didn't he, when I was a little kid,
somewhere, as well?"
"Yes. Yes, he did. Some of them."
"Gord couldn't see how important it was to me. He
thought it would be just the same if you listened to a
record and picked up anybody else's song that way. I
couldn't explain. It was kind of strange to see him again,
my dad. Did you love him?"
Morag sat with her hands around the coffee mug.
Thinking. How to reply and get across that much complexity
in a single well-chosen phrase? Impossible.
"I guess you could say love. I find words more difficult
to define than I used to. I guess I felt - feel - that he was
related to me in some way. I'd known him an awfully long
time, you know. I mean, at the time when you were born,
I'd known him an awfully long time then, even. I'm not
sure know is the right word, there."
"Who cares about the right word?" Pique cried. Then,
suddenly, the hurt cry which must have been there for
years, "Why did you have me?"
"I wanted you," Morag said, stunned.
"For your own satisfaction, yes. You never thought of
him, or of me."
And to that accusation there was no answer. None.
Because it was partly true. To have someone of her own
blood. But only partly. She had not conned a kid out of
Halls ofSion 255
him, after all. Or not quite, anyway. How did he look at
it? She didn't know. But he'd given the songs to Pique.
Silence. The afternoon sun pouring through the window
as though the daylight would be forever. The young
swallows fidgeting and flittering in the nest, wanting to fly.
"Pique "
Pique, sitting at the end of the long table, put out her
hand and touched Morag's hand.
"Yeh. I know. Never mind. It's okay. You know something,
Ma?"
"What?"
Pique was about to cry, but refused to do so, was forced
to reject tears as an indignity against what she was about
to say.
"His voice isn't very good any more," Pique said
steadily. "The jobs are getting harder to find. Lots of
competition around now, and he's only got one thing to
cash in on, now, in lots of places."
"Which is?" But she knew.
"You know, he's still kind of an oddity," Pique said, in
that same unnervingly calm distant voice. "That's a bad
scene, for him. And he's not so young any more."
"Nor am I," Morag said. "Nor can I go on forever,
either. Sometimes I'd like to see him."
"Why don't you, then? He's there."
"I don't know if he would like to see me. Probably
not."
Pique's voice was not calm and distant any longer.
"You make me sick. You make me bloody sick. You're
so goddamn proud and so scared of being rejected. You're
so stupid in that way, you really are."
"It's not that simple," Morag said.
But maybe it was. No, it wasn't. Indecision all around.
If she went unannounced to see him, he would laugh bitterly
in her face. Or would he? She felt extremely tired.
"How would some dinner grab you?"
"Okay," Pique said, without enthusiasm. "Shall I
cook, or will you?"
256 The Diviners
"Me, I guess. You can tomorrow."
Unfortunately, at that moment the door was decisively
knocked upon. Morag prayed. Let it be Royland. Or AOkay
and Maudie. But of course, no.
Gord. Who else? His straw hair tangled, his boy's face
still not quite set into the firmer outlines it would have in a
few years, but showing strength of the bones under the
skin. A determined tenacious face, but the blue eyes were
bewildered.
"Now, listen, Pique," he began. "Just listen for one
minute, will you?"
"I asked you not to come here," Pique said, voice low
and helpless. Then, flaring up, "I'm going out. And don't
follow me, either, see?"
Like a kid. But only because she didn't know what to
do.
"If you're going out," Morag said, "why don't you take
a pan and pick some of the wild strawberries up the
meadow?"
"Oh, for God's sakeV Pique ran, and the screendoor
slammed.
Tactful Morag. It had seemed practical, that's all.
"Want some coffee?" she asked Gord, hoping he would
say No and leave immediately.
He nodded and sat down.
"Why does she do it, Morag?" he asked, begging for
revelations. "I mean, what've I ever done to make her be
like that? She was okay for a while, there, on the way out
west, once I caught up with her. Which wasn't easy, believe
me. Finding her. Then she just sort of went away.
What's she want me to doT'
She wants you to get lost, you poor mug. No, that's too
flippant.
"Look, Gord," Morag said, "she cares about you. That
is, she cares about you as a person. But I just think she
feels she has to be on her own awhile, and find out what
she's meant to do. You will just have to let go of her."
Would it be kinder simply to tell him that Pique
Halls ofSion 257
couldn't get on with him any more, through no fault of his
or hers, that she was on some kind of search on her own
behalf; that she couldn't care about him as once she had
and couldn't pretend to feel what she didn't feel? No, not
kinder, probably.
Am I only interpreting her through my own experience?
Maybe she doesn't feel that at all. Why all that talk, suddenly,
about her dad?
"Yen, I guess I know." He glared for an instant at
Morag.
All Morag's fault, he probably thought. Brought up the
girl strangely. What could you expect? Bad scene. Morag
could feel Gord's hostility like lye thrown in her face.
"Couldn't you suggest anything?" Gord then said, pleadingly.
"I feel it must be my fault, but I don't know how."
Morag perceived that what she had taken to be hostility
had been in fact self-reproach on his part.
"I don't know what to say," she said. "I don't think
there's anything."
Gord rose.
"Yeh. Well. I thought probably not. Thanks anyway,
for the coffee. I'll be going now. Tell Pique if she wants to
see me, phone. My aunt'll take the message if I'm not
there."
No doubt, at least for the time in which it took him to
find another woman, he would rise up at 4:00 a.m. if
necessary, summoned from his aunt's farm, and come
rocketing out. Through the swamp and fog (or flame and
fire, or ice and snow; can't remember) I gotta go where
you are. "Chloe." Done by Spike Jones, a sendup, clanging
with tubas and cowbells, aeons ago. Morag was becoming
an antique. Also, mind-wanderer. Mooner, Prin
had said.
"I'll tell her. Gord, I'm sorry."
She was, too. Also for Pique. The infinite capacity of
humans to wound one another without meaning or wanting
to.
An hour later, when it was nearly dark, Pique returned,
258 The Diviners
carrying an old coffee tin full of aromatic wild strawberries.

"Ma "
"Mm? Thanks for the strawberries."
"That's okay. Do you think I'm mean?"
"Not wantonly cruel, no. What's the alternative? To go
on with him and feel diminished or destroyed yourself?"
"Well, I wouldn't put it quite that dramatically," Pique
said.
Morag had perhaps been talking not about Pique but
about herself. She must not do that. No parallels. Dangerous.

"What do you plan on doing, honey?" she asked. "I
don't mean with Gord. I mean -"
"Yeh. You mean with my life. Do. Do. Always that. Do
I have to do anything? Don't worry. I'll get a job. And I
won't stay here forever - I'm not the millstone type. Ma I'm
sorry. I didn't mean it to sound like that."
"Christie used to say that sorry was a christly bloody
awful word, and I should never say it. I never quite managed
not to, though."
"Well, he wasn't right about everything, from what
you've told me. Sometimes a person feels like saying it.
It's when you don't feel like saying it, but say it anyhow,
that it seems pointless to me. I wish there was something I
wanted to do. I feel there must be, but I haven't discovered
it yet. Nothing I value that much. I value the songs - my
own as well. But I gotta earn a slight bit of bread as well.''
"Well, think of it when you feel stronger," Morag said.
having often used this advice (unsuccessfully) on herself.
Pique went up to her old room, where the window
overlooked the back meadow. Morag remained downstairs
for a long time, with the lights out, looking at the
river. What she felt, more than anything, was relief that
Pique was home. Alive.
The next morning, Royland came over with a pickerel.
"This here's for Pique's breakfast," Royland said.
Halls ofSion 259
"Saw her arrive yesterday, but thought I'd wait to come
over. She okay?"
"Yeh. More or less. Thanks a lot, Royland. Stay awhile.
She'll be up soon."
"I'm divining this afternoon - farm just the other side
of the Landing. Think she'd like to come along?"
"I'm sure she would. Remember how she used to go
along with you when she was a kid? It's always fascinated
her."
"Not half as much as it's fascinated you," he said.
True. The mystery which still drew her. What had
drawn him to divining? How had he come to try his hand?
"Royland - remember that time you said you'd been well,
a maverick? What did - not that it's any of my
business. Don't answer if you -"
Don't indeed, practically twisting his arm.
"I don't mind," he said. "I wasn't a drunk or a brawler,
if that's what you thought. More than one way of being a
maverick. I was a preacher."
"What? You? And what's so "
"Hold your horses. Let me finish. A preacher. Not the
college kind. One of your real ripsnortin' Bible-punchers."
"It doesn't sound like you."
"I thought," Royland continued, "that I had the Revealed
Word. God was talking to me, sure as hell, and
probably to no one else. At meetings I used to give 'em
real fire-and-brimstone. Strong men wept. I'm not kidding.
Must've been a godawful sight, eh? I never saw it. I
mean, I never saw it that way. Well, I was married, then.
You never knew I'd been married, did you? I'd married
young, just before the Call came upon me. Well, for all
them years I was death on every such thing as drink,
tobacco, dances, cards, lace curtains, any dress that
looked like anything but a gunny sack, and so on and so
forth. My wife led a life which was filled with nothing
pleasant in any way at all. I even quit making love with
her. I burned, yeh, but virtuously. I thought it was wasting
260 The Diviners
my powers if I - well, you know. She hated it all, but she
never stood up to me. If she tried, I brought her down like
a shot sparrow, with my speech and also with the back of
my hand. Yep. I thought it was a blow for the Lord."
"I can't credit it. I can't believe it."
"True, though. What happened was, she finally took off
and left. I couldn't believe she would. Thought she'd come
back. She never, though. Finally I went after her. She had
a cousin in Toronto, and I finally traced her through him.
Saw her. She was living in a terrible little dirty room,
alone. Worked as waitress in a cafe. I saw, soon as I laid
eyes on her, what I'd done. I begged her to come back
home, and I'd quit being a circuit rider - that's what us
Bible-punchers was known as, then. Said I'd go to work
on a farm, or like that. I wasn't sure I meant that part,
though. I thought maybe it would be enough just not to
yell at her, or not so much, anyway."
"Did she go back?"
"She said," Royland went on slowly, "that she wanted
to go and see her cousin and his wife, first, and she promised
she'd be right back to pack. Didn't see her again until
I set eyes on her in the morgue. Drowned herself. I guess
she couldn't put her hand to any easier way, that moment.
She was scared of me. Scared to come back. Scared not to
come back. Didn't believe I'd change any. And maybe 1
wouldn't have."
"Royland - oh my God, Royland, I'm sorry I asked."
"It's no matter. I don't generally speak of it. But I've
known you a long time now. Well, after that I went north
by myself. Stayed about five years in all. Did odd jobs,
lumber camps and that. Began to see - not all at once.
mind you, but gradually - that I'd been crazy as a coot.
before. Reasons for that, but too many to explain now. I
was brought up by an aunt who - well, it wasn't really her
fault, either. You don't know how it is for other people, or
how far back it all goes. Anyway, I found I could divine
wells, so I came back and settled here. Seemed better to
find water than to "
Halls of Sion 261
"Raise fire."
"That's it. Don't believe in hell now, and haven't for
some years. But maybe that's just a way of saying that if I
did believe in it, I know one man who'd be bound there for
sure."
"I imagine you've had yours."
"Oh yes," Royland said calmly. "There's no getting
away from that."
Pique clattered down the stairs. Rushed over to Royland
and hugged him.
"The Old Man of the River! Hi, Royland!"
"Good to have you home. Pique. Here's a pickerel for
your breakfast."
"You're great, Royland. Really great. Hey, you know
something? You made a big mistake in not getting married.
You should've had grandchildren. You'd make a fine
grandad. You know that?"
Please. Pique - no. How many times had Morag, over
the years, made similar jocular remarks?
But Royland could take it. He merely smiled. Maybe
you did reach a point in life, after all, when such chance
references no longer could break you into pieces. Roll on,
that day.
"Well, Pique," Royland said, "I always thought I was
kind of like that to you."
"You are," Pique said.
Late that afternoon, Morag looked out the window and
observed that the first of the swallow children had taken
off and was now perched or rather huddled in featherruffled
and uncertain fashion on a low branch of the elm.
She kept on looking. Innumerable swallows (parents,
aunts and uncles, cousins) veered in towards the nest and
veered off again, squeeping in high-pitched voices, obviously
saying This is how you fly, kids! It's easy! Try it -
you'll never be immobile again! The other four, one by
one, were lured out, finally, shakily, and landed beside
262 The Diviners
their courageous sibling on the elm bough. All five sat
there, looking dejected. Hey, Mabel, what happens now? Tomorrow they would all be flitting back and forth across
the river, skilled already.
/ look at the world anthropomorphically. Well, so
what? And even if I didn 't, they do learn quickly. Every
year, to see them take off is a marvel.
"Hey, Morag, can we come in?" Tom said.
Three of them - no, there were four people at the door.
"Why ask?" Morag said. "Since when couldn't you
come in here when you liked?"
Tom was getting taller. He was up a bit beyond AOkay's
waist. A-Okay opened the door, and Maudie, long
clean whiteblonde hair loose around her shoulders, glided
Thomas in.
A-Okay bumped into the edge of the oak table. He had
been looking elsewhere, at Tom, and at the other person, a
young man with dark straight hair to the shoulders. He was lean (thin? these kids were all thin these days; it was
their diet, or maybe their outlook) and was moustached
hugely but not unpleasantly, a rather hesitant look in
wary grey eyes.
A-Okay decided he had better don his specs, as always
when he'd inadvertently rammed a piece of the furniture.
A-Okay was somewhat like Clan McRaith, whose general
clumsiness always had a kind of strange gracefulness
about it.
"This is Clan," A-Okay said. "Clan Scranton. He's
from Calgary, or thereabouts. He's gonna stay with us
awhile."
Clan. Morag felt the blade turning inside the heart. Of
course, millions of men in this world must be named Daniel.
Still, she did not want this kid's name to be that.
"Hello," she said. "Sit down, won't you? Maudie,
Pique's off with Royland - he's doing John Fraser's new
well. They should be back soon. Stay for dinner?"
When Pique and Royland returned, Pique greeted the
Clan Smith as though they were her own, which they
Halls ofSion 263
were. After dinner Clan Scranton got out his guitar and
sang some of his songs. They were for individuals, people
with names, places of belonging. And they were, just as
much, for the Alberta hills and plains, which he had left
some years ago and to which he was determined not to
return, but loved them now with his painful words.
Pique sat very quietly. Then, as though now was the
right time, she got out her guitar.
"I've got maybe one or two of my own," she said, "but
I don't think I can sing them now. This isn't one of my
dad's songs, either. It's the one Louis Riel wrote in prison,
before he was hanged."
She sang in a low clear voice, the words in French, then
in English. The five verses, and then the last verse.
Mourir, s'il faut mourir,
Chacun meurt a son tour;
J'aim' mieux mourir en brave,
Faut tous mourir un your.
Dying, for it is necessary to die,
Everyone dies in his turn.
I long to die bravely
For all must die one day.
"Where did you learn it?" Morag asked. "From a
book," Pique said coldly. "I learned it from a book.
Somebody I know taught me to say the French. I only
know how to make the sounds. I don't know what they
mean."
Clan Scranton went over and sat on the floor beside her,
and took her hand.
When the others had gone, and Pique had gone up to bed,
Morag went to the record player and put on a song, turning
the sound very low. It was in Gaelic and the name of it
was "Morag of Dunvegin." She could not understand the
264 The Diviners
words, nor even distinguish between them, make any kind
of pattern of them. Just a lot of garbled sounds to her. Yet
she played the record often, as though if she listened to it
enough, she would finally pierce the barrier of that ancient
speech and have its meaning revealed to her. Clan
McRaith had laughed at her that time, when she had said,
naively, that she wished she knew Gaelic. He didn't have a
word of the Gaelic himself, or perhaps a few words here
and there, but nothing to speak of, nothing to speak with.
Why not take lessons, then, he had said. She hadn't, of
course. Too lazy. She would have liked to gain the speech
by magical means, no doubt. Yet it seemed a bad thing to
have lost a language. Talking to one or two old fishermen
in Crombruach, those years ago, she'd realized that. They
spoke a mellifluous English, carefully, as though translating
into it in their heads, and some of their remarks were
obscure to her, but they would never explain, or could
not.
Christie, telling the old tales in his only speech, English,
with hardly any trace of a Scots accent, and yet with
echoes in his voice that went back and back. Christie,
summoning up the ghosts of those who had never been
and yet would always be.
The lost languages, forever lurking somewhere inside
the ventricles of the hearts of those who had lost them.
Jules, with two languages lost, retaining only broken fragments
of both French and Cree, and yet speaking English
as though forever it must be a foreign tongue to him.
Brooke had spoken Hindi, as a child, but had forgotten
most of it. That must be different. It was not the language
of his ancestors. He regretted its loss for other reasons.
Memorybank Movie: Frictions "Have you been a good girl, love?" Brooke asks.
It has become his game, his jest, before going into her,
and indeed before permitting his arousal or hers. If she
protests the sentence, he will withdraw all of himself exHalls ofSion 265
cept his unspoken anger. She has to play, or be prepared
to face that coldness. Either way she feels afraid. Yet he
cannot help it, and she knows this. There can be no talk of
it, for it is, after all, only a joke.
She smiles, hoping this will be sufficient, without having
to use words in this service. And it provides enough.
Brooke, poised above her, lowers his long body upon
hers. Then she is angry and wants to shove him away,
wants no part of him. But her flesh responds to him, and
she rises to him, rises to his bait, and then everything is
all right.
And yet, afterwards, when Brooke is asleep beside her,
she cannot sleep, the body's spasm no longer being
enough to shut off the alarm-clock head more than momentarily.

Dr. and Mrs. B. Skelton now have a new and somewhat
jazzy apartment, in keeping with Brooke's appointment
as Head of Department. It is large, on the top floor of a
downtown block, and is furnished with Danish Modern,
long teak coffee tables, svelte things to sit on (you could
not call them sofas or chesterfields, both words having
unseemly old-fashioned connotations). On the cream-coloured
walls hang several fairly expensive contemporary
paintings, which Brooke says are good, even excellent.
Days, Morag writes. Then comes the day when, astonishingly,
the novel is completed. It has taken over three
years, and much rewriting. She feels emptied, deprived of
Lilac's company.
"Show it to me, why don't you?" Brooke says. "I might
be able to make one or two helpful suggestions."
"I will, Brooke. But there's something I want to discuss
with you first. Brooke, we're not broke any more. We've
been married eight years. I'm nearly twenty-eight."
"Oh. That again?"
She perceives at once her mistake. He cannot ever say
to her, finally, once and for all, that he cannot bear for her
to bear a child. He will never say that. But he cannot agree
266 The Diviners
to a child, either. She is, she now sees, forcing him into a
corner and has been doing so for some years. A corner out
of which the exit will be violence, not physical, but violence
all the same, to her and to himself.
Brooke rises and pours the last of the martini from the
silver jug.
"Does it seem like the kind of world, to you," he says,
"to bring children into?"
To that, there is no answer. None. No, it does not seem
like the kind of world, etcetera. But she wants children all
the same. Why? Something too primitive to be analyzed?
Something which needs to proclaim itself, against all
odds? Or only the selfishness of wanting someone born of
your flesh, someone related to you?
"I shouldn't have brought up the subject," Morag says.
"I guess you're right."
"Look, love, let's just see how things are in a year or so,
shall we?"
"Yes."
She knows she will not mention the subject again.
Finally she shows Spear of Innocence to Brooke. Reluctantly. He stays up until nearly midnight, reading it.
"Well," he says at last, carefully, "it seems to me that
the novel suffers from having a protagonist who is nonverbal,
that is, she talks a lot, but she can't communicate
very well."
"I know that. I know. That was part of the problem."
"I also wonder," Brooke says, flicking pages, "if the
main character - Lilac - expresses anything which we
haven't known before?"
No. She doesn't. But she says it. That is what is different.

"I see what you mean," Morag says. "I'll think about
it."
The next day she parcels up the mass of paper and
sends it, submits it, to a publisher. She does not tell
Brooke.
Halls ofSion 267
Memorybank Movie: Prin Christie's telegram reads: Prin very bad could you come
yours Christie.
Morag has always known, of course, that this would
happen one day, but the time seemed faroff. Now it is time
present.
"Brooke - I don't want to go. That's the awful thing.
But I must."
"Hush, little one," he says, holding her tightly. "You'll
soon be back."
All the way on the train to Winnipeg, and then on the ' bus to Manawaka, Morag tries to focus on the novel, but
it is finished and away from her, and there is no longer any
reason for Lilac Stonehouse to talk inside Morag's head.
She does not want to think of Prin, but can think of
nothing else.
Christie meets her at the bus station, and they walk
back to the house on Hill Street, in the dusk, the streetlights
not yet turned on. Early summer, and the air smells
of dust and the sweetly overpowering perfume of the lilacs
that grow in mauve and purple grapelike bunches on the
bushes with their heart-shaped leaves, in the front yards
even of the small poor houses this side of town.
"Christie - how is she?"
"Not long for this world, Morag," Christie says abruptly,
and the euphemism sounds odd, coming from him.
"Is she at home?" Morag is praying she is not.
"She's been in the hospital this past month," Christie
says. "She's been pretty low for some time now. Even
before she went in."
Christie, coping with her alone. Has Eva continued
coming in on Saturdays? How would Morag know, who
writes to Christie perhaps once in three months?
Had it been wrong to want to get away? No, not wrong
to want to get away, to make her getaway. It was the other
thing that was wrong, the turning away, turning her back
on the both of them. The both of them. As soon as she got
268 The Diviners
back to Manawaka, she even began thinking in the old
phraseology. Extraneous the, yet somehow giving more
existence, more recognition to them than correct speech
could have. Escapist. Wordsmith, forging screens.
"You're looking smart, Morag," Christie says.
She is dressed in a fairly pricey cotton dress and light
blue summer coat, her hair short and swept back and
upwards. At this moment she hates it all, this external self
who is at such variance with whatever or whoever remains
inside the glossy painted shell. If anything remains. Her
remains.
Christie is looking terrible. He is, she realizes, sixtyfour.
He has looked old for as long as she can remember.
Now he looks as ancient as a fossil or the dried and
shrunken skin of some desert lizard. His once-blue eyes
seem to have retreated rheumily into their sockets, and
the skin of his face is brown-brittle, clinging close to his
bones as though no flesh came between, mummified as a
pharaoh.
"Well, here we are," Christie says.
The house stinks. No other word for it. It has not been
cleaned in some time, obviously. The odours seem to be:
human sweat, urine from unemptied chamber pots, clinging
smell of boiled cabbage, breadmould, and dirt. How
could it be otherwise? Christie has done what he could.
The house seems smaller than she has remembered it.
"When can I see her, Christie?"
"In the morning."
Morag goes up to her old room. Cannot sleep. The tiny
room is huge with ghosts. Ghosts of people and of tales.
Morag, a child, a girl, a young woman. Christie ranting
the old ironic battle cry. Clowny Macpherson. Piper
Gunn who led his people to bravery. Gunner Gunn, who
once, unbelievably, had life as Colin Gunn, her father.
Rider Tonnerre, the talesman, the talisman. They are alF here tonight. Who has been real and who imagined? All
have been both, it seems.
Prin. Prin, long ago combing and plaiting Morag's hair.
Halls ofSion 269
Prin, sitting at the back of the church, going in just before
service began, not to be noticed, once she'd grown so
gross.
"Christie - they can't do anything for her, there?" Morag
asks next morning.
"No. Not a christly thing."
"Would she rather be home then? Now that I'm here."
"She'd rather it," Christie says in a low voice. "She
couldn't say so. But I know. It's not right for you, though,
Morag. It's not a pretty sight."
"Oh Christie - I've enough to answer for. Let's just let
her come home, then."
The doctor, however, is adamant.
"I can't prevent you from discharging her against my
advice, Mrs. Skelton," he says. "But she'd never stand the
move."
"She's going to die anyway."
The doctor frowns massively. It is not Dr. Cates. It is a
younger man, a stranger, a newcomer. Probably been here
for ten years. Newcomer. Good Lord.
"We needn't hasten it," he says ethically.
Why not? Why not? But faced with this medical sanctity,
Morag finds she cannot argue. And Christie's fighting
days are over.
Morag goes alone to see Prin. A public ward, naturally,
but the white cubicle-curtains are drawn around Prin's
bed. At the first sight of Prin, Morag feels only relief that
the doctor has had his way. Impossible, impossible to
have Prin home. And then the reverse reaction. Who
wouldn't prefer to die at home?
Prin lies in the hospital bed which is really too narrow.
The white bedclothing rises over her, over her flaccid
hugeness, her quietness. Her body is mercifully hidden by
the pre-shroud around her. Her hair is thinner even than
Christie's now, wisps and straggling feathers of the almost-bald
headskin, reminiscent (unbearably) of the dead
half-bald baby birds fallen from nests in the spring of the
year. Pnn's face is as blank as a sheet of white paper upon
270 The Diviners
which nothing will ever now be written. Her eyes are open
and unseeing.
"Prin -"
Morag touches the untouchable face, the hands. No
response.
"I don't think Mrs. Logan knows you, dear," the entering
nurse busily says.
Morag says nothing. She sits for a while, her hand upon
Prin's white unmoving lard-carved hand. Then she goes
away.
In her sleep, as the saying goes, Prin dies two days later.
She has been in her sleep for years now, but whether there
were dreams or nightmares in there, no one can know.
Now at least there will be darkness. She has died a month
before her fifty-ninth birthday.
Morag and Christie hold their wake in the kitchen at
home, by the thin light of the one exposed bulb, the bottle
of scotch on the table between them.
"She was not what you'd call an old woman, Morag."
"I know that, Christie."
"The strange christly thing about it," Christie says, "is
that she always seemed old, from the moment I first laid
eyes upon her, and yet she always seemed young. I don't
mean happy young, you see."
"I know. Yes."
"I mean, more, young like a young child who's yet to
learn much speech. I think they had told her - her father,
and maybe them teachers in the few years of schooling
she'd had - they'd made her believe she was kind of simple
in the head. Maybe she was. I never figured it out, quite."
"Maybe she was simple in another way," Morag says.
"Another meaning of the word."
Even eight or nine years ago, when she saw him last,
Christie would have grasped this simple thought, this
thought about simplicity. Not now. He looks at her from
shrouded eyes, knowing he has not understood her
meaning.
"I wouldn't know about that," he says, pouring more
Halls ofSion 271
scotch for them both, "but I seen the way she was. It's a
bloody christly terrible life sometimes."
Morag prays that he will not now go into the old act.
He does not. He sits silent and shrunken, diminished. And
then she wishes for the lost wildness, which would not, she
sees now, embarrass her any longer.
"I was a hard man for her to live with," Christie says.
"I had a darkness in me. She could never see rhyme nor
reason for it, as why should she?"
"Her life would've been a lot worse without you, Christie."
"That," Christie says, "we don't know."
"/know."
"Do you, then?" A momentary blue light in his eyes.
"Well, you're young. You know a whole lot you won't
know later on."
Morag laughs. How weird to laugh, here and now. But
it seems right. They are both getting fairly drunk.
"Christie - remember those stories you used to tell me
when I was a kid?"
Silence.
"I remember the telling of them to you," Christie says
at last, very quietly, "but I don't recall no more what it
exactly was I was telling, then."
Morag wants now to tell him, to tell him all the tales.
But cannot. She can do nothing at all, except to reach her
hand across the table and touch Christie's leathered lizardskin
hand.
Prin's funeral is a church funeral. Prin went to church for
all those years, and liked the hymns, so it is only right and
proper. Christie and Morag are agreed upon this. Morag
tells the minister that they will not be requiring any short
inspirational talk - just the service for the dead, and one
hymn.
"Who will attend, and sing?" the young minister enquires
pathetically.
"Could you not
"It's not usually
He breaks off, ui
known citizen.
"If you could ju
angrily.
"Yes, I can do tl
Oh lucky wife.
In fact, there ai
mother, and Eva,
kids, Eva looking
ladies, whom Mor.
neral attenders, pf
grateful.
"Hi, Morag." &
How to say any
and apologetically
"Eva - thanks. I
"It wasn't that n
to Vern and me."
Sure. Prin gave t
gave Morag her on
"Where's Vern t
"Oh, he's away
well. We had a i
changed his name.'
"What?"
Vernon Winkler
days, being beaten
himself probably t
rope.
"He calls himsel
"Sounds nice, don'
Eva, having dra)
must have seemed
that Vern has madi
sively left - more sc
year ago last Chrisi
Halls of Sion 273
"Yeh. Very nice."
They part, Eva and Morag, drifting apart into the
church.
Service for the Burial of the Dead. The old words.
We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we
can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath
taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.
Hear my prayer, 0 Lord, and give ear unto my cry; hold
not thy peace at my tears.
For I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my
fathers were.
A sojourner, as all my fathers were. Then the hymn. The
hymn Prin used to like the best. They stood, all eleven, in
the almost-empty church.
Jerusalem the golden
With milk and honey blest The
singing is embarrassed, sparse. The organ pumps
out the tune, to cover the paucity of voices. Christie
stands, but silently. Morag sings, feeling crazily that it is
all she can do for Prin now.
They stand, those halls of Sion,
All jubilant with song,
And bright with many an angel,
And all the martyr throng;
The Prince is ever in them,
The daylight is serene,
The pastures of the blessed
Are decked in glorious sheen.
Those halls of Sion. The Prince is ever in them. What
had Morag expected, those years ago, marrying Brooke?
Those selfsame halls?
And now here, in this place, the woman who brought
274 The Diviners
Morag up is lying dead, and Morag's mind, he
has left Prin. Help me. God; I'm frightened of
The service over, the coffin is carried into i
hearse. Niall Cameron stands beside the new
not the same as the one down in the valley, <
ago.
Niall is a great deal older. The lines on hi;
extended like shorthand scribblings, perhaps
phered only by someone who knows that partic
hand. His hands shake on the hearse doors, t
not evasive, only absent. She wants to ask hi
members that day, and the fire. But cannot. S
feeling that it would be too much, that he cou
it. Niall Cameron, who undertakes the strang
bility for the town's dead, seems to bear now t
his calling upon him. His calling calls. He has li
the dead a long time. Will this make it easier
the reverse, to die among the living?
"Mr. Cameron -"
"Morag Gunn."
"Yes."
"I never knew much about her, you know
wife."
"Most didn't. It's - it can't be helped."
"Lachlari MacLachlan died a year or so ;
Cameron says. "You used to work for hi
Banner."
"I didn't know he'd died."
"He chose it," Niall Cameron says. Then,
pulling himself together for the sake of someor
as his own children, "Well, he never did get ov<
death, I suppose."
Lachlan's son, who died at Dieppe. Jules
Amazingly.
Christie stands beside Morag.
"If I'd had it up to me -" Christie is trying t
"What?"
Halls ofSion 275
"I would have buried her my own self." Christie mumbles,
but strongly. "In the Nuisance Grounds."
Morag takes the old man's arm as they prepare to go to
the graveyard.
Memorybank Movie: The Tower Now, and somewhat oddly, considering the awfulness of
the house on Hill Street, the apartment in Toronto seems
more than ever like a desert island, or perhaps a cave, a
well-lighted and beautifully appointed cave, but a cave
just the same. Could one say cave if there were windows?
Morag looks out the long high-up windows and sees the
cars hurtling along Avenue Road, all apparently bent on
destroying one another, or, more particularly, united in
their desire to wipe out that anachronistic species, the
pedestrians. From this height they look scarcely less lethal
than they do at earthlevel. She hates and fears them, and
refuses to learn to drive.
She busies herself with this and that - goes out windowshopping,
or to an art gallery or the museum. Seeing
nothing. She phones friends, women who also have nothing
to do and who are not friends anyway. Her own fault.
Brooke says she does not make an effort to make friends,
and this is true. She does not. Her lifeline depends on
letters from and to Ella in Halifax. Morag has not heard
yet from the publishers. The waiting is intolerable. Ella
writes reassuring letters, counselling patience and cursing
publishers.
Maybe tower would be a better word for the apartment.
Crestwood Towers is in fact the name it bears on the flossy
brass plate outside the thick plateglass doors. Crestwood.
Crest of what? And not a wood in sight. Who thinks up
these names? A tower it certainly is, though. The lonely
tower. Self-dramatization. Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down
your long hair. Your long straight black hair, not golden
waves. Who the hell could let their hair down here? Even
the little worshipful group of Honours English students
276 The Diviners
(Thurs., 8:00 p.m.) argue in well-modulated grammatical
voices, devoid of epithets, bland as tapioca pudding.
Since Prin's death, and the last sight of Christie, Morag
has experienced increasingly the mad and potentially
releasing desire to speak sometimes as Christie used to
speak, the loony oratory, salt-beefed with oaths, the
stringy lean oaths with some protein in them, the Protean
oaths upon which she was reared. But of course
does no such thing.
Morag stops going to the hairdresser and lets her hair
grow. How could you ever let your hair down if there
wasn't anything there to let down? This is, she suspects, a
bizarre concept.
"We're going to the Morgans' tomorrow," Brooke says.
"I expect you'll be getting your hair done."
"No," Morag says carefully. "I thought I'd let it grow
out. I can't go to the hairdresser any more, Brooke."
"For God's sake, why not? Are you allergic to whatever
it is they put on your hair? Why don't you go the doctor?"
"Yeh. I'm allergic. But not physically."
"Morag, will you kindly enlighten me? Your hair - not
to put too fine a point upon it - looks a mess."
"I'll brush it back and hold it with combs until it's
longer. It won't look that bad. I don't like those places,
Brooke. I never have. You don't know what it's like - all
these mauve-smocked little perfumed dollies floating
around, making me feel fantastically inadequate, and yet 1
don't agree with the way they turn me out. I don't want to
look like that. I don't know. I can't explain."
But all he really wants is that his wife should look
decent, a credit to him. Is this asking too much? Sometimes
she thinks Yes, sometimes No.
Brooke rises from the Danish Modern sittingplace, and
comes over to where she is standing. Puts an arm around
her shoulder, and she turns to him and holds him, holds
onto him tightly, in need.
"Now wait a minute," he says gently. "I think you're
getting all worked up over nothing, little one."
Halls ofSion 277
Morag withdraws. He looks at her in - what? Bewilderment?
Annoyance? Surprise?
"For God's sake, what is it now?" he asks, or states.
What indeed? Perfidious Morag, acting like a child. She
sees this, and is trapped by it.
"Listen, Brooke - please don't misunderstand me. Only
- I wish you wouldn't call me that."
"Call you what, for heaven's sake? What've I said
wrong nowl"
"Little one. Brooke, I am twenty-eight years old, and I
am five feet eight inches tall, which has always seemed too
bloody christly tall to me but there it is, and by judas
priest and all the sodden saints in fucking Beulah Land, I
am stuck with it and I do not mind like I did once, in fact
the goddamn reverse if you really want to know, for I've
gone against it long enough, and I'm no actress at heart,
then, and that's the everlasting christly truth of it."
"You," Brooke says, "are hysterical. Are you due to
menstruate?"
Morag stands absolutely silent. I do not know the sound
of my own voice. Not yet, anyhow.
"No," Morag says. "That was, of course, an ill-considered
outburst, and it owes more to Christie's way of talking
than mine, I guess. But it was meant."
She is, she realizes, very very angry, and at the same
time doubtful about her right to be angry, at him or at the
composition of her own composite self.
"As I see it," Brooke says, "you really are - in some way
quite mysterious to me, Morag - rejecting affection. Don't
you realize that when I say little one, it's the affectionate
diminutive? You must see that much."
True. All true. How could anyone reply to that?
"I know," Morag says. "Look, I do know. But it's just
that, somehow, with the way I am, with the long past I've
had - because I have had a long past - for me, the term
isn't good. When I was a kid, I was never treated like a
kid, and that was both fortunate and unfortunate. I guess
my own parents must've treated me like a kid, but I don't
278 The Diviners
recall, except a few fragments and the fantasies
posed about them later on."
"It's too bad you had to go back to the town
time," Brooke says. "You had effectively forgotter
it's all risen up again, and it's only upsetting you,
Can't you simply put it from mind?"
"I never forgot any of it. It was always there."
"When you first came to me," Brooke says, '
you had no past. I liked that. It was as though e\
was starting for you, right then, that moment. Yoi
make me laugh - I don't mean at you, I mean v
Don't you remember? I don't, I suppose, laugh ea
had a lightness of heart that I loved - I really lovi
His terrible need. His terrible need for some<
could bring him light, lightness, release, relief. H<
you fight that? How could you withdraw from th
of the cave in which he lived almost always ak
what if remaining there meant to be chained fc
that image of yourself which he must have and wh
forever be distorted?
"Brooke - I remember. And I'm sorry. I think
you, without meaning to, right from the first."
"You didn't lie, love. You couldn't. Not you. ^
without guile. That was the reason I loved you."
"Brooke, I haven't been without guile since I
years old. I didn't think you'd care about me if
know, that's all. I mean, let you know about
darkness, that comes on sometimes."
Brooke goes and stands by the windows, looki:
at the traffic weaving its metallic violent ballet.
"Don't you think we are making too much of
Morag? I think you're exaggerating, if I may say s
- we've been married nine years. It's been all rigl
were bound to be some difficulties. Don't you tt
felt them, too? Don't you think I've held bad
times, coming home and finding you sitting thei
typewriter as though hypnotized, and no dinner
Well, that's trivial - what I really mean is, no we
Halls ofSion 279
sight. Don't you think I've ever felt attracted to other
women, to women who seemed mainly to care about connecting
warmly with a man?"
"Yes. Yes, I know. Sometimes I've wished you had "
"You don't wish that at all," Brooke says bitterly, his
face containing such pain and such ambiguity that she has
to look away.
"Brooke - just accept that I'm not the same as I was.
Or maybe I'm the same, but it scared me, before. Now I
can't "
"Can't what?"
"Can't bear not be taken seriously," Morag says, the
words sounding melodramatic to her ears, although true.
"Can't bear to be treated as a child."
Brooke looks at her. His very tall frame is rigid and
separate.
"Do I? Does the way in which we make love strike you
that way? Has that been anything except good?"
"It's been - you know it's been good."
But even there, the game these past years, rewards and
punishments. Have you been a good girl? She cannot
bring it up now. Because their coming together has been
fine so many times over the years that if she were never to
make it with a man, ever again, she couldn't depart this
life complaining.
"Well, then," Brooke is saying, "maybe you're simply
worrying needlessly."
"Yes. Maybe. I guess so. I'm sorry, Brooke."
"It's all right, love. Everything's all right. That visit to
Manawaka just upset you a bit, that's all. Now, I'm going
to make us both a very dry martini, and you'll have your
hair done tomorrow, and we will cease worrying about
things that don't matter, shall we?"
"All right, Brooke. Yes."
She wonders whether, if Brooke now suggested that she
should try to have his child, she would any longer agree.
Spear of Innocence comes back a
polite letter of rejection. Morag s
herself not to think.
After three months, the manus letter saying We do want to pubi
feel that certain parts . .. etceter,
Morag has not looked at the n
year. Looks at it now. Bloody h
remarks strike home as true; oft rages. But goes back inside the no
than anything, to bring Lilac's o
more being, into more relevance ^ This rewriting is a thousand mil
down. No half-lunatic sense of p
sessed by the thing. In fact, this i
out exhilaration.
Morag does not know what t
tance and then with editorial criti
like the Revealed Word but shor
individuals' opinions. She embarl
letters.
In Chapter Four, where you say L
informed person, unaware of the \
she is a totally uninformed person
and that is part of the point about
in Chapter Nine, I haven't given e
Paul's wife's responses - am not si but will see -
Morag realizes, with some sur
defend her own work. Also, it
discuss it, no holds barred, witi
connotations in the argument. C
completed does she see that it 1
muscles never before used, stiff ,
then later, filled with the knowle< self really is there.
"Brooke "
"Mm?"
nuns UJ ^tuti 26l
"Walton and Pierce have accepted Spear of Innocence. "
He stares at her, then smiles warmly.
"Well, that's marvellous, darling. That's absolutely
splendid. I didn't even know you'd sent it out."
"Are you glad, Brooke?"
Dumb question. What does she expect him to say?
"Of course I'm glad, idiot child. How could I be otherwise?
Do they want any changes made?"
"They suggested some things."
"I'll take a quick run through it, if you like," Brooke
says.
"Well, thanks, but that's pretty well settled, the
changes."
"I see. My reactions aren't any longer welcome to you."
"It's not that. It's - I know you know a lot about
novels. But I know something, as well. Different from
reading or teaching."
"With that insight, perhaps you'd like to take over my
English 450 course in the Contemporary Novel? I'm sure it
could be arranged."
Morag, standing in the diningroom doorway, feels a
spinning of blood inside her skull. She recalls having been
as angry as this as a child, but seldom since. It acts upon
her precipitously, like about six double scotches taken at a
gulp. She picks up the peacock-blue Italian glass bowl
from the centre of the diningroom table and heaves it
against the livingroom fireplace. Naturally, it shatters dramatically.

Total silence. Inside her head and stomach, sickness like
a hangover. Brooke stands beside the long windows- Very
very tall, absolutely straight, his face like the carved face
of the unknown soldier.
"You'd better clear that away," he says finally, in a
perfectly controlled voice. "I wouldn't advise you to do
that again, Morag. The burden of your complaint, these
past months, seems to be that I treat you like a child.
Might I suggest you stop acting like one?"
True. A
She can 1
chipped e\
up for this
"Brooh
"Just cl
in the stu<
dinner."
She swe
iently ring
some day;
mazeltov
"What
"The w
parcel froi
"Oh. 11
"Her hi
That nij
"Brook
"Listen.
"I won'
She stn
they make
seemed ar
now it see
assurance,
The dust
proper, pi
side hersel
the feeling
thing at all
about suet
The revi
lishers, an
whelmingi
herself to r
Halls of Sion 283
to the novel Morag wrote at all, and this is true even of
some of the favourable ones. So she cannot believe even
the few comments she would like to believe. A cross-section
shows, if nothing else, a bewildering diversity of
views.
"A first novel of some wit and perception, marred by the author's
too-obvious playing upon the fashionable theme of
homosexuality."
"Lilac is a winner."
"Miss Gunn obviously has it in for the Church."
"A tale of a primitive lumber town."
"The final scene in court gives an admirable picture
of man's misunderstanding of man."
"A dreary novel about - yawn - a goodhearted tart."
"A piquant and exciting novel about abortion."
"Lilac Stonehouse, with her nonchalant vulgarity, will live
on in the head for some time."
She has not, unfortunately, told Brooke, until the book
appears, that it is being published under the name of
Morag Gunn, not Morag Skelton. He looks at the dust
jacket, agreeing that it is pretty bad, then looks at her.
"Didn't you want to take the chance, Morag? Of putting
your married name on it?"
"Brooke - it wasn't that. It was something quite different.
It goes a long way back."
Or is he, perhaps, quite correct?
She knows now that she does not want to stay with
Brooke. Leaving him, however, remains unthinkable.
Uncertainty grows to panic proportions. She begins forgetting
ordinary things such as turning on the oven so the
dinner will be ready at the correct time. She stays out
longer in the afternoons, sometimes coming back to
awareness in some totally unknown area of the city, to
discover that she should have been home an hour ago.
284 The Diviners
The feeling of being separated from herself increase;
She is unable to speak of this feeling to anyone, not eve
to Ella. Her letters to Ella are cryptic, and, as she sees on
day, full of passages which are virtually meaningless t
anyone but herself.
How many people has she betrayed so far? Don't cow
- you might scare yourself too much. How many will thei
be before her life is over? Should you count yourse
among those, or only others?
She is walking along a street of flimsy board house;
boardinghouses. Rooms Weekly or Nightly, no curtair
on windows, a greyness over all. The day also is gre^ autumnal grey, or seems so until she comes out of herse
to some degree and notices that in fact the air is crisp blui Clear yellow leaves are being blown from the already sparse branches of the few thin trees that fringe the stree
and the sun has the warmth of Indian summer. One da
she will be dead and not able to see all this any more, an
now she is wasting whatever there is. How can she write
she goes blind inside?
She is filled with the profound conviction that she wi
not write anything more, anyway. Big deal. Keel over wit
sorrow, world. As if it would matter.
A man is walking out of one of the houses, and som< thing in his gait makes Morag slow her pace and look i him. Fairly tall, slightly gone to belly around the middh
dressed in denims and a blue flannel shirt, a wide bras;
buckled belt at his waist. Lank black hair, hawkish fe< tures, light brown skin. Lazarus Tonnerre. It cannot be, c
course, but it seems to be. Then Morag sees that it is nc
Lazarus.
"Skinner!"
She calls the old nickname without thinking. Juk
looks up, startled, frowning. Then he grins.
"Great God, it's Morag! How about that, eh?"
Again, without prior thought, knowing only how gla
she is to see him, Morag runs towards him and puts got
arms around his shoulders, holding him tightly, holdin
Halls ofSion 285
onto him. He gives a surprised laugh, then hugs her, also.
Only for a second. Then they look at each other.
"I never thought to see you in this part of the city,"
Jules says.
"You knew I lived in Toronto, though?"
"Yeh. Christie told me, last time I was in Manawaka,
back last spring."
"When did we last see each other, Jules?"
"Going on ten years, I guess. How you been?"
"Oh, not so bad, I guess. You?"
"Not so bad, neither. You want some coffee?"
They go to a small and shabby cafe where the walls are
papered with old Coca-Cola posters and the coffee is
served in thick white cups decorated with a dark green
line. Not unlike the Parthenon in Manawaka.
"You've got thinner," Jules observes, lighting cigarettes
for them both, and eyeing her carefully.
"You haven't."
"Nope," he says cheerfully. "I'm gettin' a beer belly."
"I thought when I first saw you that it was your dad."
His eyes narrow, and only then does she recall that he
always said he would never become like his father. Even
after he no longer hated and resented Lazarus.
"Lazarus died this past spring," Jules says.
"I didn't know. I'm sorry. How old -"
"Fifty-one," Jules says angrily. "Only fifty-one."
Not to be talked about, she sees. Or not yet.
"How long you been in Toronto, Jules?"
His face, still wary, relaxes a little.
"You still say Jewels. Don't worry. I got damn little
French myself. More than I used to, though. I lived in
Quebec, there, coupla years. I been here for about five
years or like that. I done okay. Wanna know how I make a
living these days?"
"Sure. How?"
"Singing. How about that, eh?"
"That's great. You always did have a good voice."
"How would you know?"
286 The Diviners
"I used to sit at the back of the room, too, in school,
and I heard you."
"Some memory you got there, Morag."
"What kind of singing?"
"Oh, country and western, mostly. Lotta them are crap.
I sing some I made up, too. Maybe they're crap as well,
but at least it's my own crap. None of it pays so good. I do
a coupla small clubs and some coffee-houses and that, and
travel around some. But it's better than working in a lousy
factory."
"Your own songs? What about?"
"What about? What a question. People here and there,
mostly, I guess. I'll sing one for you sometime, maybe.
What about you?"
"You knew I was married?"
"Yeh. You married a rich prof after all. I told you you
would, didn't I? Jesus, you sure wanted to go somewhere."
She had got what she wanted. Not, however, what she'd
bargained for. It's your bed, Morag. Lie on it.
"He's not what you'd call rich," Morag says, looking
away from Jules. "Not that I'd want him to be. That
doesn't matter a damn."
"Something else does, though, eh?"
She looks again into his face. His dark eyes are looking
at the expression in her own. What is he reading there?
"Yeh. Well, never mind that."
"You got kids?"
"No," Morag says. "No kids."
She does not realize, until she has spoken, how resentful
her voice is. Jules shrugs and does not pursue the
subject.
"Jules - comes back for dinner, will you? I gotta go and
get it ready now, and we've just begun talking."
He hesitates. Then, perhaps hearing some appeal in her
voice, he nods.
"Sure. Okay. Why not?"
At the apartment, he sits at the kitchen table while
Morag prepares dinner. She pours a scotch for both of
Halls ofSion 287
them, and drinks hers while she works. Then she sits
down, across the table from him, and refills their glasses.
"You play guitar, Jules?"
"Yeh. I picked it up, here and there, along the way. A
pal of mine plays his guitar along with me. Billy Joe, that
is. He's Ojibway. Comes from away to hell and gone,
northern Ontario. I been up there coupla times with him.
I liked it fine. Liked his family. They got nothing, though.
Except a lot of sick kids, last time I was there. Some died,
since."
He falls into silence, and Morag cannot ask him. Everything
he knows, everything he has seen, the films there in
his head - all unseen by her. It has not occurred to her
before to wonder how scornful he must feel about this
apartment, but she wonders now. Then he laughs and
comes back.
"I don't dress like this when I'm singing," he says. "I
wish to christ I could, but no go. You should see me. Oneman
circus. Satin shirt with a lotta beadwork, and sometimes
a phoney doeskin jacket with fringes and a lotta
plastic porcupine quills in patterns. That's what they
like."
"That's - bad."
"Oh, it's not so bad. It's a load of shit, but I don't
worry much as long as they let me do the sr'iging. It's
when they start joining in that makes me want to puke. If
they want a community singsong, let 'em have it, but not
with me. That's mostly the older people do that. Like to
go slumming, I guess. They wouldn't know a good song if
they heard one. They just get loaded and start thinking
they're Roy Rogers or something - for God's sake, who'd want to be? Christie said you were writing a book."
"Yeh. It's published. It's a novel."
"Can I see it?"
"Sure. You can have a copy, if you want one."
"I'd like that," Jules says.
She gives him the book, and he gets her to write her
name in it. She writes Morag Gunn. It seems strange to
288 The Diviners
write that surname, after so long. But it never occurs to
her to add Skelton.
Brooke is late. Morag and Jules have another scotch.
She reaches her hand across the table and puts it very
lightly on his hand. He does not move. He neither withdraws
nor responds. She does not know, herself, why she
has done this. She is not making a play. She wants only to
touch him, someone from a long long way back, someone
related to her in ways she cannot define and feels no need
of defining.
"I'm glad to see you. Skinner. Sometimes it's - I don't
know. I hate this city."
"Yeh. It's not much. You're not very happy, are you,
Morag?"
"No. Not very."
"Care to say?"
"Yes. But I don't think I can. Well, never mind that.
Prin died last summer. I was back then."
"That must've been only a few months after I was back.
I saw Christie, and he said his wife wasn't too good. I only
stayed long enough to get Lazarus put under the ground."
"What was - what did he die of?"
Jules doesn't reply for a while. Then he withdraws his
hand and picks up his glass, holds it up.
"This, partly, I guess," he says. "The doc said it was
pneumonia. My dad was alone down there, the past few
years. I don't guess he cared much. It was all the same to
him, whether he died or didn't die. He had a lotta troubles
in his life."
"Yes. I know."
He places the glass back on the table.
"Jesus, sometimes I don't give very goddamn much
about my own life," he says, a low angry voice, "but I sure
as hell care more about it because of him. That town never
knew one damn thing about him. We never starved, none
of us, although we came close to it at times. He'd never
turn anybody of his out, whatever they had done. Wild
horses wouldn't drag me back to live in that town."
Halls ofSion 289
"Me, too."
"Yeh, maybe. Well, at least the town gave Christie a
pension. The only thing they ever gave Lazarus, apart
from a bit of Relief money, was the odd night in the town
clink. You know something? Jacques, my youngest brother,
he wrote to say he'd heard the old man was sick. We
both went back, and by the time we got there Lazarus was
dead. I wanted to bury him in the valley, beside the shack,
but I couldn't. Not allowed. No, no, they said, you can't
just bury bodies anywhere. But they wouldn't let him be
buried in the town graveyard, neither."
"Why not? Why no/?"
"Well, he was supposed to be R.C., eh? So the Protestants
wouldn't have him in their section. The Catholics
wouldn't have him, neither. He hadn't been to Mass for
years, and he died without a priest. No go, they said."
"That's terrible."
"Yeh, well I guess I know why they really wouldn't have
him. His halfbreed bones spoiling their cemetery."
The Metis, once lords of the prairies. Now refused burial
space in their own land. Morag cannot say anything.
She has no right.
"I wasn't thinking so good, right about then," Jules
goes on. "I'd been away, you remember, when Piquette when
she died, there. Niall Cameron reminded me where
Piquette and her kids were buried."
"Where was that?"
"Metis churchyard, up Galloping Mountain way. I was
glad then that they'd refused Lazarus in the town cemetery.
I thought he'd be better, among the other ones. So
that's what we did. People up there helped us bury him.
The priest there wasn't too troubled. No headstones there.
Just wooden crosses, plain pine or whatever comes to
hand, and the weather greys them. I liked it up there."
The apartment door opens, and Brooke comes in.
"Morag?"
"Here."
Brooke stands in the kitchen doorway, looking at Jules.
290 The Diviners
"An old friend from Manawaka," Morag explains.
"Jules Tonnerre. He's going to stay for dinner."
Brooke nods to Jules but does not shake hands.
"I've got a devil of a headache," he says. "Where are
the aspirin?"
"In the bathroom cupboard."
A moment later, Brooke calls to her from the bathroom.
She goes. He is standing there with the aspirin
bottle in his hand and an unfathomable expression on his
face.
"Your past certainly is catching up with you," Brooke
says. "I suppose he tracked you down and is here in the
somewhat unlovely role of freeloader."
"Brooke! I met him by accident on the street. I asked
him back."
"Well, tonight won't be possible, I'm afraid. Charles
and Donna Pettigrew are coming over this evening. Had
you forgotten?"
"Yes. But so what?"
"It may not matter to you, but it matters to me. He
seems to have gone through a fair proportion of my
scotch."
"Your scotch!"
"Yes. My scotch. Anyway, I thought it was supposed to
be illegal to give liquor to Indians."
Morag stares at him. Then turns and walks out.
Jules is standing in the front hall, his hand on the doorknob.
He has, plainly, heard. He grins at her.
"So long, Morag."
The door closes behind him. Morag hesitates in the
hallway. Then she grabs her coat and handbag and follows
him.
"Merde! Morag, what d'you think you're doing? You
better go back."
They are walking rapidly down Avenue Road. She has,
by running, caught up with him.
"I'm not going back. Skinner, just let me talk to you for
a while."
Halls ofSion 291
"Hey, listen, never mind what he did, eh? It goes in one
ear and out the other, by me. Anyhow, it's my problem,
not yours. He's your problem. Go on back."
"I have got to talk to somebody, and you've known me
forever, and I am not about to go to the Salvation Army
or somewhere and "
He stops walking and puts his hands on her shoulders,
drawing her to a halt. She is, she discovers with chagrin,
crying. And cannot stop, probably will never stop. Jules
puts one arm around her, as though assisting along the
street someone who is maimed or crippled.
"Okay, okay," he says. "Come to my place and simmer
down. Do you think you're a bit drunk?"
"Three scotches," Morag says, "would not normally
have that effect. It's okay. I can walk."
Jules laughs.
"Shit, I know you can walk, outside. Can you walk,
inside?"
"No. Not right now. Don't take your arm away, then.
Please."
"You hate to ask anyone to prop you up sometimes,
eh?"
"Yes. Yes, I do. And yet that's what I suppose I was
asking of him, at the start."
Jules' room has a sink in one corner, one exposed ceiling
bulb, a single and unmade bed, a wooden chair, and a
floor covered with brown linoleum on which there are,
incongruously, patterns of red oriental poppies. There is
also a hotplate. He brews very strong tea and serves it to
her with three spoonfuls of brown sugar.
"It'll taste like molasses," he says, "but it's good for
what ails you. Drink up."
She drinks the nauseating liquid, and indeed begins to
feel somewhat better.
"Jules - I'm sorry. This isn't your trouble. You've got
your own. I should've stayed. I've known for a long time
something had to give, somewhere, but I was too scared to
do anything about it. I still am. But I've got to."
292 The Diviners
She is sitting on the bed, the tea mug in her hands. Jules
is tilting back on the precarious wooden chair.
"Lucky I had no work on tonight," he says. "You want
to talk, or what?"
"I guess 1 understand as much as I ever will," Morag
says, "what has happened. It's no one's fault. We needed
to play each other's game, and it wasn't all a game - a lot
of it was good. But I can't play that game any more,
because I'm not the same as I was. He taught me a lot,
Jules - that was real enough. But we were living each
other's fantasy, somehow, and if that sounds smartass "
"It sounds crazy," Jules says, "but go on."
"Ever hear that hymn, 'Jerusalem the Golden'?"
"I'm not much of a man for hymns."
"It was Prin's favourite. It was singing it at her funeral
that - well, I guess you sometimes see things suddenly, and
then you know you've known them a long time."
She rises and reaches for her coat.
"You going?" Jules says. "You only just got here."
"I should be getting "
"Should, for God's sake. Forget it. You don't want to
go. You want to go to bed with me."
"Yes. That's true. That once "
"No need to remind me," Jules says. "But I'm not that
speedy now, you'll be glad to know."
Very slowly. Everything is happening with no sense of
haste. When they are in bed together, Morag is surprised
at his gentleness, his pacing of himself according to her.
Unlike his urgent younger self. His body, too, is different
from the taut boy's body she remembers. He is broader
and more thickset now, and yet the hard stomach muscles
are still there under the beginnings of the belly fat which
he hates on himself. In her present state of mind, she
doesn't expect to be aroused, and does not even care if she
isn't, as though this joining is being done for other reasons,
some debt or answer to the past, some severing of
inner chains which have kept her bound and separated
from part of herself. She is, however, aroused quickly,
Halls ofSion 293
surprised at the intensity of her need to have him enter
her. She links her legs around his, and it is as though it is
again that first time. Then they both reach the place they
have been travelling towards, and she lies beside him,
spent and renewed.
Jules grins at her, and smooths her hair, combing it
with his fingers.
"You're okay," he says.
"You too."
They are quiet for a while.
"Jules," she says finally, "where all have you been, these
years?"
"All over the place. All over the country. I've done
harvesting, and I've done nothing. Once I punched a timeclock
in a factory till I felt punch-drunk and then I saw it
was that goddamn clock that was punching me. I've
worked in logging camps and like that. Picked a lotta
songs on the way."
"You could make a song out of what you've just said."
"Yeh. Tried to, coupla times, but it never came out
right. Some guys can make songs like that, out of what's
with them, but I can't. Don't know why. I made some for
Billy Joe, and even for some women, but not for me.
Maybe somebody will do it for me someday."
He laughs, mocking himself, but she senses that he half
means what he says.
"Did you ever marry yet, Jules?"
"Sure. Three times."
"That's a lot of divorces."
"Who needs divorces? I never meant marry by some
crazy kind of law. I meant the women I shacked up with
for some time - you know, not a one-night stand."
"You got kids?"
"Not as far as I know. I wouldn't say for sure."
Skinner Tonnerre, moving through the world like a
dandelion seed carried by the wind. Not such a bad way to
be, when you considered the alternatives.
"I can't stay in one place forever," he says. "I stay for a
294 Ths Diviners
while, then I want to move on. Women like to stay put.
But I can't. I just can't. Lazarus, he was like that, and yet
different. He would take off sometimes. But some crazy
thing kept bringing him back to that valley. All of us
brought him back, I guess, when we were young. After
that, I dunno."
"What I'm going to do," Morag says, "is, I'm taking
off."
"Yeh? Think you can?"
"I have to. It's complicated, but I have to."
"So you had to do this first, eh?" He puts a hand
between her legs and his fingers explore the triangle of
hair there.
"How so?"
"Easy," Jules says. "Magic. You were doing magic, to
get away. He was the only man in you before, eh?"
"Yes."
Jules rises and goes to a cupboard.
"Shit. Only one bottle of beer left. I knew it. That
goooamn Billy. Want some?"
"You have it. I'm not much on beer."
Jules pries the cap off the bottle on the edge of the
table, and drinks. Sitting naked on the tottery wooden
chair, looking at her.
"I'm the shaman, eh?" he says.
"I don't know," Morag says. "I never thought of it like
that. But I know that whatever I'm going to do next, or
wherever I go, it'll have to be on my own."
"You're right, there. Morag - there's something you
gotta tell me about. You never told me, away back then."
"No. I can't. Jules, I can't."
He walks very quietly over to her and takes her hair in
his hands. Morag's now-straight-black hair is not yet long
enough to be wrapped around her neck, but this is the
gesture.
"You will, though. You wouldn't, then. You will say, i!
you have to stay here a month to do it. You know what
Lazarus told me?"
Halls ofSion 295
"Yes. Nothing."
"That's it. Nothing."
He turns away from her.
"I have got to have a drink," he says tiredly. "I'li be
right back."
He dresses and goes out. In his absence she puts on her
own clothes. It never occurs to her to leave while he is
gone. He must have known it wouldn't. He returns in half
an hour with two bottles of cheap wine. Pours some into
two glasses.
"All right. Tell me now, Morag."
"I don't want to. I can't." But she knows she will have
to.
"Just tell me. Tell me how my sister died. I have to
know."
Morag gets up from the bed abruptly. Goes to the sink
and vomits. Jules, unmoving, waits.
"Lachlan sent me down there," she says finally. "He
didn't know what it would be like."
"Go on."
"Well, I went down to the valley, and there weren't
many there. Niall Cameron was there. The Mounties had
gone. Your two young brothers were standing at the side,
sort of huddled together. Piquette had been home alone
with her kids when it happened. It was the stove - it
must've been a wreck of a stove."
"It was. Lazarus knew. But he was always careful with
it, even when he got drunk. Was Piquette "
"It was said so, afterwards, that she'd been on the
home-brew."
Jules laughs bitterly.
"It would be said. Well, I guess it was likely true. She
had a lot to want to forget about. Her man, so-called,
picked her up when it suited him and threw her away
when that suited him. She meant no more to him, that's
for sure, than a dog you chloroform if it gets to be a
nuisance. What was the shack like?"
"Burned to the ground. Still smoking, parts of it steam296 The Diviners
ing. The fire wagon had been there but it was too late.
Lazarus was "
"Say it."
"He was standing there, by himself, beside the - beside
what was left of the shack. I guess I've never seen any
person look that much alone. Then he said - he said he
was going in alone. He said They 're mine, there, them."
Jules puts his head down on his outstretched arms, on
the table. He is extremely still.
"He didn't go in by himself, though, Jules. As you
know, Niall went in with him. One man couldn't carry out
the - even if two of them were children."
Jules raises his head.
"When they came out - did you see "
She is shaking and cannot stop. It is not her right, but
she cannot help it.
"No. They - Niall and your dad - they took a stretcher
in, and it was covered when they came out - a blanket or
something, covered the "
"Okay," Jules says steadily. "What else?"
"It was the coldest part of the winter," Morag says, and now her own voice sounds oddly cold and meticulous, as
though the memory of that chill had numbed her. "The
air smelted of - of burnt wood. I remember thinking crazy
- but I thought BoisBrules."
"Shut up!" Jules cries out in some kind of pain which
cannot be touched by her.
Silence.
"Go on," he says finally.
Why does he have to inflict this upon himself? Why
can't he let it go? Perhaps he has to know before he can let
it go at all.
"I guess I vomited, as they brought the stretcher out. I
realized then that the air didn't only smell of smoke and
burnt wood. It smelled of - well, like roasted meat, and
for a minute I wondered what it was, and then -"
Jules lies across the table once more. Then slowly he
raises his head and looks at her.
Halls of Sion 297
"By Jesus, I hate you," he says in a low voice like
distant thunder. "I hate all of you. Every goddamn one."
Morag gets up and puts on her coat. There is nothing
more can be said. He watches her walk towards the door.
Then speaks, the cry wrenched up out of him.
"No. Wait awhile, eh?"
They hold to one another again, and make love or whatever
it is, throughout the deep and terrifying night.
In the morning, Morag wakens and at first does not know
where she is. Then she realizes but can scarcely believe it.
How could she stay away all night? Will Brooke have
phoned the police? Will he imagine her as dead? How
could she have done that to him?
"I should've phoned him, Jules. I should've -"
Jules rolls over in bed and stretches.
"Well, you didn't. So what now?"
"I have to go back and "
"Stay?"
"No.But "
"Tidy things up neat, eh?"
"Of course," she says angrily, and he laughs.
"It won't work, Morag. If you're going, go. Don't talk.
It won't do a thing."
"Maybe not. But it's "
"Your way."
"Yes. My way."
"Where'11 you go then? Christie's?"
Morag begins trembling again. Dressed now, and standing
beside the table, trembling as though with chill.
"Skinner - I can't."
"Where, then?"
"Further west. To the Coast."
"Chrissake, why?"
She doesn't know. Maybe it only ever occurs to prairie
people, when they light out, to go yet further west. This is
idiotic.
298 The Diviners
"I can't say. I don't know."
"You got any money?"
"Some. From the novel. Not much, but enough to get
there and get started on something. Any kind of job."
Jules rises and gets dressed.
"You can come back for a while, till you get yourself
together. If you want to."
"Yes. I will, then. And - thanks. Jules, I won't "
Hesitates.
"Won't what?" he says. "Wash my underpants? Iron
my jazzy satin shirts?"
"No. I mean, yes - I'll do that if you want - it's all the
same to me. I meant - I won't stay long."
To let him know she understands the terms on which his
offer is being made.
"Yeh, that's okay," he says. "I know."
Once out into the street and on the bus, the day strikes
like lightning into Morag's brain, and she no longer understands
what has been happening. At the door of the
apartment, she stops and steadies herself, leaning against
her corridor wall. She does not recall ever feeling this
frightened before. She takes out her key and opens the
door.
Brooke has not gone to work. He is sitting in his study.
His glasses are beside him on the desk, and both hands are
upon his eyes. He swings around at her entry, and she sees
that he has been crying.
Anything else. Rage. Fury. Contempt. Condemnation.
Reproach. She was prepared for any or all. But not for
this.
He stiffens, straightens, puts on his glasses.
"So you've come back," Brooke says.
It is an attempt to regain the old manner, but it does
not quite come off, because his voice is shaking. Appalled,
Morag stands in the doorway.
"Brooke - I'm sorry."
That's a bloody awful christly useless word. Proverbs of
C. Logan.
Halls of Sion 299
"I should've phoned," she goes on. "I should've "
"Oh, don't worry," Brooke says, and now he is gaining
back the control he needs. "I didn't imagine you had
thrown yourself under a bus. I knew where you were.
Perhaps not exactly, but at least who you were with."
Morag finds herself unable to explain or say anything.
Everything was clear, earlier this morning. Now it is not.
"I suppose you went to bed with him," Brooke says.
"Yes."
Brooke looks at her for what seems hours and is in fact
about three seconds. And she is, once again, totally unprepared
for the cry which comes from his throat, an anguish
she has never heard from him except in his crying of that
one name in his sleep.
"Why, Morag? Are you so determined to destroy me?"
This is all the more terrible because she knows the pain
is real and yet there is something melodramatic, to her
ears, in what he is saying.
"Brooke - listen. I don't want to damage you. I honestly
don't think I do, but I can't be sure. I don't suppose you
want to damage me, either."
"Have I ever?" he says. "Have I ever wanted to damage you? Never. Never. Never."
Add two more nevers and it might be Lear at the death
of Cordelia. Bitch, to think this way, now. Yes. But.
"Brooke. I can't explain. I get mixed up when I try,
and then I feel I must be entirely in the wrong. But all I
know is - I have to go. I can't stay."
"I could understand it better if you could just give me
one reason for what you've done."
"What do you mean, exactly, what I've done?"
"How do you think I feel, Morag, knowing you've been
with another man?"
She is shocked and awed by his pain. At the same time,
she sees for the first time that he has believed he owns her.
"Brooke, I'm sorry. Not for what happened last night.
I'm sorry that neither of us were different. But Brooke -
you've put yourself inside women other than me."
300 The Diviners
"Not since we married," Brooke says, "unless you want
to drag up that one time when we were in Nova Scotia,
that girl on old Kenton's trawler, his niece or something.
But once she'd hauled me into her bunk, I couldn't."
Morag stares at him. Then laughs. He looks at her as
though she has suddenly become demented.
"I never knew," Morag says. "I didn't go along on that
jaunt, as you recall. You mean to say it doesn't count cause
you didn't come?"
He takes a step towards her, and for an instant she is
afraid again. Then he stops himself.
"You are a bitch, aren't you?" he says.
She feels exhaustion as never before. Words have lost
meaning.
"Brooke. I'm withdrawing the money I earned from the
novel, then you can have the account changed from a joint
one to yours. I'm going to Vancouver. I'll do anything you
want to do about a divorce, whatever it is that people have
to do. And I'm sorry. But I just have to take off by myself."

"I suppose your boyfriend isn't reliable enough to provide
a living?"
"He is not my - as you repulsively put it - boyfriend."
"No? What then?"
"It doesn't matter. Brooke - I don't know what to say,
except that it was fine with us for quite a while. I owe you
a lot, and I know it. And "
And nothing. Quit talking. Babble babble. He wants to
quit talking, too. He looks at her from his solitary confinement,
but says nothing. Then he turns away. Sits
down at his desk and begins marking essays.
Morag packs one suitcase and goes.
Jules is reclining on the bed with a bottle of beer.
"Hi," he says. "Was it bad?"
"Yes. Pretty bad."
Halls ofSion 301
"Want a beer? It's all we have. Nothing stronger, I'm
sorry to say."
She takes the bottle he offers her, and sits on the bed
beside him, shivering.
"Don't think about it,"Jules says. "Look, I didn't say
before, but you don't want to get pregnant, do you? Because
"
"Would you mind very much if I didn't do anything to
try not to?"
Jules looks at her, then laughs.
"Jesus. You're a crazy woman. Do you have to ask
permission? I don't mind, no. Only "
"It's all right. I wouldn't claim support or anything."
"Well, you probably wouldn't stand much of a chance
of getting it, from me," Jules says. "It's all I can do to
keep myself going, right now. You still plan on going to
Vancouver?"
"Yes. If I can just get myself pulled together first "
"Stay as long as you need to. But not too long, or it'll
turn out bad. As I ought to know. Funny thing, Morag. I
was gonna sing some of the songs to you. But I got a
feeling I won't, not now. Maybe sometime. But this
doesn't feel like the time."
"Why not?" she asks.
"I don't guess you'd hear them, really," Jules says.
Morag stays with him for just over three weeks. They
speak little, and make love not at nights when he comes
home late, but in the mornings, late mornings, when he
wakens. He comes home bleak, usually. He hates most of
the places where he sings. Only in one, a small coffeebar
which pays hardly anything, does the young audience actually
listen. The others are all of the cheap nightclub or
roadhouse variety, middle-aged middle-class men out
with hired women, painting, as they imagine, the town
red, and deaf-drunk. He hates giving his songs there, but
it is better than not singing at all. Days, when he and Billy
Joe practise and work out new arrangements, they do so
in Billy's room, one floor down. Morag heai
twanging of the two guitars and Jules' rough
but she cannot make out the words. Sometime
to go down and listen, but she senses that Ju
This isn't the time. She wouldn't really hear. I
taken by profound lethargy, some days, am much as fourteen hours. Other days, she rus
the city, making her preparations for departur
Billy Joe brings Jules home one night, Jule
walk, Billy dragging him. Billy Joe is short
featured, but must be tough-muscled to haul i who is about twice his size and weight.
"What went wrong?" Morag asks.
"He was singin', there," Billy Joe says, "th,
about his grandfather, old Jules. At first they
listen. Then they laughed, some. Then they st;
that they wanted him to sing stuff like 'Roll c
rel.' So he gets mad and leaves and goes drinki
leave the guitars there. Knew he'd end up sma;
guess maybe I better stay up here tonight, M< he wakes up, he's gonna be crazy. He won
awake and he'll still be drunk."
When Jules seemingly wakes, after a few he
less imitation sleep, he is a man fighting everyt
ever found necessary to fight. A sleepwaiki fighter. He is in the valley again, and Lazar
fighting and not fighting. And the fire. And th
beaches where the fireshot forever kills the sam
and over. And the satin shirts of now.
"Take off this shit shirt, willya? Look, lemm
yeh? Like this this this. Know how she diec roasted like beef. She smelled like the roast b< there, on the Sundays - Jesus Jesus Jesus "
"What do we do with him?" Morag says,
Billy Joe, who is at this moment wrestling
wrestling with steadiness and apparently no fe
Billy Joe feel fear? Maybe. Maybe he knows
beyond fear.
Halls ofSion 303
"Shut up and stay outa the way," Billy Joe says.
And finally Jules subsides into unconsciousness again.
In the morning, Jules is unspeaking, hungover. Finally,
after potions of tea, he clears his throat. Billy has gone
back downstairs.
"Hey. Morag. Was I bad?"
"Yeh. Not so good. Billy stayed. He was good with
you."
"He's my friend. He should be good with me. He
oughta know how, after this time."
"Your friends should have to wrestle with you?"
"Sometimes. You don't think I've ever wrestled with
him?"
"I guess so. I'm off today, Jules. Not because of last
night. Just because I'm ready to go, now."
"Yeh? God, I feel awful. Want me to come with you to
the station?"
"Oh for Christ's sake, in the shape you're in? Go back to
bed. I can manage. I'm travelling light. I'll write to you."
"Well, I probably won't to you."
"No, you were never much of a letter writer. Jules thanks."

"For nothing."
"So long, then."
"So long, Morag. Look after yourself."
She has five hundred dollars and a one-way ticket to Vancouver.
Clunk-a-clunk-clunk.
Clunk-a-clunk-clunk. The train
wheels. Once again, going into the Everywhere, where
anything may happen. She no longer believes in the
Everything out there. But part of her still believes.
Morag goes into the train John. Vomits. Cleans up tidily
after herself. When upset or too tense, her digestion is the
the first thing to go. Her stomach, obviously, not her
heart, is the dwellingplace of her emotions. How humiliating.
Unless, of course, she is pregnant, which is hardly
304 The Diviners
likely after a couple of weeks. What if she is, though? How
could she have been so unbalanced as actually to try to
be? How would she earn a living? She hadn't thought of
that at the time, but does so, now. Fear. Panic. Where is
Brooke?
Brooke's pain. His damage towards her. Hers towards
him. Their voices a million miles apart. Their first coming
together, and how good it had been.
The train clonks on and on. Through the prairies. She
looks out at the flat lands, which from the train window
could not ever tell you anything about what they are. The
grain elevators, like stark strange towers. The small bluffs
of scrub oak and poplar. In Ontario, bluff means something
else - a ravine, a small precipice? She's never really
understood that other meaning; her own is so clear. A
gathering of trees, not the great hardwoods of Down East,
or forests of the North, but thin tough-fibred trees that
could survive on open grassland, that could live against
the wind and the winter here. That was a kind of tree
worth having; that was a determined kind of tree, all right.
The crocuses used to grow out of the snow. You would
find them in pastures, the black-pitted dying snow still
there, and the crocuses already growing, their greengrey
featherstems, and the petals a pale greymauve. People
who'd never lived hereabouts always imagined it was dull,
bleak, hundreds of miles of nothing. They didn't know.
They didn't know the renewal that came out of the dead
cold.
She could have stopped off to see Christie. But has not
done so.
There are many other passengers on this train, and
Morag sees none of them. This in itself frightens her, but
she cannot lessen it or take any lesson from it right now.
What will she do when she gets where she's going?
The train moves west.
PART FOUR
Rites of Passage
Eight
morag walked through the yellowing August
grass and down to the river. On the opposite bank,
upriver a little from A-Okay's place, the light-leafed willows
and tall solid maples were like ancestors, carrying
within themselves the land's past. The wind skimmed
northward along the water, and the deep currents drew
the river south. This was what Morag looked at every day,
the river flowing both ways, and yet it never lost its ancient
power for her, and it never ceased to be new.
Pique and Clan were not up yet. These kids reversed the
order of life, staying up all night and sleeping most of the
day. Order. For heaven's sake. It flowed in Morag's veins,
despise it though she might. What possible differences did
it make if the kids wanted to turn the days around? They
had both worked for a month in McConnell's Landing, at
nothing-jobs, while Clan was still at A-Okay and Maudie's
place. Was it Morag's concern if they decided they had
enough financial reserves between them to quit work for a
while, until the bread ran out, as they put it, because it
was more important to get to know one another? They
paid for their board; they shared the work of the house
with her - in fact, they did more than their share. Nary a
dish had Morag washed since Pique and Clan took up
residence in the large front bedroom.
So why complain? They're pulling their weight. You
307
308 The Diviners
said they could move in here together. They didn 't take the
place by siege.
It was, of course, perfectly obvious what the problem
really was. Not the kids' late rising, as Morag fairly often
(and ignominiously) pretended to herself, thus justifying
her early morning slamming of doors, loud stomping
about in the kitchen, full-blast radio (preferably some
loudmouth trumpeting the news), and general clashing of
saucepans like clutches of cymbals. Cliches of symbols.
Royland came shuffling and crunching through the
sundried grass. Old Man River. The Shaman. Diviner.
Morag, always glad to see him, felt doubly glad now. He
would, of course, not tell her what to do. Not Royland's
way. But after a while she would find she knew. Royland
sat down beside her on the dock.
"Morning, Morag."
"Morning, Royland."
For a few minutes they both looked at the river and
listened to the slapping of the small waves against the
wooden posts of the dock.
"Well, what is it this time?" Royland said finally.
Morag laughed.
"How come you always know? Celtic second sight?"
"You're the Celt, not me, Morag. Well, a person
wouldn't have to be very smart to see that you're looking
grim as granite. Is it Pique and her man?"
"Yes."
"Well, look here now, Morag. There isn't a reason in
the world why the two of them gotta stay at your place, is
there? You have got to consider your own work, and that.
If they are interrupting it -"
"Royland, it's not that. Well, it is that, too, but the
reason for it isn't their fault. It's mine."
"Here we go with the guilt again," Royland said cheerily.
"I thought you'd got a bit better about that. What
terrible thing have you done now, eh?"
Can you tell him, Morag? I've got to tell someone, and it
Rites of Passage 309
is inconceivable that I should tell the Smiths, who would
be sorry for me.
"I," Morag said flatly, "have been reacting badly.
Mostly it's been okay. But then the tension mounts in me,
and I flip my lid over something trivial, like they're not up
by noon or they're not home for dinner at the dot of six. I
don't talk with them about this. Not me. I go around
slamming doors. Dishes get smashed. Yesterday, my only
Limoges cup and saucer bit the dust, not that I give a
damn about that. However, Royland, all this mishmash is
only an evasion."
"You don't say," Royland said mildly.
"You mean you knew? It's that obvious? Look, it isn't
that I don't want them to live together. I do want them to.
It seems right. And God knows it isn't that I care one way
or another if they're legally hitched. But the plain fact is
that I am forty-seven years old, and it seems fairly likely
that I will be alone for the rest of my life, and in most ways
this is really okay with me, and yet I am sometimes so
goddamn jealous of their youth and happiness and sex
that I can't see straight. Horrible, eh?"
"Not so very," Royland said. "In fact, hardly at all,
except you feel bad about it, and also I guess they wonder
what's going on, all those doors and cups and that."
"Oh damn," Morag said, rising. "I'll have to explain. 1
hate presenting myself in such an unflattering light. The
pride is wounded, and a good thing too, no doubt. But
difficult."
She looked up the long slope to the house and saw
Pique stretching in the sun, on the doorstep, her long hair
loose around her shoulders. Royland said nothing. Morag
walked back to the house as slowly as possible, stopping
to pick a dandelion seedclock and to blow the seeds into
the wind. Nine. And it was actually noon. Inaccurate dandelion.
Catharine Parr Traill would not have wasted her
time puffing dandelion seedclocks. Nor would she have
tried to explain the subtleties of her feelings to one of her
310 The Diviners
daughters, either, probably. Maybe never had this problem,
and never felt any such thing. Too busy preserving
fruit and sketching flowers and weeding the garden. Too
tired. Benefits of physical labour. Cold baths, too, like as
not.
When she entered the kitchen, Pique and Clan were
having coffee and cereal.
"You should have some crunchy granola, Ma," Pique
said.
"No," Morag said, suddenly impatient. "I know it is
very healthy. But I gag on it. Leave me my depravities,
eh?"
"Oh sorry," Pique said, grinning. "Well at least you
don't eat Sugar Puffs. Want we should clear out now?
Want to work?"
"Not yet awhile. I have to talk to you first. I'm sorry I
slammed the door this morning. I hope it didn't waken
you up."
"Well," Pique said, allowing her annoyance to surface,
"we could've done without it."
"No doubt. I have, however, my reasons."
When Morag had finished saying approximately what
she had said to Royland, she looked gloomily into her
coffee mug, wishing it were possible to teleport herself out
of the situation, literally, in the flesh. The ascension of the
far-from-virgin. Mars or heaven her destination. Greetings
and salutations to ancestors or bug-eyed monsters.
Silence. Then astonishment. Pique had taken one of her
hands and Clan the other.
"We thought that was what it was," Pique said, "but we
couldn't say it unless you said it. And, like, we're aware
you're alone, Ma. But in other ways you aren't. You
know?"
True. Truer than Morag even yet knew? Perhaps.
"I think it'll be okay, now," Morag said, when able to
speak, "for you to stay here. I don't really know why. But
I feel it will."
"No, listen," Clan said. "Pique and I have talked this
Rites of Passage 311
over a lot. We've gotta get jobs of some sort pretty soon,
and it would really be better for us to live at the Smiths', as
it's on the right side of the river for McConnell's Landing."

"We'll be back and forth a lot," Pique said. "I mean -
you'll see enough of us. Too much, probably, even."
"No, it won't be too much," Morag said.
She held onto their hands for another moment. Then
Pique and Clan went outside.
Morag got out her typewriter.
LETTER TO D. MCRAITH, CROMBRUACH,
ROSS-SHIRE SCOTLAND
Dear McRaith As
to why I have begun calling you McRaith, Pique's new
man is named Clan, and I cannot bear confusion. Outer confusion,
that is. The inner is quite enough to be getting on with.
I once read a novel in which the protagonist, a young man,
falls in love with two women (not simultaneously) both
named - I can't remember - let's say Flora. Both kept flitting
in and out of the pages, and were sometimes given the distinguishing
marks of Flora One and Flora Two. Sometimes the
reader just had to guess. I was enraged. How come this guy
(the writer) doesn't have more imagination, I wondered.
Plenty of good names in the telephone directory. Maybe it
was his character's fault ... the poor twit had a fixation on
women called Flora. I don't know why names seem so important
to me. Yes, I guess I do know. My own name, and feeling
I'd come from nowhere. If 1 could call Pique's Clan by any
other name, I would, but that would take some explaining. I
think this with Pique may work out better this time, although
who knows. Whatever she feels is right for her is okay with
me, but no doubt I will continue sometimes to get annoyed
over trivialities, and so will she. Hers, actually, are less trivial
than mine, not because of any intrinsic difference in degree of
our various dilemmas, but only because I've worked out my major dilemmas as much as I'm likely to do in this life. Now
that I read that over, I wonder if it's true. The calm plateau
312 The Diviners
still seems pretty faroff to me. I'm still fighting the same
bloody battles as always, inside the skull. Maybe all there is
on that calm plateau is a tombstone. No, this isn't Celtic
gloom - in fact, I'm feeling good at the moment, which is
partly why I'm writing to you now. If this is gaiety, you may
well observe, what can depression possibly be like? But not
so. Do you remember you once told me - we were walking
along the shore at Crombruach, and it was freezing and
Easter - that a Presbyterian is someone who always looks
cheerful, because whatever happens, they've expected something
much worse?
Sorry the work isn't going too well for you at the moment. I
will light mental candles for it to begin again. Mine has been
pretty much nothing for a month, but I think it'll start again
now. If God is good and if I'm lucky and if I damn well pick
up the pen and begin. Which I aim to do now.
She put the typewriter away and got out the notebook
and pen. Sat looking for a while at the pale blue empty
lines like shelves on the page, waiting to be stuffed with
what?
Would Pique's life be better or worse than Morag's? Mine hasn't been so bad. Been? Time running out. Is
that what is really going on, with me, now, with her?
Pique, harbinger of my death, continuer of life.
Memorybank Movie: Bleak House Some of the mountains beyond the city are called snow
mountains because the snow is perpetual upon those
faroff peaks. They are impressive, but frightening. Uncaring
gods, they stand cold and infinitely lofty, diminishing
the city and its inhabitants. Perpetual snow - the very
thought of it makes Morag experience that iciness crystallizing
her own blood. She stares at the mountains from
the boardinghouse window, but can never look for very
long. This is not to be her final settlingplace, obviously.
Rites of Passage 313
People of the city, the real inhabitants, born here or having
adopted the place, do not feel the same way. They do
not feel hemmed in or threatened by these mountains.
Insane to have come here. Would have been better to
have gone back to Manawaka. Christie needs her, and she
needs a home for herself and her child, when it is born.
But there is no way she can return to Manawaka. If she is
to have a home, she must create it.
Down at the harbour, where Morag sometimes walks,
hoping to understand the place, the vast ships cluster and
creak, groaning and shunting, wallowing herds of
ungainly sea-monsters. Then, surprisingly, one will glide
majestically from the harbour, transformed by movement,
as clumsy waddling seals are transformed into eel-like
litheness when they swim. The gulls scream imprecations,
their tongues hoarse and obscene, but the white flash of
their wings is filled with grace abounding.
The boardinghouse is in Kitsilano, the rundown part of
the area. A tall narrow frame house, last painted around
the turn of the century, no doubt, and now a non-unpleasant
uniform grey, not the heavy hard grey of a uniform,
but the light sea-bleached grey of driftwood, silver without
silver's sheen. Having once hated the unpainted
houses along Hill Street, Morag now feels at home with
this shade, shade in both senses, or perhaps even three, a
colour ghostly-subtle as shadows, welcoming cool. It has
no pretensions. Weather has created it. She prefers it to
the jazzy split-level houses in the west side of the city,
across the Lion's Gate Bridge. She likes the bridge's
name, but not the steel-girdered giant itself.
The house in Kitsilano is neighboured by others of the
same ilk. Firetraps, lived in by people who can't afford to
live anywhere else. Morag's landlady, Mrs. Maggie Tefler,
some forty-odd years old, frizzy bottle-blonde hair, is a
short woman, short in stature, nearly always short of
breath (high blood pressure, stoutness) and decidedly
short-tempered. Morag, however, is not in any position to
quibble. She came to Maggie Tefler's bleak house because
it was cheap and the room looked halfway clean.
room was on the second floor, and had a divan b(
old brown carpet with vague geometrical desigr
and red. It also had a sink. This room laste
month. It was the sink which was Morag's undc
early morning, her door alas unlocked, she vomi
ously into the sink. Finally able to look up, eyes
streaming, she perceived Mrs. Tefler standing in
way, arms akimbo in a kimono of artificial silk,
ingly pink-poppy-patterned.
Maggie T.: I thought I heard you coupla time
upchucking. In the John. Wasn't sure it was 5
Gunn.
Moray Yeh, it was me.
Maggie: (crudely, but with accuracy) I'd say you:
in the oven. Either that or the booze, and 5
have the signs of an alkie, as I should knc
probably the world's top authority on rubbyd
Moray Huh?
Maggie: Winos. I get more than my fair quota
can bet your bottom dollar. You preggers, kid'
Morag: Yeh, I think so. It seems unbelievable.
Maggie: C'mon, now, honey, don't give me that
he only screwed you once and you never thouj
possible the first time. You're no virginal s
Morag - mind if I call you Morag? I dunno wl
you, but why don't you go on back to yer hub
Morag: What? How did you -
Maggie: (smirking) Easy. You still got the mark
ding ring on yer finger. It hasn't been off yoi
long.
Morag: Okay, Mrs. Tefler. You are right. But
going back.
Maggie: Kid not yer hubby's?
Morag: (with admirable restraint) That is my
believe.
Rites of Passage 315
Maggie: Oh beg yer pardon, yer highness. Yer affair is
right, kid. Well, what you gonna do?
Morag: (truthfully and with considerable panic) I don't
know. I can keep on working for a while.
Maggie: You reckon Sanford and Willingham Real Estate
is gonna put up much longer with a typist who keeps
rushing out to puke?
Morag: (furiously) I don't, goddamn it. It only hits me
this time of day.
Maggie: Well, kid, what about when you get big as the
backside of a barn? It's your business, of course. But if
you wanna work here - cleaning, cooking, doing the
dishes - you can stay. Nice room up there on the top
floor. Good view and all. Room and board and a little
extra. What could be fairer? I know I'm a sucker, but I
never could stand seeing a decent girl in trouble without
I have to try to help. Maggie, my Wayne used to say, you got a heart soft as the centre of a toasted marshmallow. How about it, honey? Well, come on, I haven't got
all day.
Morag: Okay, Mrs. Tefler. And - thanks.
Maggie: Don't mention it, dear. We were put here on this
earth to help one another, is what I always say.
So it is that Morag now resides in a room on the top floor,
by which the saintly Mrs. Tefler has really meant, as it
turns out, the attic, which has been more or less fixed up
as a room. Oddly enough (although she does not tell Mrs.
Tefler) Morag becomes fond of this room. It is, in a very
real sense, all hers. You have to be on guard against the
bare rafters at the extreme edges of the place, or you will
bash your skull, but this slight disadvantage weighs small
against the room's many good features. If Maggie Tefler
suspected this, she would either try to rent it for a huge
sum to someone with Morag's tastes but more money, or
else she would quit paying Morag the minuscule sum
316 The Diviners
which she now forks out reluctantly ea
exchange for virtually all the cooking and cle
Morag's viewpoint, the bargain isn't at all a 1
dips cautiously into what remains of her f
bucks and buys a secondhand oak dresser, a d
case, a couple of numdah rugs, a crimson H
point blanket to cover the single brass bed. 1
lamp with a bulbous Japanese-lantern shade,
of a large ruffle-feathered brown owl, all ma
hers.
A woman, if she is to write, Virginia Woe
(or words to that effect), must have a room
The garret bit never appealed to Morag un(
God, it is at least a room of her own. The on
that she feels too tired and lousy most evenin
writing at all.
Memorybank Movie: Portrait of the An
Pregnant Skivvy
Morag, growing already in girth at four mon
ing the breakfast dishes. The water is lut
greasy, but her digestion, fortunately, is stec
was, and her energy greater. In fact, she is strc
the doctor tells her, apparently with disappro
Old Mr. Johnson, one of the inmates of Ble
sitting at the kitchen table, shooting the
Morag. He looks about a hundred and ninety
a feather, but he has a powerful pair of lungs.
"Yes, siree," he bellows, "I mind well that ti
ams Lake, talking to old Peter Paulson - he'c
pector and still thought he was. Nutty as a fru
a salesman in them days, d'you see. I was trave
polish, harness polish and brass polish. Wellsi
me, there's only two mortal things in this life I
Mr. Johnson, just two mortal things - one is
dice, and th'other is Indians. How'd you like t
The two of them are still laughing when
Tefler sashays in, bearing a letter.
Rites of Passage 317
"This here is for you, I suppose," she says suspiciously.
Morag reaches for it. Luckily she has told Mrs. Tefler
that such an epistle might arrive, but Maggie still has her
doubts, and doubtless hankers to open and read it, ostensibly
to make sure she is handing it over to the right
person.
Morag has written, painfully, to Brooke, not able yet to
mention her pregnancy, but telling him that she is now
using her own name. His letter is addressed: Mrs. Brooke
T. Skelton. Morag puts it in her apron pocket. Mrs. Tefler
waits in vain for her to open it.
Later, in her room, Morag reads it. It says, in part, that
Morag has now surely proved her point and shown she
could get along alone and isn't it time she began acting
sensibly once more? He will be prepared to try to forget
that one occurrence. If she needs the train fare back to
Toronto, he is prepared to send it.
Morag sits on the bed, looking at the page. Brooke's
words - the closest he will ever be able to come, in
expressing his need for her.
/ need you, too, Brooke. I care about you. I can't stand
this.
There is, however, no way back. Would she have gone
back if she hadn't been pregnant? At this moment, she feels
she would have. Was it only for that reason, after all, she
had wanted to get pregnant, so her leaving of Brooke would
be irrevocable? So she would not be able to change her
mind? And had chosen Jules only so there wouldn't be the
slightest chance of pretending the child was Brooke's? How
many people had she betrayed? Has she even betrayed the
child itself? This thought paralyzes her. Or is she only interpreting
herself, now, in the worst possible ways?
Why had she imagined that she could look after and
support a kid, on her own? It had seemed a perfectly
natural notion at the time. Now it seems merely lunacy.
She will have to go on welfare. Never. But of course she
will, if necessary. What will happen to her, and to the
child?
318 The Diviners
She recalls Brooke's certainty, his control of situations.
Even if that calm was only outer, how reassuring.
Don't deceive yourself, Morag. For you, ultimately, far
from reassuring. I don't know. I just don't know.
She no longer feels certain of anything. There is no
fixed centre. Except, of course, that there is a fixed centre,
and furthermore it is rapidly expanding inside her own
flesh.
She stops crying, puts on her coat and headscarf, and
goes out. The hell with Maggie Tefler. The cleaning of the
rooms can damn well wait.
Winter. Not snow, here, or not this year, anyway. Rain.
The sidewalks are awash with it. Interminable grey rain.
Morag feels perversely, almost angrily, akin to it.
Go ahead. God, let it rain, then. Let it rain forever. I
won't be drowned.
When she returns, she writes to Brooke, telling him.
She does not hear from him again. She receives, instead,
a letter from Brooke's solicitors, asking her to forward a
doctor's certificate confirming pregnancy, and will she also
please send her own signed and witnessed statement to the
effect that the father of the child is not her husband, and
will she please, further, forward the name of the father and
the dates when adultery took place.
Morag complies with the first two requests and refuses
the third.
Dear Morag:
There is no way it can be done painlessly, as I know. It is a
thoroughly nasty and barbaric procedure, designed to make
everyone suffer as much as possible. All you can do is live
through it and survive. And you will. So just hang on, eh?
And remember, you didn't do it lightly.
Love,
Ella
Is, however, this last statement true? Morag doesn't have a
clue, anymore. Perhaps it will all become clear in time.
Rites of Passage 319
Christie writes with a spidery hand to say he is sorry
Morag has split with her husband, and does she need any
money because he's got a few-odd bucks stashed away.
She reads the letter numbly, and answers no thanks but
thanks a million. She has not yet told Christie about the
child. She is not sure how he would take it. Would he
merely think she is a faithless bitch? She cannot bear that
possibility. Not yet.
Late evening, and the Bleak House doorbell rings. A
minute later, Mrs. Tefler, voice rich with reproach, shouts
up the stairway.
"It's for you, Morag. A guy."
A guyf for an instant Morag imagines it is Jules.
Realizes how much she wants and needs to see him. Then
recalls that he doesn't have her address. Has he got it
through the publishers? Impossible. Jules would never do
that.
"Who is it, Mrs. Tefler?"
"How would / know?" the saintly Maggie replies, verbally
withdrawing the hem of her respectable pink
kimono. "He says he's from some outfit called Walton
and Pierce."
"Send him up!" Morag shouts.
Amazing! Astounding! Wait for the next thrilling
instalment! An angel of the Lord, probably St. Michael of
the Flaming Sword, disguised as a publisher's rep, has
come to explain how paradise can be regained.
Or has he come to say Spear of Innocence hasn't yet
earned its royalty advance, and they want the rest of the
money back?
She should have gone down to greet him. Graciously.
Yeh, graciously, all three tons of her. No way she is going
up and down those ten zillion stairs again today. She puts
on her blue flannel housecoat, which makes her appearance
resemble only that of a modified schooner rather
than a galleon in full sail.
"Hi, Miss Gunn - shall I call you Morag?"
He is a middle-aged moustached man, a little out of
320 The Diviners
breath after the dizzy ascent of the Tefler Grand Staircase.
linoleum-covered.
"I'm Hank Masterson," he goes on. "W and P's local
representative. They wrote me you were in the city, and
separated, you know, and I thought I'd drop around and
see how you were doing. Also, I've got some news. They
thought it might be good to deliver it to you personally."
"Bad news?" Why should she respond this way,
instantly?
"No. Good."
"Really? My God, I could do with some."
Hank looks at her.
"I can see that," he says pleasantly. "Well, your novel's
been accepted by a publisher in England and one in the
States."
Morag is silent. Stunned.
"Will that mean some more money?" she says at last.
What a question. Mercenary, he will be muttering to
himself. If only she weren't so goddamn near being broke.
"Sure," he is saying. "Not a fortune, but some. Listen,
are you strapped for dough?"
"Well, more or less."
She explains her domestic arrangements at Bleak
House.
"That's crazy," he says. "You should be writing."
"Yeh. Well. I am, to some extent. Stories, mainly. But
not many."
"Send them out, then. I'll get the firm to put you in
touch with an agent. Ever tried your hand at articles? I
mean, feature articles for newspapers? It's a hell of a thing
to suggest you spend your time doing, maybe, when you
should be at another novel."
"I would do almost any damn thing at all," Morag says
truthfully. "I never thought of articles. What sort?"
"Oh - light and amusing, preferably."
"You mean, like - Sunday School Picnics I Never
Attended?"
"That sort of thing. You haven't tried?"
Rites of Passage 3 21
It occurs to her that she has not been very enterprising.
"No," she says. "I've been kind of taken up with other
things."
"Things will change," says St. Michael Masterson.
Things do change, although scarcely at the speed of light.
Morag sends her short stories to Milward Crispin, literary
agent, and after innumerable tries on his part, one is
accepted. On the strength of this, plus the royalty cheques
from England and the States on Spear of Innocence, Morag resigns from her role as domestic at Bleak House.
She would have had to do so anyway, soon, as her girth
prevents light-footed action around the place. She continues
to rent the room. Maggie Tefler is suspicious,
obviously thinking that such a pregnant lady cannot have
suddenly become a hustler, but if not that, what?
"You have come into some money, dear?" she enquires.
Morag explains, but guardedly.
"Think of that," Mrs. Tefler says. "That guy said you
were an author, but naturally I never believed him."
"Oh, naturally."
"Well," Maggie says, sighing heftily, "it must be nice to
be able to earn a living just sitting there."
"Yeh."
Morag embarks on frenzied attempts to write and sell
articles, any kind of articles, to the local press. The Features
Editor, perhaps growing tired of being bombarded,
finally begins to accept these small gems, which could not
be confused with deathless prose, but over which Morag
sweats and drudges, wishing she had the gift of churning
them out. During the months when she is wrestling with
these articles, she writes no fiction, nothing involving.
Nothing.
Memorybank Movie: Voices from Past Places "You mean right up the stairs all the way to the top?" the
woman's voice says.
322 The Diviners
"That's what I said," Maggie replies laconically.
"Heavenly days, where does she live? In the attic?"
"The top floor," Maggie Tefler says icily, "has the best
view in the house."
Morag, on the second landing, proceeding back from
the bathroom, overhears this exchange. Whose voice? She
knows it, but from where?
Click-click-click. Heels on the stairs. Morag waits.
Then catches sight of the woman. Still slender - thinner,
actually - and still fair-haired although her hair has darkened
a little and is now done in an upsweep. Smartly
tailored suit, the longish jacket of which only partially
hides the fact that her hips have become slightly too bony.
Her face more sharp-featured, more drawn than it should
be at twenty-eight, the same age as Morag.
"Julie! Julie Kazlik!"
"The same," Julie says, grinning. "Hi, Morag. How
you been? My God - when is it due?"
"In the spring. End of May. For heaven's sake, come on
up."
Julie settles herself on the brass bed, taking off her
spike-heeled pointed-toe shoes and tucking her feet underneath
her. They look at one another carefully, amazed,
glad, hesitant, each sizing up the marks the years have
placed upon the other person and by implication upon
themselves.
"How on earth did you find me, Julie?"
"God's sake, Morag, I saw your articles in the paper, of
course, and phoned and got your address. How you been, then? It's been a long time."
"Ten years. I'm pretty okay, actually. I'm happy about
the baby, but kind of anxious about how I'm going to
look after it and make a living. My husband and I are
being divorced. It was my fault. I left him."
"What d'you mean, your fault, you left him," Julie
snorts. "It's a two-way street, kid. Don't give me that
malarkey. Anyhow, join the club. Buckle and me are getting
unhitched, also."
Rites of Passage 323
"I didn't even know you were married, although I always
thought you'd marry young."
"Well, I didn't marry all that young. But, yeh. Buckle
Fennick, truck driver. Does the long hauls, Alaska Highway
and that. He's a great driver, matter of fact. I think I
married him because he was such a snappy dancer. How
dumb can you get?"
"Got any kids?"
"Yeh. One."Julie looks away. "He's a good kid, Steve.
He's two years old now, going on three. I don't want him
to grow up like his old man."
"You mean - a truck driver? No. You don't mean that."
"No," Julie says, "I don't mean that. I mean, like,
crazy. Loco. I grew up on the farm, as you know. You ever
seen a loco horse? I guess not. We had one once, like that.
A real loner, and crazy. Something in him made him want
to knock down everything in sight. He was beautiful - a
roan stallion. Great in every way except he was a killer.
My dad shot him. I don't mean Buckle's a killer outright he
does it in other ways. Well, never mind all that now.
You say you're worried about how to support the kid won't
your husband have to contribute?"
"He hasn't got any obligation. It's not his child, Julie."
Julie looks startled, then laughs.
"Well, you sure as hell don't do things by halves, do
you? You'll manage, kid. 1 know you will. You were always
smart, although you always tried not to let on. But I knew.
Soon as I'm free, I'm marrying this nice guy who's in the
insurance business, and we're going to Montreal. Dennis
isn't anybody's idea of a glamour boy, but he is really
kind and he cares about me and he's good with Steve."
Julie, landing on her feet. Julie, who always had a string
of boyfriends. And yet, the undertone of sadness. He's
kind. Not / love him so much I think I'd die without him. The first hopes shown up as illusions, yet parted with
painfully.
"You're lucky," Morag says, despite herself.
Julie gives her a shrewd look.
324 The Diviners
"I know I am," she says in a low voice. Then, becoming
brisk, an individual Manawaka Banner reporting, "You
know Stacey Cameron's married and living here?"
"Really? My God, how many people from town must
be here?"
"Thousands, probably." Julie says in her old slapdash
way. "We all head west, kiddo. We think it'll be heaven on
earth - no forty below in winter, no blastfurnace in
summer, and mountains to look at, not just grain elevators.
So we troop out to the Coast, and every time we meet
someone from back home we fall on their necks and weep.
Stupid, eh?"
Neither of them think it is stupid. You Can't Go Home
Again, said Thomas Wolfe. Morag wonders now if it may
be the reverse which is true. You have to go home again, in
some way or other. This concept cannot yet be looked at.
They discuss people they've known, and whatever happened
to them. Then Julie looks at Morag enquiringly.
"You plan on staying in this dump, Morag?"
"It hasn't been so bad. But I can't stay once the baby's
here. Can you see me dragging a carriage up these stairs?
And can you see Maggie Tefler letting me leave it in the
downstairs hall? No. I've been looking for a place, but so
far no dice."
"I'm staying in the top floor of a friend's house in North
Van," Julie says. "She'll want to rent it when Stevie and I
have gone. It all depends on the divorce, just when that'll be. God, I wish it was all over. I hate all this. Buckle's
agreed to sue me - adultery. But he could change his mind
at the drop of a handkerchief, and then I'd have to go for
the cruelty charge. And I don't want to, Morag. Sometimes
I hate him, but I don't want it all brought out in
court. It's not the beating-up kind of cruelty - he's never
blacked an eye for me, or like that. Better if he had. They
could understand that. It's what he says - that I'm out to
get his power, things like that. He can't make love any
more - he never did, very much, but the last coupla years
he couldn't at all. He just jerked himself off in front of me
Rites of Passage 325
and said these things. Finally I couldn't stand it any
longer. But how do I know what's made him that way? I
know some, but I'll never understand it all. And even if I
did understand, what could I do? And how much of it
have I made worse? That bothers me."
"I know," Morag says.
Julie looks up.
"Yeh," she says. "I guess you do. Well, goddamn it, eh?
But I am getting out, with my kid. Buckle can live or he
can die. Sometimes I don't even care which, anymore. But
I'm not dying, not yet, not if I can help it. Well, let's
change the subject. I started out to say maybe you'd like
my place, if you can hold out until my divorce comes
through. Also, if you could get on with Fan "
"I could get on with the Dragon Lady at this point,"
Morag says. "Anybody would be better than Maggie
Tefler as a landlady."
"Yeh. Well. You haven't met Fan. She's - well, she's
fine, but she sort of takes getting used to. So we'll see."
"Don't worry," Morag says. "If that doesn't work out,
something else will. I'm not begging."
They look at each other, and laugh.
Memory bank Movie: Through Dooms of Love Morag is in the hospital. A different zone of human existence,
acres of glass and chrome, miles of corridors in
which the floor polish seems to have mated with antiseptic,
a protected swathed world. Morag has never been in
hospital before in her life, so finds it a weirdly isolating
experience. At first the contractions are not so severe that
she cannot observe what's going on around her, not to her
sight, anyway. Everything that is going on is inside herself.

Someone, ghostwhite, formidable, pushes an apparatus
into her hand - walkie-talkie? No.
"Breathe in here, Mrs. Gunn, if the pain gets a little too
much."
"I'm not Mrs.," Morag says.
326 The Diviners
"Well, I wouldn't advertise the fact if I was you," the
nurse says coldly. "It's nothing to be proud of. You're just
lucky they're letting you have the baby here."
"Where do you think I should have it?" Morag says
clearly, from somewhere outside her body. "In a ten-acre
field?"
Crazy. Crazy. The contractions are coming closer and
more severely. Why argue with the nurse now? She needs
that nurse.
"I'm sorry," Morag says abjectly, untruthfully. "Please
- please don't leave me."
"You're perfectly all right," the nurse says. "I'll be back
in a minute."
In a minute, however, Morag has reached the second
stage of labour and is trundled hastily into the delivery
room.
"Hold back," the doctor's ghostvoice commands from
beyond the outer reaches of space. "Don't bear down so
hard. It's coming too quickly."
You try holding back. You just try. I can't. I can't.
The child rips its way into its life, tearing its mother's
flesh in its hurry, unwilling to wait.
It is over. Relief. Morag, numbed, sleepy and yet totally
alert, can feel no pain at all. The nurse places the child on
Morag's now-gaunt belly. It is writhing a little, covered
with streaks of blood and yellow slime. The cord is not yet
cut. Morag cannot see the baby's face. All she can see is its
rounded backside. She has imagined her first question will
be - what is it, boy or girl? Not so.
"Is it all righir'
"Certainly," the doctor says in a talcum-powder voice.
"She's fine. We just want to get her breathing a bit more
deeply, that's all."
She.
The cord is cut, and the placenta comes away without
Morag's being aware of it. All she can think of is whether
the child is breathing properly or not. Then the girlchild
Rites of Passage 327
opens her mouth and yells, an amazingly loud sound from
so minuscule a creature. The doctor is holding the child,
and Morag has still not seen her daughter's face. What if
they get her mixed up with all the hundreds of other kids
in this baby emporium?
"Let me see her."
"We'll clean her up, and then nurse will bring her to
you," the doctor says.
Morag props herself up on an elbow, somewhat hampered
by the fact that she is still confined by legstraps.
"Like hell," she says fiercely. "I want to see her right
now."
"These conscious births," the doctor sighs, sounding
tired.
Morag holds the child, still slippery, very warm. The
slightly slanted eyes are tightly closed, and the miniature
fists are clenched. The baby's hair, damp, is sparse and
straight and black. Her skin is pinkish tan.
"She's - she's great, eh?"
Piquette Tonnerre Gunn has entered her own and unknown
life.
Morag is back at Bleak House within a week. Julie comes
over to help, and seeing the baby for the first time says My
gosh. Morag bristles.
"It's okay," Julie says quickly. "I was only a little surprised,
is all."
"You remember Skinner Tonnerre, Julie?"
"Sure. Well, my goodness. Small world."
They do not discuss it again.
Morag finds she cannot actually call the child by the
name of Piquette. She calls her, instead. Pique. When the
baby is two months old, Julie takes a whole roll of colour
film. Morag sends one to Jules, a picture of the baby
alone. She writes a brief letter, and sends it to the place
where he was living in Toronto, wondering if he will re328 The Diviners
ceive it or if he will have moved by now. She no longer
trusts Mrs. Tefler for her own mail, so puts her return
address as Fan Brady's house, where Julie lives. After
another month she gets a reply.
Dear Morag You
sure are a crazy woman, but it is up to you, and the baby
looks fine. I'm glad you called her what you did. I hope I'll see
her one of these days. I moved, awhile back. Still in the same
game. Not much news here. Say hello to the kid for me. Good
luck.
Jules
The letter is postmarked Trois-Rivieres. There is no
address.
Morag has to write longhand now, at nights, so as not to
waken the child. She can only type when Pique is awake.
The room grows smaller every day.
Milward Crispin writes to say that he's sold another
two of her stories, but the Piper stories appear to have no
appeal to editors, and it could be that editors these days
have no damn brains or it could be the stories need reworking,
possibly both. The American reviews of Spear are pretty good. The English reviews are politely indifferent,
some of them damning with faint praise. "A pleasant
enough novel from the Canadian backwoods, which attempts
with limited success to inject a little sophistication
in the form of bizarre if somewhat unlikely shenanigans."
Morag, enraged, rips this review into pieces. Then, feeling
it unworthy of her to keep only the good reviews, she
Scotch tapes it together again.
At nights she communicates glumly with her chequebook,
in the vain but persistent hope that she has miscalculated
the total and may in fact have more money in the
bank than she thought.
Rites of Passage 329
Pique is good-tempered and easy throughout the days,
but wakens regularly at two a.m., apparently in the last
and vocal throes of angry starvation. Morag weeps with
chagrin and tiredness.
Maggie Tefler passes remarks of an unflattering nature
about Pique's ancestry.
"Did you get yourself mixed up with a Chinee or a Jap,
dear? No? Well, I wasn't going to say halfbreed - I didn't
think it possible. What's that? Maytee? I never heard that word. They're all halfbreeds to me, and I could tell you a
thing or two, you betcha."
Morag writes to Christie about the child. He replies
that he would like to see her, and he hopes she looks a lot
like Morag.
After innumerable letters exchanged with members of
the legal profession, Morag's divorce comes through in
what her lawyer assures her is record time. She is spared
the ignominy of having to appear in court, which is just as
well, as she could not afford to go to Toronto. She is now
no longer Mrs. Brooke Skelton. She looks at the paper
with its unfamiliar terminology. At this moment, she can
remember only the good things that happened between
herself and Brooke. Appalled, she wonders what has taken
place and why she finds herself here, in circumstances
which at this moment seem unreal. She half expects to
waken and find herself back with Brooke, ten years ago.
Then Pique lifts her voice, and Morag goes to her.
Julie phones to say her own divorce has come through,
and she and Dennis are being married and leaving for
Montreal.
Memorybank Movie: Begonia Road "I would have thought," Maggie Tefler says, wounded,
"that you would of had the decency to give me a month's
notice."
"I pay you by the week," Morag says, "and I'm giving
you a week's rent in lieu of notice. That's perfectly fair."
330 The Diviners
"That it is not," Maggie moans sullenly. "That it is not. You owe me a month's rent if yerjust gonna take off
like that."
"A month's rent? You're out of your mind."
"That is the thanks a person gets," Maggie complains
to heaven, "for taking in a girl who's in trouble and letting
her stay even though it turns out she's got herself mixed
up with the Lord only knows who. That is all the thanks a
person gets. She spits on you. I should of known better.
But that's me. I feel sorry for people."
"Please, Mrs. Tefler, can't we just stop this?"
"You," Maggie says, "are nothing but a slut, and the
sooner you are outa here, the better."
And so, as the sun sinks slowly into the saltchuck, we
bid farewell to Maggie Tefler, friend of fallen womanhood.
Fan Brady's house in North Vancouver is at the top of a
steeply sloped street. Begonia Road. Looking out the
front window of Morag's apartment, you can see the har____
hour, and beyond that, the tall city, looking cleaner and
I^^H III more stately from this distance than it really is. Looking
out from the back balcony, you can see the pine and
tamarack marching up the mountainsides. The entire top
floor of the two-storey house belongs to Morag. She sleeps
in the livingroom where the couch makes up into a bed,
and gives the bedroom to Pique. At first, Morag is nervous
thinking of the child alone in there - what if the cot
blankets slip and she smothers? This is, of course, ridiculous.
Pique at four months is active and strong as an eel, a
born little scrapper. There is no way that kid would ever
lie there passively and let some feeble blanket suffocate
her. Her voice, also, has if anything grown in power.
Hence another anxiety. Pique may not smother, but will
she yell and disturb Fan, who will then order Morag out?
Fan, however, works nights, sleeps days and is only in
evidence in the late afternoon. Pique, luckily, does most of
her lung exercise in the evenings.
Fan Brady does, as Julie said, take some getting used
to. It is impossible to tell her age, but she is probably close
Rites of Passage 331
to thirty. She is tiny, bird-boned, but well-endowed
withal, and she cares tenderly for her body, constantly
smearing perfumed and pastel-tinted creams and ointments
on various parts of herself, whoever happens to be
present. False modesty is one thing Fan hasn't got. She
wears her flaming auburn hair in an odd assortment of
ringlets, frizz and spitcurls like a calendar girl from the
Mary Pickford era, and yet on Fan this coiffure doesn't
look old-fashioned. Her face isn't beautiful - it isn't even
pretty. In fact, facially, she rather resembles a monkey.
She is well aware of this, and doesn't give a damn. When
she has applied her false eyelashes, green eyeshadow,
orange lipstick, and multitudinous other bits of makeup,
she looks weird. But from a distance, possibly, and under
coloured lights, there would be a certain circus sequinned
splendour about her.
"Hi, sweetheart," she says, that first day. "You get
settled in okay? Want a beer?"
"Thanks."
Fan twirls across to the fridge, her apricot nylon housecoat
frothing around her. She is devoid of makeup at the
moment, and her face is drawn tight and hollowed by
whatever it is she has lived through, but she moves with
speed and lightness.
"Now, let's get this straight, sweetheart," she says. "I
don't give a fuck what you do here, just so long as you
don't do too much tramping around when I'm asleep. I
gotta get my sleep or I'm dead. Not that I'm that easily
wakened, once I get to sleep, the amount of Seconal I
take. I wish I could sleep without them, but I can't. You'd
think in all this time I'd of gotten used to sleeping days,
but no."
Fan Brady is, in her own terminology, a danseuse, and
she works at a nightclub called, with more publicity than
accuracy. The Figleaf.
"Don't get me wrong, sweetheart. I am not yer common-or-garden
stripper. Not by a long shot. I am a clansoose.
How about that, eh? Makes it sound good. The
334 Trx Diviners
"I know. But don't. That's the one thing I can't take."
"Okay, okay. I get the message. C'mon down and have
another beer. I wanna ask your advice."
"My advice?" This is certainly a quick change.
Fan laughs, a high trilling like a nervous song sparrow.
"Sure. Wait till I show you."
"Show me what?"
"You'll see."
Back downstairs, Fan begins shaving her legs while
talking.
"Well, I'm changing my act, see? I figger it's time I got a
speciality. I'm not getting any younger. I'll be thirty-four
next month, although I never admit to more than twentyfive."
Thirty-four.
Ye gods. And what of the future? What of
the future for a writer, if it comes to that? But at least
Morag isn't dependent upon her shape, which in the
course of years can only get worse, in one way or another.
"So what're you going to do, Fan?"
"I'm gonna become a snake dancer."
"A whair'
"You heard me. I'm practising right now. I just got it
the other day. I met this guy who knew a guy who had an
African python for sale, so I bought it."
"Fan," Morag says, in a deadly quiet voice, "where is
it?"
"In the basement."
"The basement!" Morag yells. "For Christ's sake.
you're a madwoman! What if it gets loose?"
Pique, strangled not by the coverlets on her cot, but by
a python. A. python. Slithering coils of slippery and probably
slimy steel.
"It won't," Fan says, enjoying this. "I give it a quartertranquillizer
from time to time. The guy I bought it from
says it's mostly in a comose state."
"In a what state? Oh, you mean comatose."
"Pretty handy with the big words, aren't you?" Fan
says irritably, her drama momentarily dimmed.
Rites of Passage 355
"Sorry. But hell. Fan, you can't leep a python in the
house. It's - well, it could be lethal."
"It's harmless as a kitten. They dwi't have no poison,
you know, pythons."
"No, they just curl around your windpipe and choke
you to death. I warn you - if that thing comes near Pique,
I'll kill you with my bare hands. I m<an it."
What to do? Move out instantly? 1o where?
"Worry not, sweetheart," Fan says placatingly, observing
that Morag really does mean it. 'C'mon - I went and
had a look at your pet, so now you come and have a look
at mine."
Pet. Child. Oh jesus, deep waters, deep waters. What
has Morag got herself into?
The python, looking dead, and less large than Morag
has imagined, lies asleep in a cage it the basement. The
cage has a handle on top, for easy transportation to the
club. It is covered with fine wire mesh, Morag is somewhat
reassured to notice. The snake is gaudily patterned in
brown and cream, and is really quite beautiful, if you like
that sort of thing.
"I call it Tiny," Fan says.
This lady is nutty as crunchy peanut butter. And yet,
against all reason, Morag is beginning to like her. Tiny,
yet. Merciful heavens, what a choie of name. All the
same, Morag vows to keep the upstairs door bolted and
locked at all times.
Over another beer. Fan elaborates.
"I gotta get me another name, see, Morag? Something
kind of oriental-sounding, know what I mean? So I
thought, seeing as how you're a writer, you might dream
one up for me. Princess something-or.other, I thought."
"Holy God, Fan, that's some request. I'm not an advertising
copywriter."
"For you, it'll be easy," Fan says confidently.
Morag thinks for a while.
"What about Sapphire?"
"No. I don't think so. Not enough ring."
336 The Diviners
"Hm. Well. Let's see. Zarathustra?"
"Too fancy. Nobody could say it."
Morag thinks again. Then inspiration strikes.
"Eureka - I think I've got it!"
"That's it!" Fan cries, swivelling her hips gleefully on
the way to the fridge.
"Huh?" Morag says, momentarily uncomprehending.
"What you just said."
"Eureka? That's just - it's an expression. I think it
means 'I've found it,' or something like that. From this
ancient Greek philosopher, who - well, never mind. I was
going to suggest "
"Never mind what you were going to suggest. That's my
new name. Princess Eureka. Print it down nice and big so
I can see how it'll look on the billing."
So Morag prints.
PRINCESS EUREKA
snake dancer
oriental danseuse
Dances With Real Live Python!
Thrilling!
Exotic!
"Gee, that's great," Fan says. "Thanks a million,
Morag."
"Any time. No charge. I'll be your advertising consultant."

"Times are sure looking up," Fan remarks. "You're not
really scared of Tiny, are you?"
"I wouldn't touch that creature with a ten-foot pole,"
Morag says fervently.
"I'm not ascared of snakes," Fan says modestly. "I got
used to them as a kid. I grew up in the Okanagan. My old
man had a little fruit ranch, there. He was a worthless
hunk of humanity, if ever there was one. My mum and us
Rites of Passage 337
kids ran the place. We had a lotta snakes around - great
big bull snakes, and garter snakes and all kinds. Only
dangerous sort was the rattlers. We used to take our two
German shepherd dogs along when we went up to the
orchards. They were like devils whenever they seen a
rattler. They never got bit, ever. Snakes are okay if you
know how to handle them. It's very simple with rattlers.
You just kill 'em."
"Oh, very simple. Better you than me."
"But Tiny, there, he's friendly. I bet you think a snake
feels slimy, eh?"
"Yeh."
"Well, they don't. They're smooth and dry, sort of
dusty-feeling. You'll see."
"That'll be the day."
Later, upstairs, Morag thinks about Fan Brady. Lilac
Stonehouse begins to look like pretty pale stuff in comparison.
Could you get a Fan Brady down on paper? Only an
approximation. Even the name of the club, for heaven's
sake. "The Figleaf" is much better than "Crowe's Cave." And you think Fan Brady's crazy?
Memorybank Movie: Travelling On
Snapshot: Pique, age one, sits on the front steps of the
house on Begonia Road. Her sturdy legs are stretched to
their small length in front of her, and her feet are encased
in new white shoes, high around her ankles so she will
learn to walk steadily. She wears a yellow dress, very
short, patterned with butterflies green and mauve and
blue. Her straight black hair is still not very long and is
brushed carefully for the picture. Her round face is unsmiling
but not unhappy. Her large dark eyes look openly
and with trust at the person behind the camera, namely
her mother.
Pique's first birthday is over, and she is asleep. Morag and
Fan are having a beer on Morag's balcony. In the garden
below, the forsythia
beginning to come o
ning air is faintly bri
salt, the breeze now
the white gulls glide,
"You oughta get i
"You go on devoting
kid, and I'm here to
She'll grow up and 1
"Fine," Morag sa
do anything else, wl
voting my entire life
what I want to be dc
"Should I introdu
single-mindedly. "A
know is precisely noi
Fan's continually
much to Morag.
"I'll think about i
Fan kicks off hei
puts her bare feet 01
with tangerine polisi
are shapely and stroi
boned, too tall, des;
proportioned than i
straight black hair
auburn whorls and c
with an apparently a
She frequently appe
though (or so Morag
in it.
"It's a problem, e
you know. You like f
"Yeh. Sometimes
"Yeh? Well, some
screw like a bitch in
what I mean? I shou]
Rites of Passage 339
perfect. In, out, pay at the cash desk, buddy. I mighta
made a fortune."
Morag ponders the theme of irony. Opportunities for
sex are minimal. Has she set it up like this for herself? Her
kid, her work. And here is Fan, getting more than she
wants. But not really. Fan has set it up for herself as well,
in some way or other, unacknowledged.
"Why screw so much if you don't like it?" Morag asks.
Fan shrugs.
"It passes the time. I can't stand being alone. I'm so
goddamn jittery when I quit the club, nights, that I can't
think straight."
Fan never has breakfast or even lunch with one of her
men. She throws them out about 8:00 a.m., when she
reckons she may possibly get off to sleep. Morag hears
them stumbling solitarily around the kitchen, looking for
instant coffee. Morag, her own day having by then begun,
walks barefoot and silent around her own kitchen, cursing
fate. Unfair, unfair. Oddly, it has not soured her relationship
with Fan. Probably it would have, though, if Fan was
down there with a man loving every minute of it.
"Didn't you ever love a guy, Fan? Whatever love means."
Fan considers.
"Not so's I can remember," she says finally. "I suppose
yer gonna expect me to say my dad raped me when I was
twelve, or like that, eh? Well, he never. He knocked my
mum around some, but she could take care of herself. She
wasn't such a big lady, but built like me - wiry. She used
to knee him in the groin. It was a laugh. Well, I dunno
what it was with me. Sometimes I think about it, but then
again, what's the use?"
Look at songs hidden in eggs. Sandburg. Look at laments
hidden in eggshell skulls. Gunn.
"Know what I wish?" Fan says suddenly, as though
this is costing her something to say.
"No. What?"
"I have soi
lez. Queer. Be
"Maybe yoi
"It would
would bother
"That's 1(
"I know,":
that Morag hi
Then she gi
basement to K
After midn:
in the mornin
She is drenche
has in sleep b
have been mal
into this centr
before their n
fantasized the
realm and uni
knowledge. Sl him bewildere
Almost awi of sleep, out o
Pique is as
head turned u
sheet, her han
beside her faci
Memoryb, "What you ne
can't you for '. the evening?"
"I'm blind
wouldn't reco)
"Well, take
there, then tat
"I'll try," \
"That dress
Rites of Passage 341
ly, sizing up the new green and blue silk (artificial). "Just
slap on a little more warpaint, sweetheart, and go in there
pitching."
The party at Hank Masterson's is for a visiting poet
whom Morag has not read.
She goes back upstairs and applies more lipstick. She
dislikes and feels alienated from herself with a lot of
makeup on. She has, however, minimal faith in her own
judgement. After all, the women who are successful with
men always plaster all this gloop on their faces. Fan's
paint job takes her about forty-five minutes. Is it the
makeup or Fan's inner assurance that does the trick? Or
just the fact that Fan really doesn't give a damn about
men, and certainly doesn't need one sexually and is hence
in a very good bargaining position? Bargaining position.
One of the sexual postures not mentioned in the Kama
Sutra. Postures. The ways in which one lies. Oh, shut up.
"I'm not that fond of games," Morag tells the mirror.
"Well, then, why not stay home with your knitting?"
the mirror replies, meanly.
Angrily, Morag slaps on more lipstick. Then, angrily,
takes most of it off again.
"Were you speaking to me, Mrs. Gunn?" the teenage
babysitter enquires, appearing at the bathroom door.
"No, Carol. Just talking to myself."
"Oh. I see."
Carol, you can bet, does not talk to herself. She talks
interminably to Morag, when given the chance, about her
boyfriends, of whom there are about three hundred, at a
rough estimate.
"Your cab's here," Fan shouts up the stairway.
The Mastersons' house is large and elegant. Hank, out
of genuine kindness, tries to steer Morag towards men
who are single, divorced or separated. Morag resents this
obvious ploy, but is grateful for the motive behind it.
After the second scotch, she drinks very slowly. A lady on
the make. It doesn't sound too pleasant. On the other
hand, why doesn't it?
342 Ine Diviners
Morag never gets to meet the visiting celebrity. He is
surrounded by a breathless group, all women, who possibly
think it would be nifty to be able to say you'd slept
with a well-known poet. Morag has observed this phenomenon
at Hank's parties before. The woods are perceptibly
not full of an equal number of breathless men who
have designs upon women writers.
But hist! What have we here?
"Hi. My name's Harold."
About Morag's height. Sandy hair. Glasses. Blond hair
on wrists. Blue eyes. Jovial, and slightly drunk.
Harold is a broadcaster. He reads the news. He does not
read many books, but of course he would like to, if ever he
had the time for it. He has recently split up with his wife,
who has their two kids. He misses the kids, and can see
them only every other Sunday and even then his wife is
always there, so how can he talk to them, with her sitting
there vetting his every word?
"Are you married, Morag?"
"Divorced."
The evening grinds on.
"Can I drive you home?" Harold asks, an hour later.
In the car, complex problems go on in Morag's head.
Should she ask him up for a drink, or would he interpret
that as over-eagerness? Impossible, anyway, as Carol is
there. Why worry about Carol? Because Carol will tell her
ma, is why, and Carol's mother will then refuse to allow
her innocent (ha ha) daughter to babysit for an immoral
lady who brings men home. If Harold makes the suggestion
should Morag go to his apartment instead? Nope.
Two strikes against that one. Carol has to be home by
midnight. Secondly, Morag does not have her diaphragm
with her - she will never carry it in her purse, as that
seems in some mysterious way unprincipled and also
probably a bad omen.
Harold stops the car in front of the house on Begonia
Road. He carefully takes off his glasses and places them in
Rites of Passage 343
the glove compartment. Morag's glasses are in her handbag
and she feels as though she is looking at the world
through six fathoms of seawater. Then Harold kisses her.
Morag struggles with her sex so as not to appear to respond
with instant swiftness. The poor guy doesn't want
to be raped, after all. But he seems pretty eager, too.
"Can I come up to your place for a while, Morag?"
"Yes," she says, and then, "but do you mind waiting
here in the car until the babysitter's gone home?"
"You've got a kid?" Harold enquires, as though appalled.
"I didn't know you had a kid."
Is this the exit line?
"Well, I do," Morag says flatly.
"How old?"
"One."
What is he thinking, and why doesn't he say? Why ask
how old? Is one year old okay - not talking yet, or not
much, and presumably not likely to come pattering in at
the wrong moment? What if she'd said three orfive^
"Well, sure, okay," Harold says finally. "I'll wait here."
When Carol has trotted off home, Harold comes
upstairs. Morag has checked on Pique. Asleep, thank
God.
The appropriate rituals have to be observed. A drink.
Lighting cigarettes which are obviously going to burn
away in the ashtray. Morag wonders if Harold is only
doing it this way because he thinks she expects it. If he
thought she didn't expect this small theatrical act before
the real act, he'd be out of here like a shot, probably.
Jules never put on that act. But then Jules was never
much of a games-player. At this thought, and at her sudden
terrible desire to see Jules and hold him, Morag feels
she is betraying the man here with her now.
They then are in bed, and this man now and here is
inside her, and Morag is present here and now. Her need
for him, for the pressure of his sex, is so great that she
finds it difficult to hold back enough to accommodate his
time. He has drunk a lot mor
consequence slower. Then she c;
consciousness is submerged, d
gladness.
He laughs a little.
"You wanted that for a long)
This is true. But she does no
voice. On the other hand, poss
all, but only resentment or ever
he has not yet come. Morag w
does not know what words we
She tries to bring him, not kno\ for him, and not wanting to ask
frenzy succeeds, or appears to.
that Morag is not sure it has n
she ruined it for him by bein^ booze? She won't ever know. T
ciation now hurts her.
Harold kisses her lightly at tl
"I'll call you," he says.
Morag's own uncertainty tell
him again. But if he did think hi
he may call again in order to sh
That is an unworthy thought,
Harold does phone, for what
later.
"My, my, living it up, aren'
proval, as Morag waits for Hare
Restaurant. Dinner. Then ba
which is glossy and looks unliv
little, and ultimately comes will
For Morag, it is less good than t
finds it difficult to understand w
seems to be threatening her spir
"That was great, eh?" Harok
"Yes."
She smiles at him, and wondt talk about. Dinner has exhaus
Rites of Passage 345
job at the radio station, his dislike of smartass disc-jockeys
who think they own the place, the ways in which a
broadcaster has to look after his voice, how to avoid laryngitis,
and so on.
They get dressed, and Harold in a remarkably short
time goes through half a bottle of rye, probably out of
sheer relief.
"My wife," Harold says, "is the bitchiest bitch in this
town, you know that? The first year we're married, I go
four thousand bucks into debt on account of her. And
now she's saying she's going to take me to the cleaner's for
alimony. She admits it quite openly. She's out to ruin me.
I'm fighting it, though. Just before we split up, she was
berserk, I kid you not. Broke dishes, the whole bit. Said
I'd been running around. I wasn't running around, Morag.
Sure, okay, there'd been a coupla women, but they
didn't mean anything."
"Yeh. Well, maybe she was jealous. I mean, of you. If
she hadn't been doing the same thing. Maybe she felt she
lacked experience, or something."
"Who, her? Not a chance. She was this little girl from
Blackfly, B.C., a little mouse. Or so I thought until she
blew her stack. She got really impossible, I'm telling you. I
couldn't take the dog for a walk but what she'd be quizzing
me when I got back. And yell. Could that woman
yell. Want another drink?"
"No, thanks. I have to be getting home."
"In a minute. Well, like I was saying -"
Morag is bored and anxious. Her sympathies are increasingly
with Harold's wife. This makes her feel apologetic
towards Harold. She has been using him. He, however,
has also been using her.
"Harold, don't bother driving me home, eh? I'll get a
cab."
"Absolutely not. You'll do no such thing. I won't allow
it. One more for the road, and then I'll drive you."
Harold handles the car with reckless zeal. Morag curses
herself.
346 The Diviners
Jesus, lover of my soul, get me out of this. Please please
please.
"For God's sake, Harold, don't drive so fast."
"I'm okay. I always get there safely. Just relax, relax."
Through some miracle, he does indeed pilot the car to
Begonia Road. Then things become all at once strange. He
takes Morag's hand and sits quietly for a moment. This
gesture surprises her, so she waits, wondering if he is all
right. Should she suggest black coffee?
"Know something, Morag?" he says finally.
"What?"
His grip tightens on Morag's hand.
"I really love that woman," he says. "And it was always
great, in bed. And then, you know what she said to me
when I moved out? She said it had never been any good
for her. Never. Not even once. That's what she told me."
What is there to say? Who hurts whom?
Harold puts his head down on the steering wheel and
cries. Morag holds his hand. That is all she can think of,
to do. At last he raises his head and takes off his glasses.
Dries them with a Kleenex. It is only when she sees his
determined hands mopping the surface of his glasses with
the flimsy white tissue that Morag wants also to cry.
"Sorry about that," he says brusquely.
"It's all right. Really. It's okay."
"Well - goodnight."
He does not phone her again, of course, but she knows
he has got back safely to his apartment because she hears
him reading the news the next day.
Even if he had called, she would not really have wanted
to see him again. Sadness is everywhere.
Memorybank Movie: Chas
Snapshot: Pique, age three and a half, clad in overalls and
a T-shirt, her dark and now-long hair in a ponytail, grins
gleefully as she sits on the new swing in the back yard of
the house on Begonia Road. This is all that the picture
Rites of Passage 347
shows - a small girl, who looks like both her parents and
like neither, smiling over a new swing. When Pique grows
up, will she have any memory of the other things from this
time, the things which the snapshot doesn't show?
"Tell another story. Mum."
"One more, and then you go to sleep, and no argument,
okay?"
"Okay." Laughter.
"You're a monkey. Pique."
"No, I'm not. I'm full of beans."
"You sure are. All right - settle down."
Pique is still at the small-animal type of story. Once
upon a time there was a robin, etcetera. Later on, will
Morag tell her the old tales of Piper Gunn who led his
people on the long march up north, and Rider Tonnerre
the buffalo hunter? Will Pique want to hear the stories, or
only be bored?
The story over. Pique still tries.
"I feel sick, Mum."
"Listen," Morag says with chagrin, "you were fine five
minutes ago. Where do you feel sick?"
"Here." Hand on stomach.
The old problem. Is Pique play-acting or not? Is this
guile or the beginning of appendicitis? How to tell? Morag
goes by the theory that the kid will either get better or will
get worse, perceptibly, and if the latter, then it will be time
enough to phone the doctor. In practise, however, Morag
worries incessantly at such times and often phones the
doctor unnecessarily.
"Well, listen, honey, you just try to sleep now and I'll
come in after a while and see how you are."
Morag reads in the livingroom for an hour, and then
goes into the child's bedroom. Pique is asleep.
The doorbell. Morag flies downstairs to stop whoever it
is from ringing again and waking Pique. It is Chas, one of
Fan's occasion
lie, just Chas.
which is nonet
owing to the ii repels and attr;
"Fan's gone
"I know.Ic
"You might
ing that this ca
"I was drivi
in. I saw your 1 Yeh, well it \ "Pique's no
stay for a drini
"We won't
Fan's livingroc
You did, eh.
what you can c This is not v
"Well, just o
to work."
Why does sl She's tired. Sl minute possibi
speaking to no
for months, pi
obediently thn
Fan's kitchen.
"You're a go
with minimum you're stand-oi Standoffish He shortly fi
This is insan
rate entities. Sl
is about to go
for a while. Pie
"Don't go
Rites of Passage 349
searching for the condom which he has prudently stashed
away somewhere. "I can't wait."
"All right."
She wishes he would shut up. She does not want to hear
his voice. This is not related to making love with a lover or
even a friend. They screw like animals all over Fan's living
room, and it is, quite truthfully, fine. When they are both
exhausted, Morag pulls away and scrambles back into her
clothes. Chas laughs.
"Why the hurry?"
She doesn't know. She usually feels at home with herself
and with a man, when naked. Yes, she doesn't know,
though. He is getting dressed now, too.
"Chas, you better go now. I have to get back upstairs."
"I'm coming with you. I'll stay the night."
"No, you won't."
Chas's hands are long and slender, and they do not look
all that strong, but are. He holds her arm and bends it
slowly backward.
"Am I coming upstairs with you, Morag?"
She realizes now that she knows absolutely nothing
about him. She does not even know his last name. She is
alone in this house with Pique and this lunatic. Maybe he
gets his kicks this way. What if he breaks her arm? What
if he strangles her? It happens. No one could ever say she
hadn't asked for it. Seldom has Morag been as frightened
as she is this minute.
What if he goes upstairs and does something to the
child?
Morag twists around to lessen the pain. No use appealing
to him. Words won't reach him. As soon appeal to a
rabid dog. She does not say anything. She is fairly strong,
physically, but not nearly as strong as Chas. She is thinking
very quickly and she knows that it is better not to do
anything precipitous. (Fan's ma used to knee her husband
in the groin - ugh.) Unless he heads for that staircase.
Morag knows something she did not know before. She is
capable of killing, at least under this one circumstance.
Fan keeps the butche
left in the cupboard t
her mind almost visu;
They struggle with and or two. Then theil alight with a hatred
acid. And Morag rea
same thing in her owi
He drops her arm.
"Did I scare you, ^
"Get out."
"I just wanted to si
just a joke. Can't you
"Get out."
"Okay," he says. "
He brings up one h
he hits her with full f(
He walks out will
Morag breathes deep
hall and lock the fron
is locked. She goes bs the bottle. She takes i
the sink. She then go
up.
Only then does sh
quietly and looks at P
there. She is there, ar
bath and after several
He's sick. And I ha
it? Because I needed a
Why isn't it? Why t
thinks I'm a whore?
whore doesn 'tfeel likt
Pique continues slei
breathing is normal.
too quiet?
I know it doesn't m don't believe it. My he
Rites of Passage 351
tion is unreal. But my blood somehow retains it from
ancient times.
Pique does not become ill. What happens is that Morag
is more than a week late with her period that month. She
stops work on the novel. She becomes absentminded, except
in looking after Pique, which she does with exaggerated
care.
"Whatsamatter, sweetheart?" Fan asks. "You're awfully
quiet these past few days."
Morag, against her will and judgement, explains. The
point has been reached when she has to talk to someone.
"Holy mackerel, him," Fan says. "Well, I wish you had
of asked me about him first. You needn't apologize to me
that it was him. I wouldn't touch him with a barge pole.
Don't worry, sweetheart. It's probably just the worry
that's delaying you. But if not, I know where you can go."
There would certainly be no alternative. Morag detests
the whole idea of having a living creature torn out of her
body. But there is no way she is going to bear a child to a
man she despises. She imagines it growing in her flesh,
totally unknowing, a human which cannot be permitted
its life under any circumstances.
Why hadn't she at least put in her diaphragm? The
condom was probably faulty. What if Fan's contacts have
moved and she cannot find anyone? What about payment?
What if she hasn't got enough money? What if she is
forced to bear it? It happens all the time. No way out.
Trapped irrevocably. No say in the matter. And to look
after it until it is an adult? Every day seeing Chas' cat-eyes
burning at her? Eighteen years. She would have to try to
love it. It would be part hers, and its own person. But
could she?
"Come on. Pique - eat your dinner."
"You aren't eating yours," Pique points out.
"I'm just going to." But how?
When she puts Pique to bed, she has to go through the
storytelling.
"About the robins, Mum. Tell that one."
#
Rites of Passage 353
seems to demand, so I've quit fighting it. I've got the first
draft nearly done now, so don't mind saying a bit about it,
although it'll take a lot of rewriting. It's called Prospero's
Child, she being the young woman who marries His Excellency,
the Governor of some island in some ocean very far south,
and who virtually worships him and then who has to go to the
opposite extreme and reject nearly everything about him, at
least for a time, in order to become her own person. It's as
much the story of H.E. I've always wondered if Prospero
really would be able to give up his magical advantages once
and for all, as he intends to do at the end of The Tempest. That incredibly moving statement - "What strength I have's
mine own. Which is most faint -" If only he can hang onto
that knowledge, that would be true strength. And the recognition
that his real enemy is despair within, and that he stands
in need of grace, like everyone else - Shakespeare did know
just about everything. I know it's presumptuous of me to try
to put this into some different and contemporary framework
and relevance, but I can't help it. Well, hell, maybe it's not so
presumptuous, at that.
Enough of this. Fan put on a display with Tiny (her python,
if you recall) the other day, for Pique and me. I've
always refused before. That snake is no friend of mine, although
I admit it's never damaged anyone. Pique, however, is
totally unafraid. Fan put on her Princess Eureka outfit, which
is a few gauzy bits of chiffon (mauve), some gold lace and a
sprinkling of sequins. Also some mauve feathers stuck in a
small turban-like concoction, which on Fan's flaming hair
looks pretty strange. So there she is, winding Tiny around her
wrists and neck, and meantime gyrating her hips and belly, all
the time complaining we aren't getting the full effect because
the oriental music on the record player doesn't give the same
atmosphere as the band at The Figleaf. Pique thought it was
sublime. It is kind of impressive, too. Fan loved having such
an appreciative audience. I think she's actually quite fond of
Pique now. I worry sometimes about Fan, though. Her nerves
are terrible and her age is beginning to show. She says she
never gives a thought to the future. I wonder.
356 The Diviners
Tiny's first and last picture. That evening, about the time
when Fan is due to take off for the club, Morag hears a
scream from downstairs.
"Mum, what is it?" Pique is terrified.
"It's okay, honey. I don't know. You wait here, eh?"
Morag dashes downstairs. No sign of Fan. The screams
go on. The basement.
"Fan, what is it?"
Fan looks up. She is kneeling beside the snake's cage.
She stops screaming and begins to cry, noisily, hiccupping
and snuffling. She looks ridiculous, except that it isn't
funny.
"He's dead, Morag."
"What?"
"Go on up and phone Marilyn at the club, will you? Tell
her I'm sick. No - may as well tell her the truth. Say I
won't be in tonight, and say why."
Morag does so, and then returns to the basement, pausing
only to yell up the stairs to reassure Pique, who is now
wailing.
Fan is holding the lifeless reptilian coils on her arms. A
live python is bad enough, but the sight of Fan cradling
the now-defunct Tiny is enough to make Morag's stomach
turn over.
"I thought he was poorly, just lately," Fan says, "and I
know I should of taken him to the vet, but that goddamn
vet is so mean, Morag - always saying snakes aren't his
cuppa tea and that. Won't hardly look at Tiny. So I never
went. And now see what's happened. It's all my fault."
"Fan - it is not all your fault. You've had Tiny for more
than four years, and heaven only knows how old he was
when you bought him."
"I've had my innings with him," Fan admits, calming
somewhat.
Then she puts the limp body back in the cage and looks
|| up, fear in her eyes.
"It was a gimmick, Morag. To stave off what was comRites of Passage 357
ing up even then - me getting too old for the dance bit.
What'll I do now?"
What indeed? With her hard-masked makeup now runnelled
with tears. Fan's face looks like cracked glass. The
burning auburn coiffure has come unstuck, and the curls
are in messy disarray. Fan's thin hands are shaking, and
she looks old. Is it a crime to look old? In Fan's business,
yes.
"First thing, come upstairs and I'll fix you a drink,
Fan. We'll think later."
Fan permits herself to be led up into the kitchen. Morag
shoves a strong rye and water into her hands and then
goes upstairs to tell Pique the bad news.
Pique sobs.
Morag has the feeling that everything is both ludicrous
and frightening. Pique is finally prevailed upon to be
brave, and Morag goes back to Fan's kitchen. Fan has
finished the drink and is pouring another. She is now dryeyed,
calm to a chilling degree.
"Well, that's me finished," she says.
"Fan, that's crazy," Morag says, without conviction.
"There must be something else "
"Like, for example, what?"
Morag does not know.
"Well, look, you can't do anything until you go back
tomorrow and see what's what."
"I can hardly wait," Fan says.
An hour later, both fairly drunk, they bury the snake in
the garden.
"I feel like a murderer concealing the victim," Morag
says.
"If I sell this house and somebody digs up this when
they're planting potatoes, it'll sure give them a turn," Fan
says with a small burst of unbalanced laughter.
Next day. Pique and Morag make a headstone, as
Pique thinks this would be a suitable thing to do.
Fan dances no more. Neither, fortunately, does she find
herself out of work. F
rette-girljob, but wit)
in the coat-check r<
starvation. She no 1
Morag, on the balcon;
ing the Princess Eure^
As a result of the ac
Morag's finances imp
paying Fan more reni
no longer pretends ne
she no longer has one
"Someone for you, ^
Morag goes down;
Her first thought is
Child. Her next thoi
stairs in her colouri
whether it would be
Would it hurt him? V
does not truthfully fe
"Brooke! Why? Ai
"From your publis
"I'm - fine."
How are you? 1 am
home. Brooke looks
few lines on his fore!
some, as impressive a
"We just happenec
"so I thought I'd loc
with you."
"We?"
"My wife and I," 1
the car. May we coi
long."
"Certainly. Of cou:
Brooke's wife is yo
Rites of Passage 359
biy not much so. Her name is Anne, and she is slender and
extremely well turned out. Subdued but very smart crimson
wool dress, high-heeled shoes, fair hair in a smooth
bouffant hairdo, small gold earrings. Morag suddenly
realizes that she herself is wearing black slacks which need
dry-cleaning, and a white turtleneck sweater which sags
all over, having stretched at the last washing. Her hair
straight, halfway down her back. Circus freak.
Both Brooke and Anne sit rather uneasily on the edges
of their chairs. Now, of course, Morag wants Brooke to
see Pique.
"This is my daughter. Pique, this is - an old friend of
mine, Brooke Skelton. And - Mrs. Skelton."
Pique says a desultory Hi and returns to the pink house
with purple chimney which she is creating.
"Do you like it here, Morag? You're getting along all
right?"
Brooke is, she sees, genuinely concerned, whatever other
motives he may have had.
"Fine," she says quickly. "Fan's not really a landlady.
More a friend. She's in kind of bad shape right now. Her
snake's just died."
Good heavens - why babble on about that?
"'Snake?'" Anne says.
Morag explains. Brooke smiles, but somewhat forcedly.
They stay barely fifteen minutes and refuse a drink.
Brooke does not say whether or not he has read the novel.
They depart, as politely and mysteriously as they have
arrived.
Why? To see if I really was all right? Or only to allow
me to see his wife? I could have asked them into Fan's
livingroom. I didn't have to take them upstairs. But I had
to show off Pique.
They have had to hurt one another, evidently, this one
last time.
Brooke, forgive me. May we forgive one another for
what neither of us could help.
<
a
t
Rites of Passage 361
rolled up. It is his face which looks now more like the face
of Lazarus, the narrowed eyes seeming more sunken than
before, the bones more obvious, the lines in the skin
etched deeper.
What is he thinking of her, of how she looks?
"Aren't you even going to say hello?" he says.
Morag goes to him then, but still with uncertainty, not
doing what she wants to do, which is to hold him tightly.
What if he does not want her to hold him? When she
touches him, however, and catches the warm dust and salt
sweat smell of his skin, she forgets to wonder what he is
thinking of her. They hold one another with strength, not
kissing, just holding together, but Morag can feel his sex
stiffening inside his jeans, and her own sex responding.
"I take it," Fan says, disappearing into her livingroom,
"that you do know this guy, then."
Unclinch, and they both laugh.
"She's upstairs?" Jules asks.
"Pique? Yes."
"That's what you call her?"
"Yes. Skinner, I couldn't call her, every day, by the "
"Okay, okay," he says quickly. "You don't need to go
into it. What'd you say of me, to her?"
What indeed? Many things, beginning when Pique first
learned language.
"Oh hell," Morag says, "it'll probably sound like shit to
you. I told her you had to be away because you had to sing
songs for lots of people - a person has to put things kind
of simply for a little kid - and maybe someday you'd sing
them for her. I guess I've told her a few lies, like saying
you'd written and asked after her. Maybe I'd have done
better just to say it was my idea to have her born, mine
only -"
Jules reaches out and takes her right wrist in his hand.
"Sure, Morag," he says. "She's yours, all right. But
she's mine too, eh?"
They're mine, them, there. Lazarus at the fire. Lazarus,
snarling his pain, a stranger in the place where he lived his
362 The Diviners
whole life. Lazarus, dead at fifty-one. Will Morag tell
Pique all she knows of Lazarus, or of Christie, for that
matter? How will the tales change in the telling?
"Yes. She's yours, too. Come on up."
Pique, Morag now sees, is stationed quietly in the
upstairs hall, listening, peering through the stair railing.
Pique's eyes are very wide and serious, and it is impossible
to tell what she is thinking. She looks straight at
Jules.
"I know who you are," she says.
"Sure," Jules says, looking at her carefully, but not
approaching too closely. "Of course. Hi."
He walks in and sits down at the table.
"God, I'm beat. Got a drink, Morag?"
"A little rye. Some beer."
"Let's try the rye first, eh?"
He is not ignoring Pique, but neither is he forcing her to
recognize him, or to talk.
"I got a picture of you," he says finally to Pique.
"Of me? How come? Where is it? Can I see it?"
"Sure. It's right here."
He pulls out his wallet and shows her the snapshot of
herself, aged two months.
"Hey, I know that one," Pique says. "It's in our book."
"It's got your name on it," Jules says, grinning.
He turns it over. On the back he has written Piquette
Gunn Tonnerre. In that order.
"Are you really - you know?" Pique asks.
"Yeh. Want me to say it for you? Your dad. Yeh, I am."
Pique is silent for a while, but remains beside him.
"How long will you be in Vancouver?" Morag asks.
"Hard to say. Coupla months, maybe."
"Want to stay here?"
"Sure." Then he laughs. "You got room for me?"
"Yes. I've got room for you."
Pique says very little more that evening. This new presence
is obviously going to take some getting used to. And
what, then, when he goes away, as he will? Time enough
Rites of Passage 363
to think of that then. When Pique goes to bed, she says
goodnight to Jules, but from a distance. She does not call
him by any name.
"Why're you here, Jules?" Morag asks.
Jules opens another beer. He does not look at her.
"My sister Val. She's sick."
"I never knew she was living here. What's the matter
with her?"
"She's - how the hell should I know what's the matter
with her? She's just sick."
"Is she in hospital?"
"Not yet. I'm trying to get her to go."
"Why won't she?"
"Because she's a crazy woman, is why. She don't want
no charity, that's what she says. Charity, my asshole.
She's crazy. Let's talk about something else, eh?"
"Is there - I mean, could I help in any way?"
Jules puts his hand under her chin and looks at her,
only his mouth smiling, his eyes hard.
"No, lady, you could not help in any way."
"You never let me forget it, do you?"
"No. I never let you forget it."
"Where's the rest of your family, now?"
"Jacques moved up to Galloping Mountain awhile
back. He's some guy. He's not like me. Nor like Lazarus,
neither."
"There were two younger boys."
"Yeh. My youngest brother, Paul, he was drowned. He
was working up north as a guide. His canoe overturned at
some rapids. At least, that was the story. He just disappeared.
Body never found. The tourists, coupla American
guys, they got back all right after a few days in the bush,
and reported it to the Mounties. Jacques tried to get an
enquiry, but he never got to first base with it. They took
the tourists' word for it. Paul was the best hand with a
canoe I ever saw. They said he'd been out alone in it one
evening. We won't ever know."
"What - what do you think happened?"
364 The Diviners
"I don't know," Jules says slowly. "But I'm pretty
damn sure it wasn't what they said happened. So there's
only me and Jacques, now. Not many, eh?"
"And Valentine."
"Oh yeh. Her. Sure. For the time being."
"She's really that sick, then?"
"No. Not yet. Let's just say she's not gonna find out
how it feels to be an old woman. You know something,
Morag? After I wasn't killed there, at Dieppe, I had this
crazy idea, see? I thought nothing could kill me. I could do
any damn thing, and nothing could kill me. I didn't think
I'd live forever, or like that. Just - nothing could kill me
before my time."
"It's a nice thought. Maybe it's even true."
"It's a nice thought. But no, it isn't true. I'm not even
sure it's that nice a thought. Anyway, about Jacques. He's
got a small farm - the land's no hell, but he seems to like it
up there. It wouldn't suit me, but it suits him. Maybe he's
right. Maybe it's not too late for him and his. He doesn't
waste his time in brawls, like Lazarus used to, and I've
had my share of that, too, I guess. He never went berserk
when Paul got drowned, or whatever happened to him. I
never did, neither, although I guess I did, some. Val went
nuts. She was the one who looked after Paul the most,
when he was a little kid."
"When did it happen, Jules?"
"Two months ago. Know how old Paul was? He was
twenty-five."
What to say? There is nothing that can be said. Is this
one reason Jules has wanted to see Pique? Morag cannot
touch him right now, or say anything that might reach
him.
"What do you hear from Christie, Morag?" he asks
finally.
"He's - he's seventy now. He still lives in the old
house."
"You oughta go back," Jules says offhandedly. "You
oughta go back and housekeep for him, there. It's a hell of
Rites of Passage 365
a town, but this city's no place for the kid, once she's
older. It's a killer, and I mean it."
Morag's anger is directed against - whom?
"Listen, Jules, just don't tell me what to do, eh? It's the
one thing I can't stand. I can't go back. I cannot go back."
Jules takes her hand.
"Yen, I guess you can't. Okay. C'mon, Morag. We've
finished the beer. Let's go to bed."
We've finished the beer, so we may as well go to bed,
seeing as there's nothing better to do - is that what he
means? But when they are in bed, his sex rises quickly and
the tiredness falls away from him. They make love urgently,
both equal to each other's body in this urgent meeting
and grappling, this brief death of consciousness, this conscious
defiance of death. Only at the final moment does
Morag cry out, and he stops her cry with his mouth. They
are left drenched with sweat in the summer night, their
bodies slippery as spawning fish together.
"Let's sleep now," Jules says, "and after a while we'll
wake up and fuck some more, eh?"
In an hour or so, Morag wakens, and puts her head
between his legs, sweeping her hair across his thighs. She
takes his limp cock very gently in her mouth and caresses
it with her tongue, and it lengthens and grows hard before
he is even awake. Then he wakens and says deeper. After a
while, she disentangles and he raises her until she is looking
into his face in the grey-light of the room.
"Ride my stallion, Morag."
So she mounts him. He holds her shoulders and her
long hair, penetrating up into her until she knows he has
reached whatever core of being she has. This time it is he
who cries out. Afterwards, they do not speak, but they go
to sleep this time in each other's arms and remain so until
the morning comes.
Jules goes out most days and stays away until dinnertime.
Morag does not ask him where he has been, and he does
366 The Diviners
not say. He tells her one day that Val is in hospital. Two
weeks later, he says Val has left hospital. Cured? Discharged
herself without cure? He doesn't say. Perhaps he
would even in some ways like to talk to Morag about it, if
he felt there was a way he could do so without betraying
Val, but he clearly does not. Occasionally he comes back
shambling drunk, but always very late at night when
Pique is asleep, and the next day he sleeps late and is
irritable. Usually, however, when the depressions hit him,
he merely retreats into silence. Sometimes he sits for an
entire evening with Morag, after Pique has gone to bed,
and does not speak at all. Sometimes he turns to her in his
half-sleep, and holds onto her, shaking in every nerve. But
the next morning he does not remember.
He is not morose with Pique, nor does he ever get angry
at her, even though (once she grows accustomed to him,
which takes a surprisingly short time, at least on the surface)
she often pesters him with questions or with her
witty converse, hoping to impress him. He permits himself
to be impressed, then makes fun of her, but gently, so that
she laughs.
"So you're not gonna call me Dad, eh?" he says to her
one evening.
"Do you want me to?" she asks.
"Naw - I don't give a shit, really."
"Then I won't."
"What if I'm kidding you, there? What if I want you
to?"
"Then I will."
"Okay, so I do, then."
"Okay, I will, then. I guess."
But the word does not come easily to her. After a while
she finds she can actually speak it, and then it is easy. So
easy and needed that she peppers her talk with it.
"We've got a film in our camera. Dad. Hey, Dad, can
you take a picture of me, Dad?"
So he does. A picture of Morag and Pique. He will not
let Morag take his picture, not even with Pique.
Rites of Passage 367
"Skinner - why not?"
Jules hands the camera back to her, and hitches his belt
up around his hips. He tosses back the mane of hair from
his forehead and eyes, and laughs a little, warning her.
"Search me. Maybe I'm superstitious. Or maybe it's the
same as I can't make up songs about myself. Maybe I
don't want to see what I look like. I'm going on okay this
way. Let's not get fancy about it."
That evening, Jules gets out his guitar.
"Are you still working with Billy Joe?" Morag asks.
"Yeh. We had a country and western group going for a
while, there, but then we split up. So it's just me and Billy
again, now. We travel some. More coffee-houses than used
to be, but a lotta kids coming up now, singing, too, which
is great for them but a bit more difficult for guys like me
and Billy Joe. Anyhow, this is the one I did for Old Jules,
my grandad. You remember, I told you once?"
"I remember."
Pique sits quietly beside Morag, not asking any questions,
waiting. And Skinner sings.
The Metis they met from the whole prairie
To keep their lands, to keep them free,
They gathered there in the valley Qu'Appelle
Alongside their leader, Louis Riel.
They took their rifles into their hands
They fought to keep their fathers' lands,
And one of them who gathered there
Was a Metis boy called Jules Tonnerre.
He is not more than eighteen years;
He will not listen to his fears.
His heart is true, his heart is strong;
He knows the land where his people belong.
Macdonald, he sits in Ottawa,
Drinking down his whiskey raw,
368 The Diviners
Sends out west ten thousand men,
Swears the Metis will not rise again.
The young Anglais from Ontario,
Out to the west they swiftly go;
They don't know what they're fighting for,
But they've got the cannon, so it must be war.
It was near Batoche, in Saskatchewan,
The Metis bullets were nearly gone;
"If I was a wolf, I'd seek my lair,
But a man must try," said Jules Tonnerre.
Riel, he walks with the Cross held high,
To bless his men so they may not die;
"God bless Riel," says Jules Tonnerre,
"But the cannon Anglais won't listen to prayer.''
Dumont, he rides out to ambush the foe,
To hunt as he's hunted the buffalo;
He's the bravest heart on the whole prairie,
But he cannot save his hunted Metis.
Jules Tonnerre and his brothers, then,
They fought like animals, fought like men.
"Before the earth will take our bones,
We'll load our muskets with nails and stones."
They loaded their muskets with nails and stones,
They fought together and they fought alone;
And Jules, he fell with steel in his thigh,
And he prayed his God that he might not die.
He woke and found no soul around,
The deadmen hanging onto the ground;
The birds sang in the prairie air.
"Now, it's over, then," said Jules Tonnerre.
Rites of Passage 369
Riel, he was hanged in Regina one day;
Dumont, he crossed the U.S.A.
"Of sorrow's bread I've eaten my share,
But I won't choke yet," said Jules Tonnerre.
He took his Cross and he took his gun,
Went back to the place where he'd begun.
He lived on drink and he lived on prayer,
But the heart was gone from Jules Tonnerre.
Still, he lived his years and he raised his son,
Shouldered his life till it was done;
His voice is one the wind will tell
In the prairie valley that's called Qu'Appelle.
They say the dead don't always die;
They say the truth outlives the lie The
night wind calls their voices there,
The Metis men, like Jules Tonnerre.
They are silent for a while. Morag wonders whether he
has not, after all, sung it for her as much as for Pique.
Pique likes the tune, and the strong simple rhythm, but
otherwise it is lost on her. It is not lost on Morag. The
echoes, and all the things he could never bring himself to
say in ordinary speech, have found their way into the song.
"Hey, you're crying, kind of," Pique says, looking at
Morag in curiosity and perhaps embarrassment. "Didn't
you like that song? I did."
"I liked it fine," Morag says.
She glances at Jules, who is re-tuning his guitar.
"Yeh. Well. It's good you like it," he says. "It's too long
for a lotta people, and they can't listen right through. The
older ones, that is. Older, hell - about my age. Or they
don't wanna know about it, and start yellin' why don't I
sing 'Yellow Rose of Texas' or like that. Jesus."
He turns to Pique.
370 The Diviners
"Hey, that song's about your great-grandad. How
about that?"
But the concept of great-grandfather is too distant for
her, even when he explains. She looks bewildered. But
wants to please him.
"Sing it again," she says.
"No, I'll sing you some others now. I'll sing you that
one again someday."
Someday. He doesn't mean tomorrow or next week.
When will someday be? Maybe never. For now, he sings
some of the songs he made up for Billy Joe's kids, songs
with some quality of laughter in them, some of them
based on Ojibway tales and some of them speaking of the
kids for whom he wrote them, naming names. Joking.
Pique is excited by these songs.
"I want a song for me. Dad. Hey, would you?"
"Maybe someday," Jules says. "Or maybe you'll make
up a song for me. How about that, eh?"
"I don't know how," Pique says defensively, sulkily.
"Hell, neither do I," Jules says, "but I do it all the
same."
After this, he sings for them often. He says he is working
on a song about Lazarus, but he does not sing that one.
"Well, I gotta move," Jules says, one evening. "It's
time."
He says this to Morag, not to Pique. He does not say
goodbye to Pique. The last night he is there, he and Morag
lie together, their arms lightly around one another,
their hands sometimes stroking the other's skin, but not
speaking and not making love. Morag does not think she
will sleep, but she does. In the morning, when she wakens,
he is not there. He has stayed two months.
Pique says nothing when Morag tells her that Jules has
gone. She does not question why he came here nor why he
went away. What may come of this, later on, Morag cannot
know.
Rites of Passage 371
"I have lost my job," Fan says. "I have been given the
axe."
"Oh God, Fan. What're you going to do?"
"I will go back to the Okanagan," Fan says, steadily,
her face broken. "My sister's still got the place there,
sweetheart. I will go back and I will cook the jesus meals
or feed the chickens or whatever else they ask me to do.
And I'll live there until I die, which may not be that long,
but probably will be. Fan Brady at age seventy-five or
eighty - how does that grab you? Well, I can do it if I put
my mind to it. I grew up there."
"Fan "
"Oh hell, Morag "
They hold onto one another for a second.
"What'll you do, Morag?"
"I'll go to England. And Scotland, sometime."
"England? Scotland? Why?"
"I've known for a long time I had to go there. Fan. I
can't explain it, exactly. I guess I've been waiting for the
right moment."
"Hey, did you want to go before, Morag? I mean, you
haven't stayed here on account of me?"
"Hell, no. Fan. I just needed something like this to get
me up off my ass."
"You sure?"
"Sure."
Is this true? It's true in the only way that matters, probably.
Fan accepts it.
"We'll keep in touch, eh? We will keep in touch,
Morag?"
"Of course."
They both know they won't. But will never forget,
either.
Nine
the screen door slammed, and Pique stood there,
wearing the usual old shirt and her jeans with Jules' brass-buckled belt. Looking great. How could any wornan's
belly be that flat and breasts upstanding and unsagging?
Morag's once were.
"Hi, Ma. You working?"
Morag was sitting at the oak table, momentarily staring
out at the river, the willows and maples on the opposite
bank stirring faintly in the merciful breeze, the August
heat parching the grass but turning human flesh sweatdank.
"I'm
not sure," Morag said, untruthfully, because she
had been.
This had been the pattern of life for how long? Morag at
this table, working, and people arriving and saying, in
effect. Please don't let me interrupt you. But they did interrupt her, damn it. The only thing that could be said
for it was that if no one ever entered that door, the situation
would be infinitely worse.
Pique drew up a chair and peered at Morag's notebook.
"Well, you seem to be putting down words, anyway."
"Yes."
"You sound discouraged," Pique said.
This was a question between Morag and the work. She
didn't want to talk about it.
"Oh, kind of, I guess. I don't know if I'll want it pub372
Rites of Passage 373
lished when it's finished. You look different. Pique. It's
your hair. Why braids?"
Pique drew one of the long black elastic-held braids
over her shoulder and stroked it lightly.
"Cooler. Keeps it away from my face in this weather.
Also, I'm part-Indian - it's suitable, isn't it?"
"I don't think I'm hearing you very accurately. What're
you trying to say?"
"I don't know," Pique said. "I don't want to be split. I
want to be together. But I'm not. I don't know where I
belong."
"Does it have to be either/or?"
Pique's eyes became angry.
"I don't guess you would know how it feels. Yes, maybe
it does have to be either/or. But I was brought up by you.
I never got much of the other side."
Once again, the reproach. Not to Jules; to Morag.
When Pique wielded that particular knife, it always found
its mark, as she very well knew.
"I told you what I could."
"Sure," Pique said. "But it wasn't much, was it? I never
knew what really happened. There was only that one time,
when my dad was here - when I was fifteen, eh? And he
said a lot of things. And the songs - I've got those. And he
said some more, when I saw him in Toronto, this time. But
some of those stories you used to tell me when I was a kid
- I never knew if they happened like that or not."
"Some did and some didn't, I guess. It doesn't matter a
damn. Don't you see?"
"No," Pique said, "I don't see. I want to know what
really happened."
Morag laughed. Unkindly, perhaps.
"You do, eh? Well, so do I. But there's no one version.
There just isn't."
"Maybe not," Pique said, dispiritedly. "I'm sorry, Ma,
going on like this. It's part of things which are worrying
me."
"Such as?"
374 The Diviners
"Clan and A-Okay are going to raise horses. D<
knows about horses - he was raised on a ranch in Albert
They bred palominos - worth a lot. A-Okay knows not
ing about it. But you know him. He's so serious. He
learn. They're gonna put the land to feed crops. A-Oki
will pay for the first coupla nags from the bread he mak
out of those articles. Dan's got a few hundred bucks p
by, as well. Clan says he can give riding lessons. I learned to ride western as a young kid, but then his d.
got these classy ideas and had him taught English style
wanted Clan to be a gent, what a laugh. When they've g
all this beautiful bloodstock or whatever you call it, they
sell selected ones."
"You don't sound exactly ecstatic," Morag said.
"I'm not," Pique said. "Where am I in this whole dee Listen, Clan and I - we've got on pretty well at A-Oka^ and Maudie's place. But Maudie and I, you know, we'
kind of different people, and sometimes her - well, I fe
awful saying it - her real goodness and gentleness, som
times they bug me. That is awful, isn't it?"
"Not so very," Morag said. "It bugs me sometime
too. She's too good to be true. Like Catharine Parr Trai
But she isn't, really. Pique. I mean, it's partly whistling
the dark."
"Oh sure. I know. Well, we do get on, generally, despi
her earth-mother bit. But when she says she feels h
vegetables out in the garden calling to her so she has to j
out and chat them up a little - well, sure it's funny, M
but sometimes I feel like saying Oh come on, Maudi
don't give me that bullshit. Anyway, this whole de<
Dan's quitting his job in McConnell's Landing, right? i Okay is bringing in some bread but not enough. Maud
obviously can't. She's got Tom, and she's doing all tl
cooking and looking after her vegetables and chickens ar
that. But we need a little something coming in, obviousl
So guess who's appointed? And working as a cashier in
supermarket doesn't really grab me that much."
"Have you told Clan?"
Rues of Passage 375
"Sure. He says it won't last all that long, and when the
horses are bringing in some cash, I can help on the farm.
Well, that's okay, if it was outside work. I mean, with
Maudie, who could really help with the meals? And would
I want to, anyway? I'm not much on cooking. But I'm not
sure I want to stay here. Only, Clan doesn't want to
move."
"Where do you want to go. Pique?"
"West, I guess. Maybe not this minute. But soon. I
guess, like, I have to."
"Wouldn't Clan go as well, for a while?"
"I can't ask him to, unless he really wants to. And he
doesn't. He doesn't ever want to go west again, he says. He
says he's had it up to here. Trouble is, I really care about
him."
"I know."
Silence.
"I gotta get back," Pique said, finally. "Sunday, day of
rest, what a laugh, eh?"
"It'll be all right, Pique. It'll work out."
"Yeh. Probably."
Clan came over late that afternoon, by himself, docking
the boat a little clumsily, still not totally accustomed to
boats, banging it broadside against Morag's dock instead
of nosing it in gently as Pique did.
"Can I come in, Morag?"
"Certainly. Of course."
How to write a novel without hardly trying. Morag
folded up her notebook, cursing silently.
Lord, I am concerned about them all. But my God,
when am I going to get any work done? And yet if they
didn't want to talk, I'd be sorry.
Clan Scranton stood awkwardly in the doorway, and
finally sat down and accepted a cup of coffee. The ritual come
in, have a cup of coffee. He did not speak for several
minutes, but when he did, he came right to the point.
M
376 The Divin
"I get this feeling you don't like i Oh jesus. They were so easily
despite their proclaimed lack offa
it this time?
"Sure, I like you," Morag sai< "What would give you the idea I d
"You hardly ever call me by my
templatively.
"That hasn't anything to do ^ reluctantly. "I once knew a man w
still know him, for that matter, I:
country, and anyway "
The reaction was instantaneous.
"It's okay," Clan Scranton sa
picking up the needed message r4
ing to know more than the basil "You don't have to say any more.
"I'll try to call you by your nam
"It doesn't matter," Clan said,
probably too anxious to have pec imagine they don't."
"Pique told me about the horse
"Yeh," Clan said. "And there is
work. Only thing, why would P
again, just now? I mean, at this po
"Don't ask me. To look for her
"Has she got any? Back there?"
"Only one uncle, as far as I know
course a lot of cousins by now, I e;
sure it's that - I mean, those specif
"I sort of know," Clan said, "anc to persuade her not to go. If she t But I can't go. Not yet, anyway. M
afraid to go back, even if it's not to
really hated the prairies when I lit
"I know. So did 1.1 felt that wa:
I grew up. Then I found the who
head, for as long as I live."
Rites of Passage 377
"That's terrible," Clan said.
"No. No, it isn't terrible at all."
"For me, it would be. I can't stand the thought. The
land, yes - my God, who could help caring about land like
that? It's the people I can't stand, some of them, anyway.
One in particular, I guess. When I was a kid, you know, I
thought my dad was a real hero - I guess it would've been
better if I'd never got along with him. But I did. I thought
he was great. And maybe in some ways he even is great.
He comes on very strong. Most people admire him. He
still runs the place. He's a very wealthy guy now, although
once he wasn't. He belongs to all the right clubs. He even
took up golf. He's got this movie image of himself - gentleman-cowboy.
Jesus. That's what he wanted me to be,
only more so. Just before I lit out, I used to get so I
thought either I'd start to yell, really berserk, you know, or
else hit him. I guess it might've been better if I had. Hit
him, that is."
Clan bent forward, his face hidden, the palms of his
hands outstretched onto the table, suddenly clenched into
himself.
"You know, Morag," he said, "the trouble isn't that I
don't care about them. The trouble is that I do. They
don't know. They think I don't give a shit about anything.
They think I'm some kind of traitor - to them, to everything.
But I'm not going back to take over the place from
him, not even when he's dead. I don't want his kind of
place. Not in any way."
"Yet you're planning to raise horses," Morag ventured.
Morag Gunn, fleeing Manawaka, finally settling near
McConnell's Landing, an equally small town with many
of the same characteristics.
"That's different," Clan said defensively. "I have to
make my own kind of place. I'm not talking about the
difference in outside scenery, either."
"I know. Your own place will be different, but it'll be
the same, too, in some ways."
"Not if I can help it," Clan said angrily.
378 The Diviners
"I'm not sure you can help it. You c
lot. But you can't throw him away entin
others are there. Here."
Morag reached out and touched t
wrist.
"Oh jesus," Clan said, anguished, '
can't take this."
Tactful Morag. What a thing to
untrue. No, not untrue. The remark i the long run, though, because he would
yet.
"Forget it, Clan. It was a stupid thin
"When I met Pique, I thought This is now - well, I know she's got to go awa
got to stay. I wanted you to know."
"Thanks, Clan. It'll be all right. At I
"Yeh. Well. Maybe."
Across the river, in A-Okay and M,
Pique Tonnerre Gunn, or Pique gui
must walk her own roads, wherever th
nothing seemed to be getting much sir
by.
That evening, Morag went out wi) boat, taking the outboard so that he c< was a thousand percent cooler than tl which had been running down Morag'
steaming up her glasses, began to eva
just possibly survive the heat of sumrr
after the marvels and cool warmth of ,
to survive the godawful winter would b<
try, and how strange she cared about it
The willows bowed down on either sii
and globe-shaped trees, their flickering now beginning to turn yellow. Behind
maples, an occasional massive oak an
They passed areas of cleared land, will
down nearly to the river. The massed ch
proclaimed the fields' extent and endir
Rites of Passage 379
as always encroaching, taking over wherever the fields
gave an inch. The hay had long since been taken in, and
the winter wheat was harvested. The spring crops were
ripening now.
"I meant to swim today," Morag said, above the idling
motor, "but of course I didn't. I hardly ever do."
"Lotta weed this year," Royland said, having just disentangled
his line from a clump of it.
"Yeh. I go out every morning and think - swimming is
the best exercise there is, and what is the point in living on
a river if you don't swim? Then I see all that benighted
weed and I change my mind. If I do go swimming and run
into a patch of it, I flail around in a panic, thinking it must
be a river-monster, probably prehistoric, which has been
hibernating down there in the mud for ten million years
and has just wakened. Or Grendel, as in Beowulf, and me
without courage or a sword."
Royland laughed.
"Well, you shouldn't swim alone, anyhow."
"I used to be a fair swimmer, believe it or not. A miracle,
considering I learned to swim in the Wachakwa River.
There were bloodsuckers. You had to make them let go by
applying lighted cigarettes."
Morag, terrified of cities, coming out here, making this
her place, her island, and still not going swimming
because of the monsterweed. But at least she could somehow
cope. City friends often asked her if she was not
afraid to stay in the house alone, away out here. No, she
wasn't. She was not lonely and not afraid, when alone
here. She did not think that the loghouse was about to be
descended upon by deranged marauders. In New York,
Morag's agent and his wife had three locks upon their
door.
Maybe I should've brought Pique up entirely in cities,
where she'd have known how bad things are all over,
where she'd have learned young about survival, about the
survival tactics in a world now largely dedicated to Death,
Slavery and the Pursuit of Unhappiness. Instead, I've
made an island. Are islands real? A-Okay and Mau
and now Clan, are doing the same. But if they do ri
horses, they 'II have to sell them to the very people t
despise. And, Morag Gunn, who rails against the conti
ing lies of the media, does not, it will be noticed, estab
her own hand-set press. Islands are unreal. No place is
enough away. Islands exist only in the head. And ye stay. All this, the river and the willows and the groi gronk-gronk of the mini-dinosaur bullfrogs, it may b
fantasy. But I can bear to live here, until I die, an, couldn 't elsewhere.
"Turn the motor off, quick," Royland said suddenly
At first, Morag thought he had caught his line in so
weed. Then she saw the huge bird. It stood close to sh(
its tall legs looking fragile although in fact they were v
strong, its long neck and long sharp beak bent towards
water, searching for fish, its feathers a darkbright blue
Great Blue Heron. Once populous in this part of the coi
try. Now rarely seen.
Then it spotted the boat, and took to flight. A sl
unhurried takeoff, the vast wings spreading, the sleni
elongated legs gracefully folding up under the creatui
body. Like a pterodactyl, like an angel, like something i
of the world's dawn. The soaring and measured certai
of its flight. Ancient-seeming, unaware of the plani rocketing changes. The sweeping serene wings of
thing, unknowing that it was speeding not only towa
individual death but probably towards the death of
kind. The mastery of the heron's wings could be hearc
rush of wind, the wind of its wings, before it mounted h
and disappeared into the trees above a bywater of
river.
Royland reeled in his line, and by an unspoken agr
ment they took the boat home in silence, in awe.
That evening, Morag began to see that here and n
was not, after all, an island. Her quest for islands \ ended some time ago, and her need to make pilgrima
had led her back here.
Rites of Passage 381
Memory bank Movie: Sceptr'd Isle Morag firmly crashes the door shut on the garden flat.
Garden flat - a joke. When she and Pique first came to
England, the advertisement in the Hampstead & Highgate
Express, saying "Garden flat - Hedgerow Walk," sounded
reassuringly rustic. In fact it turned out to mean a basement
flat, which Morag rented because it was not too
costly and was self-contained. Hedgerow Walk does
indeed contain hedges, although hardly the tangle of briar roses and blackberries which Morag's imagination suggested.
These are closely clipped green-yellow privet
hedges which define each narrow yard. The small front
gardens have mostly been covered with crazy-pavement,
which, as its name implies, is a demented combination of
cement and vari-coloured tiles of an unsurpassed ugliness.
But easy to look after. The Victorian redbrick houses are
tall and semidetached. Also identical, except for the fact
that householders have all painted their doors a different
colour - lilac vies with lemon yellow and deep rose. The
individual spirit proclaims itself in paint.
The Yale lock on the door of Morag's flat clicks protectively.
No unlocked doors here. And yet, incredibly,
London frightens Morag less than any other city she has
ever known. She goes out by herself, to friends' houses,
at night, and returns alone on the Underground, with
less panic than she would have believed possible. Perhaps
she still, even after three years, maintains in her
mind the myth that the English are an orderly and lawabiding
people.
Morag slithers out onto the rain-greased pavement and
slops up the hill to Hampstead High Street. At least,
praise God, no fog today. This has been the worst winter
in living memory here, or so she has been informed by
numerous people. She has come to believe that nearly
every winter here is the worst in living memory because
the season invariably comes as a surprise, no one taking
seriously the notion that winter ever comes to England at
all, until each year it does so. Although Pique has walked
382 The Diviners
to school alone for several years, this winter in the thici
sulphurous fogs Morag accompanied her and went to pici
her up in the late afternoons, terrified that the child wouk
get lost if she were on her own. It was all Morag could do
then, to find her way, snailing along block by block, cling
ing close to the buildings, examining every street name se
into the brick walls, to check her position, feeling a:
though there were no pavement ahead and one might pos
sibly drop off the edge of the world.
It was during the worst of the fog that the greengroce
said to Morag - Well, what do you think of this roya
throne of kings, this sceptr'd isle, now? Perhaps such ;
literate greengrocer was an exception, but she had replici
It's fine, and meant it, because of him.
Pique loved the fog, despite the acrid taste that cam<
through the woollen scarf - a primitive gasmask - arounc
her mouth and nose. Pique always feeds on crises becaus<
they are exciting.
Morag plods along the High Street in the weak grey
light of the morning, head down against the drizzling rain
She has not put up her umbrella and never does so excep
in downpours, as she prefers to get her coat and headscar
damp rather than crash into other umbrella-bearers wh<
walk blindly like a host of mobile mushrooms. She ha;
come to feel in many ways at home here, although she wil
never feel she belongs. She has, as well, come to value thi
anonymity of these streets, the fact that people often don'
know their neighbours or care about their goings-on o
whatever variety. It is, of course, all very well for her
because she made a few friends fairly quickly in the begin
ning owing to introductions on the part of her Englisi
publishers. A person coming to this city totally unknowr
to anyone could literally die of loneliness, and no doub
many do. Odd, now, though, to recall that she had comt
here in the first place partly because of a fantasy - Mora^
getting to know dozens of other writers, with whom sht
would have everything in common. In fact only a few o
her friends are writers, and she has discovered that pub
Rites of Passage 383
lishers' parties in London are no more appealing to her
and no less parochial than they were in Canada. Useful to
know that, probably. At least when she finally does
return, she won't ever again feel that she must be missing
out on a lot in these ways. Another thing which enabled
her if not to overcome her dread of cities then at least to
suppress it was the desire to see places she had read about
all her life - the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey,
Trafalgar Square. For the first year, she and Pique were
intrepid tourists, awed by monuments. Now they live here.
How long will they remain? She often wonders this, sometimes
feeling that she is held here largely by lethargy - the
thought of moving again is too much for her at this point;
Pique likes her school; they have established a place of
their own, some kind of refuge.
Morag turns off the High Street, goes down a small
winding street and arrives at the shop where she works
mornings.
AGONISTES BOOKSHOP
J. Sampson, Prop.
This play on words is somewhat diminished in effect, for
Morag, by the fact that Mr. Sampson spells his name with
a "p." He, however, is pleased with it. Morag once asked
him if he didn't think the reference was a little unfortunate
or inappropriate. No, he said, because after all here he was
in a constant state of dreadful labour and mental anguish
over trying to keep the business going. Yes, but what
about the fall of the temple? Oh that, Mr. Sampson said well,
wasn't he trying his best against the philistines?
"Morning, Mr. Sampson. Chilly day."
"Morning, Morag. The chill shouldn't bother you.'" Their ritual exchange, nearly every day in winter. He
affects to believe that Morag comes from a land of perpetual
snow. Mr. Sampson is a slight, thin, rabbity little man
in his mid-sixties, whose face is not strengthened by the
small wavering moustache he wears. His appearance is not
384 The Diviners
impressive until you notice that his greenish eyes are ver^ clear, intelligent and watchful. He stocks a surprising^ large range of books, considering the smallness of the
shop, but his true love is the English contemporary novel
about which he knows everything. This morning he i;
unpacking new arrivals, slowly, because he has to glanc< through each one and also examine the jacket design an<
blurb for saleability.
"Look at this," he cries. "Whom do Lansbury's employ in their Art department, I ask myself. A blinc
man? Who is going to buy a book with a dust jacket that's all grey, totally, not a glimmer of light in it? Let's hope i
gets a few good reviews, to offset this mess. It wouldn'
matter so much if it were by a known writer, but it's a firs
novel. A shame."
When Morag's collection of short stories, Presences came out last year, Mr. Sampson insisted on filling th< window with copies, and only Morag's embarrassmen
prevented him from forcibly thrusting the book ont(
everyone who entered the shop. When she decided sh(
hated the title, which sounded like one of those smal
literary magazines which are forever dying quick deaths
he told her sharply that it was unprofessional to think o
such things after the book was out.
"Want me to clear some of the last lot from the iron
counter?" Morag asks, with a pang for the books pub
lished a month ago, now to be relegated to shelves.
"I suppose so," Mr. Sampson says regretfully, knowing her feelings. "We need more room, but where could i
come from? If I could throw out all those cookery anc flower-arranging books and nonsense like that - but I'(
starve. So go ahead - clear, clear. We must be ruthless t(
survive."
Morag grins. He is far from ruthless, as is well-knowr
to impecunious young people who drop in and read book;
here chapter by chapter.
The phone rings and Mr. Sampson disappears into hi;
Rites of Passage 385
tiny crowded office at the back. He emerges in a moment
and beckons to Morag.
"It's for you."
"For me?" She is surprised, because people never
phone her at the shop.
"It's the school," Mr. Sampson says nervously.
Morag flies to the phone. What has happened to Pique?
She sees on her mindscreen a road accident. The terrible
vulnerability of children.
"Mrs. Gunn? Miss White here. Pique "
"Is she all right? What's happened?"
"Don't be upset, Mrs. Gunn. She'll be all right. She
just isn't feeling too well, that's all, and I think you should
come and collect her."
"I'll be there in a few minutes."
Morag faces Mr. Sampson apologetically.
"I'm really sorry, but I'm going to have to leave for the
day. Maybe longer. It's Pique - she's ill."
"Go ahead, go ahead," he says cluckingly, helping her
on with her coat. "The lesser matters must give way to the
greater."
Morag walks rapidly along the hilly streets to the
school. Pique is waiting in Matron's office, her coat on,
her face flushed. She did not feel entirely well this morning
before going to school, but Morag, after dithering,
had decided she was well enough to go. Morag does not
like to stay away from work unless absolutely necessary how
far can Mr. Sampson's good nature be presumed
upon, and where would she find another job as convenient
as this one? Also, she has wanted to work this afternoon
on the novel which is taking shape in her head. Now look
what she has done.
"Oh honey, I'm so sorry."
Pique looks dejected.
"I threw up," she says in a small shamed voice. "All
over the floor beside my desk. Oh Mum, I feel awful. I feel
sick, and I feel awful about doing that. I couldn't help it."
"That doesn't matlei
Morag thanks Miss
ground, and they leave.
ble and freezing. The r
drip-drip.
Morag puts Pique to
hundred and four. Mo
and Pique's skin feels ,
administers aspirin an
seems about seven hour
says that Pique has flu
"There's always a 1
Morag says idiotically
some way the doctor's 1
"Well, try not to be i
"That won't help the cl
Oh God. True. Tru
young and brisk, to for:
cup of tea, reassure her,
be fine, and that it isn'1
out unwell into the ra\
external reassurance a\
though for the first til
doctor writes a pre
brusquely at Morag's p
cal thanks.
"What've I got, Mur
"Flu. You'll be fine i
"I'll miss the Valenti
Now Morag, perver
Fancy worrying abou<
health is in jeopardy, t
reasonable about Mora,
reasonable?
I fluctuate like a pern
parents, though, your l\
other one.
"Listen, honey, it'll
Rites of Passage 387
Valentine party. And I'll get Miss White to send your
valentines home, and I'll send yours for the kids. You just
lie quietly for a minute, Pique - I've got to whip out and
get the medicine for you. Shall I get you some ginger ale?"
"I don't care," Pique says wearily.
If she doesn't want ginger ale, she must really be sick.
Morag hurries up to the High Street pharmacy and back
again. When she returns, Pique has vomited again. She
has not made it to the bathroom and has not even managed
the plastic bucket which Morag placed beside the
bed. It is all over the sheets and blankets. There could
have been very little to throw up except a glass of water
and the aspirins, but it seems like gallons. Pique is crying.
Her black hair, spread over the pillow, is wet.
Morag cleans up, gives Pique the tablets, praying she
will keep them down, sponges the child's face, and sits
beside her. After a few hours. Pique's temperature drops a
little. Finally she sleeps, although restlessly, and Morag
leaves her.
In the small livingroom, which also serves as Morag's
bedroom, Morag sits cross-legged on the couch-bed, listening
to Pique's hoarse breathing, and the rain, and the
wind in the bare branches of the plane trees. It is at times
like this that she feels her aloneness. When Pique is well,
and Morag is writing, and there are sometimes people to
talk to, then the fact that she is alone is bearable. Even the
fact that she lives without a man except for occasional
casual encounters which leave her emptier than she was
before - even that can be survived, although with spates of
rage or self-pity. But in the times of the threat of darkness
- when Pique is sick, or when Morag herself is sick and
wonders what would happen to Pique if anything fatal
happened to herself, or when the money is perilously low
and Morag, paralyzed with anxiety, cannot write - it is
then that she feels the aloneness to be unbearable. Like
now.
If only there were someone to talk it over with. Someone
to share the pain, I guess. That wouldn't help Pique
388 The Diviners
much. It would help me, though. Or would it? Look at
Angle in Flat Two upstairs. When the baby is sick, she
says to Dennis that she's worried out of her mind, and he
says she always worries unnecessarily and she's inherited it
from her neurotic mother and she had better snap out of
it. And maybe she is indeed worrying unnecessarily. As
probably I am. But you would just like somebody to say God,
love, l know and I'm worried too.
Outside, on Hedgerow Walk, the high-pitched laughter
of guests arriving at some party or other. Upstairs in Flat
Two, Dennis turns the record player up full volume, and
Angie yells at him to turn it down or he'll waken the baby
- if one of them doesn't waken the baby, the other certainly
will. If they waken Pique, Morag will go up and
strangle them both, or at least sit down here and curse
them. She takes off the black and scarlet Madras cotton
bedspread (meant to make her bed look in daytime as
though it were not a bed) and crawls between the sheets.
Then crawls out again to look once more at Pique, who is
sleeping but whose skin is unnaturally hot. Nothing more
can be done at the moment.
Finally Morag sleeps.
Pique's fever continues, up and down, for four days. Then
it drops to normal and stays there, but the doctor says she
is not to return to school for another week. Morag, on the
phone to Mr. Sampson, is assured that she still has a job,
but he is beginning to sound irritable. A little more of this,
and Morag will not have a job, probably. And she will not
really be able to blame Mr. Sampson, who hires an assistant
with the reasonable expectation that she will be at
work most of the time.
Hell, I'm lucky. I don't know what difficulty means. At
least there are some royalties dribbling in from past
books, although not much, and I suppose if I were really
broke, I could go to the publishers and ask for a small
Rites of Passage 389
advance on the next book - no, I couldn't do that, though,
because then the book wouldn't get written. But Jeremy
Sampson is not a mean-minded guy, and I am not a cog in
some vast machine, at the bookshop. Suppose I was a
waitress in a chain of cheap restaurants? Devil a bit they'd
care if my kid was sick and I had to stay home for two
weeks. I am lucky. I know it. It's just that I don't feel so
very lucky right now.
Morag buys a bottle of Cyprus sherry and drinks it in
an evening. That evening she feels better. In the morning,
worse.
Pique, recuperating, is beginning to enjoy poor health, a
good sign. The two of them have had an impromptu Valentine's
day party. Pique opening the valentines from
school with varied comments - Oh gee, I never sent Carlo one - hey, it says G.R.; that must be Georgie Rexroth,
that twit - and so on. Pique is getting up now, late mornings,
and flitting about in her housecoat. Morag has done
no writing for more than a week, and now that Pique is
better, chagrin begins to set in.
"Honey, could you leave me be for about a couple of
hours, while I try to do a little work?"
"Sure," Pique says with dignity. "Of course."
The arrangement lasts for fifteen minutes, after which
Pique tiptoes into the livingroom, where Morag is sitting
staring at the blank page.
"Mum?"
"What?" Spoken churlishly.
"I was just thinking - tonight could you tell me some of
those stories again?"
"Which stories?" Not wanting to know.
"Oh, you know. The ones Christie used to tell you, and
that. And about my dad, and all that."
Why this sudden need? Or is it simply that this week the
two of them have been together all the time, and Pique
has herself be<
well, and want;
while longer?
"Okay, hon(
"Sure. Oka^
But now the
begin to get i
novel, whose ti
widower, who
netter in Vane
River and the
on. It is also ab
being a reputal
and talks in hi'
about Coral, v
mate death, bu
to take on his (
How to get 1
everything else'
"Pique -"
"Yeh?"
"C'mon, let'
any more wor
stories."
Whose need
Jonah, or Piqi
Lazarus and al
mor/
Well, a long tir
tell me all soi
strange man, I
but tough as tr
the devil. He u
and that embai
garbage, but n<
thought it mati
Rites of Passage 391
about Piper Gunn, at first I used to believe every word.
Then later I didn't believe a word of them, and thought
he'd made them up out of whole cloth.
(What means Whole clothf)
Out of his head - invented them. But later still, I
realized they'd been taken from things that happened, and
who's to know what really happened? So I started believing
in them again, in a different way. Now, when Christie
told a tale, then, his voice would become different from
the ordinary. It would be like the ranting of the pipe
music, wild and stormy, until you could actually feel the
things happening that he was telling you about. He had
very blue eyes, Christie did, in those days, and when he
was telling a tale, his eyes would be like the blue lightning
and you would forget his small stature, for at those times
he would seem a giant of a man. And I've told you the tale
of Piper Gunn - well, now, when Christie told that first
tale, about how Piper led his people onto the ship to take
them to the new land, he used to describe Piper, and he'd
say that Piper Gunn was a great tall man with a voice like
the drums, and the heart of a child, and the gall of a
thousand, and the strength of conviction. I always liked
that - the strength of conviction, even though at the time I
didn't really know what it meant.
(What does it mean?)
It means that Piper Gunn believed the people could
make a new life for themselves. He had faith. And you
know. Pique, how Christie used to describe Piper's wife?
He used to say Now Piper Gunn, he had a woman, and
she had the courage of a falcon and the beauty of a deer,
and the warmth of a home, and the faith of saints.
(I like that. Would he tell me those stories, if we went to
see him?)
Well, maybe. But he's getting pretty old now. He
mightn't remember so well.
(He would still remember those stories. He wouldn't
forget. Not Christie.)
392 The Diviners

»**
I- I
MORAG S TALE OF LAZARUS TONNERRE
Well, your grandfather, Lazarus Tonnerre, he brougl his children in the Wachakwa valley, there, just belo'
town of Manawaka, where I grew up. And there was
dad, and the two girls, Piquette and Valentine, am two younger boys, Paul and Jacques. And their mo
Lazarus's wife, she - I'm not sure what happened. M
she died, or - well, I don't know.
(Why don't you know?)
I just don't. Maybe someday you'll see your dad :
and he can tell you. Anyway, Lazarus used to tell sti
too, to his family when the winter evenings were free cold and a blizzard wind would be yowling outside an< snow would be blowing across the door in drifts. Si
times the kids would be hungry, and Lazarus wouk
them these stories, all about his father, old Jules Tonn
who fought in the battle out west, and he really exi
once, and about Rider Tonnerre, a long long way fc
who may have existed and maybe not, but it doesn't
ter - and he was said to be the best rider among al
Metis and the best buffalo hunter for miles aroun(
those old days.
(Why would the kids be hungry^)
They were very poor. It was during the Depress! that means a whole lot of people were poor, and cou
get jobs and didn't have enough to eat.
(Oh.)
Anyhow, Lazarus had a lot of troubles, but his fa
never starved. Sometimes he used to go trapping awa
Galloping Mountain way.
(Galloping Mountain? Is that a real mountain?)
Sure. Away north of Manawaka, where lots of ver^ spruce trees grow, and there's a lake there, and a 1(
your father's people live thereabouts.
(I'm going there someday.)
Sure, honey. Anyway, Lazarus sometimes went alor
those trips up to the mountain, and sometimes he'd
your dad. Then they'd come back to the shack in the we

Rites of Passage 393
(And have lots to eat, eh? And tell stories. I wish I'd
been there.)
Yeh. Well, there was more to it than that. Lazarus
must've felt pretty low in his mind, sometimes, looking
after all those kids, there. But he kept on somehow.
(What more to it?)
Well, I never knew him that well myself, but I remember
the last time I ever saw him. It was at the time of the fire.
(I don't like that part. Don't tell it again.)
Okay. I won't, then.
(He was brave, though, wasn't he?)
Yes. He was that.
A letter arrives from Christie, saying the winter in Manawaka
has been colder than all the shithouses in hell, but
he is mostly all right, and how are Morag and Pique. He
also asks, joking and not joking, when is Morag going to
Sutherland, and isn't she ever going to get to see where her
people came from?
When, indeed, is she going to go? The pilgrimage. Does
that word dramatize it beyond what it is? Probably not.
Why, then, has she for so long hesitated?
She is afraid that she will be disappointed, that there
will not, after all, be any relations. She is afraid that she
will feel nothing and that nothing will be explained to her.
Or else she is afraid that she will feel too much, and that
too much will be explained in those rocks and ruined
crofts, or whatever is there, now, these days.
In those days, a darkness fell over all the lands and
crofts of Sutherland. And among all of them people there
on the rocks, see, was a piper and he was from the Clan
Gunn, and it was many of the Gunns who lost their
hearths and homes and lived wild on the stormy rocks
there.
Morag writes back to Christie and says Soon.
394 The Diviners
Mr. Sampson has not been so much irritated as alarmec by Morag's absence, it turns out. He has been unable t(
keep up with the accounts, and is convinced that penury i:
imminent. Morag agrees to work afternoons as well a
mornings for the next fortnight, although grudgingly. Sh< has done no writing at all during Pique's illness and nov
will do virtually none for the next couple of weeks. /
month away from it, and getting back inside will be tor
ture. She thinks of writers with private means (of whici she knows none) and puts a mental hex on them.
Had she not been working afternoons, however, shi would not have met McRaith, who paints in the morning!
and does his wandering around in the afternoons.
He has been standing at one of the counters with a largi book in his hands for going on an hour before Mora;
approaches. She does not want to interrupt his browsing
she wants to speak to him, simply because his sexualit;
draws her. Why should this be? He is not particularly;
handsome. A man in his mid-forties, he appears to be, ;
large-boned large-framed man with a shaggy reddisi beard, shaggy eyebrows, a head of thick shaggy hair t(
match, although his hairline is slightly receding.
"Can I help you?" Morag says, immediately regretting the shopgirl cliche.
He glances up, smiles with embarrassment and close;
the book, which she now sees is an expensive edition o
Klee reproductions.
"I wish you could." His voice is faintly Scots, but wit! some kind of difference, a low-spoken and almost forma
quality which she has not heard before. "But I can't af
ford eight quid for a book, and it seems a bit large to stea
unobtrusively."
"Would you, if it weren't?"
"I might take it, but the guilt would likely force me to
return it. It's in the background."
"Presbyterian, you mean?"
"The same. In my case, considerably lapsed, but we an
never totally lapsed."
Rites of Passage 395
"I know. It's in my background as well."
His name is Daniel McRaith, and he comes from
Crombruach, a village in the part of Ross-shire known as
the Black Isle. Hence his accent, which is Highland.
"Strange," Morag says, "that I wouldn't know one
Scots accent from another. Most of the Scots families,
where I come from, came originally from the Highlands,
but they spoke Gaelic when they first arrived, about a
hundred and fifty years ago, and they lost that. Even with
the ones who came later, though, the Scots accent in English
never lasted into the second generation."
"We have lost the Gaelic, too, or most of us."
"And yet - and this was true of Christie, my stepfather,
too, at times - there's something in your speech that
sounds almost as though it's being translated from another
language. Christie never had a word of Gaelic. But
there was some echo left."
"That is an appealing thought," Daniel McRaith says,
"but possibly not too accurate."
"You mean - sentimental?"
"Perhaps."
"Perhaps," Morag says. "And perhaps not."
McRaith calls himself a painter, not an artist. The word artist seems pretentious to him. He makes enough to live
on now, although frugally; in the years when he didn't, he
had spells of working as a hod-carrier in Glasgow, every
minute of which he hated. It was not the physical labour
he minded so much; it was the ugliness of the smokeblackened
city.
"I used to find, later, when I had gone back home,
that I would be painting some of the children I had seen
there, and the way they looked - bitter and old at eight
or so - would almost make me angry at my own, for
being healthy, which was a terrible way to think, I suppose.
God knows Crombruach is poor but it is not that
sick poverty."
His own. His own children. Well, so what? Nothing
strange about that. She has only just laid eyes on him.
396 The Diviners
Why should it matter that he is married, a natural enough
state to be in, for a man of his age.
Mr. Sampson is making angry gestures to Morag. Two
customers are hovering vaguely, with books in their
hands, looking for someone to take payment, and Mr.
Sampson is himself busy with another customer. Morag
and Clan McRaith arrange to meet in a nearby pub that
evening.
Angie promises to look in on Pique from time to time,
and Morag goes out. As usual, with ambiguous feelings. Is
she wrong to be leaving Pique alone? What if there were a
fire? What if someone broke into the flat? Etcetera. And
on the other hand, Pique is no infant, nor is she stupid,
and she knows Angle's phone number. Also, why does
Pique always always either create a fuss when Morag goes
out, or (like tonight) dawdle calculatedly over dinner and
preparations for bed, spinning out simple rituals such as
brushing the teeth to about twenty minutes? The answer
is, of course, obvious. But unpalatable. Morag cannot say
to the child I have to have some life of my own, because
that concept will only be understood by Pique many years
later, too late to do Morag any good. Nor can Morag
afford (although she sometimes does) to lose her temper
with Pique, for this merely brings on a severe attack of her
own self-reproach and also gives Pique a legitimate reason
for yelling, weeping and generally carrying on, all of which
results in further delaying Morag's departure.
The Fox and Grapes is not yet crowded. Clan McRaith
is standing at the bar, a pint ale mug held in one bluntfingered
hand. He gets her a drink and they find a table.
"Cheers."
"Cheers."
"After about three of these," he says, "you had best tell
me to stop, because after three I forget that my capacity is
not limitless, nor is my money."
"Why would I tell you to stop? That's up to you."
Riles of Passage 397
McRaith looks at her from amused hazel eyes.
"That's fine," he says, "as long as you are not sitting
there thinking that I am drinking too much. Bridie never
says anything. She sits there thinking it. She is an expert
at the eloquent silence."
"Bridie?" The name seems to have connotations of perpetual
bridehood, something childish and affected.
"That's an odd name."
"It's a form of Bridget," McRaith says. "She is, of
course, my wife."
"Yes."
Morag now prays that he is not about to launch into the
boring confessions of one who is misunderstood by his
marital partner. He does not do so. Or if he does, it is with
some difference.
"There," he says contemplatively. "I have betrayed her,
I think. I do that, sometimes. I don't think she ever speaks
a word of me to anyone."
"Did you marry young, Clan?"
"Twenty. I'm forty-five now. With seven children. The
two eldest are away from home now, thank God."
"Seven. Why?"
"Bridie believes in large families, and as having children
turned out to be her chief interest in life, it did not seem
fair to object to it. She has not objected to my painting,
although she has sometimes had cause. You have only the
one child, Morag?"
A peculiar way for a relationship to begin, a relationship
which is plainly going to be sexual, by talking about
one another's offspring. And yet Morag is drawn to him
now by both sex and spirit, and senses this is true for him
as well. It is as though, both of them, not being young and
new and uncommitted, must sound each other out about
their areas of commitment. The only alternative is the
game, the pretence that nothing matters, the desperation
that says the moment is all and there does not need to be
any other moment to plan for. Morag has played this
game, from time to time. But not now. Not any more.
398 The Diviners
"Only the one, yes," she says. "It must be difficult to
have seven. It's difficult to have one, though, in other
ways."
"And alone?"
"Yes. That."
She tells him a little about Brooke, about Jules, about
Pique. Even some things about Christie and Manawaka.
Is this possible? Is this Morag Gunn, sitting in a pub and
talking to someone about these things of which she rarely
speaks? Apparently it is.
McRaith tells her that he keeps a room in a friend's
house, in one of the grottier parts of Camden Town, and
stays there occasionally when the house at Crombruach
becomes unbearably small and noisy. Bridie minds, but
does not say. He feels guilty at leaving to come here, but
does so all the same.
Morag goes back to his room with him, and they make
love. The swiftness of this encounter does not seem
strange.
McRaith has been in London for going on two months,
and Morag has known him for most of that time. His
room, as a place of work for him, is no hell, but it does
have a skylight and a fairly large east window. It is
sparsely furnished - a bed, a dresser, an ancient and
threadbare Persian rug. His paints, brushes and paraphernalia
are kept in a scrolled and only slightly rainbowsplattered
writing desk with a drop-lid top. The place is
scrupulously neat, and the paints are always shut away
when Morag arrives. He is very protective, almost aggressively
so, about his work. His easel, standing in the wide
bay window, is always carefully turned around whenever
Morag is here, so she cannot see what he is working on.
Finished (or at least temporarily laid aside) paintings are
stacked against one wall, but facing inward in concealment.
On the dresser there is only one thing - a bowl full
of oddly shaped and oddly coloured pieces of rock, from
Rites of Passage 399
Crombruach. Perhaps they are necessary to remind
McRaith of those shapes and textures. Or possibly they
are his talismans.
She goes there in the afternoons, most days, which is by
no means a perfect arrangement. She works mornings in
the bookshop. Clan works mornings at his work. She is
supposed to be working afternoons at her work. Pique
does not get to bed until after nine, so evenings are not
much good for Morag's work. The choice for her seems to
be not too simple.
How to change our hours to suit? What to do. Lord?
How to cope with it all? Maybe I should be able to write
evenings, late, so as not to inconvenience anyone? Goddamn,
why should I not inconvenience anyone? I couldn 't
write then, anyway. I am too bloody tired by then.
"Morag?" Clan, on the phone.
"Yes. Oh "
"What happened to you? I was expecting you after
lunch."
"Right," Morag says, furiously. "I'll be right over."
"You don't sound very calm, Morag."
"Really?"
She arrives, walks up the three nights of stairs to Dan's
room. He takes her coat, looking bewildered.
"Why are you so strange today?" he asks.
"I was working on Jonah. I picked it up as soon as I got
back from the bookshop, and I forgot about the time. I
should've phoned you, I suppose. But this is going to
happen sometimes, Clan, and I just damn well cannot help
it. I'm not on call. I am not. If that doesn't suit you, then
I'm sorry - but that's the way it is."
Clan laughs, almost with surprise. Puts an arm around
her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Morag - I should've realized. I didn't mean
to sound as though I owned you. You know I don't feel
like that."
"I hope you don't. Because "
"It's all right - I do know. My God, you should realize
how glad I am that you'll s
at me if necessary. That's '
Bridie - oh Morag, love, I']
her to you. It is not fair to
want to say to her - sometii
woman, don't sit there loo with me, say so. Can't yo
most about you?"
"I know. I do know, Da
"Well, you'd better get b
"Now that I'm here," 1
annoyed at herself, "I don'
"I'm glad. But I feel as t
"Conned me? You haven Clan shoulders his way a<
gale. For him, life is full of and imagines minor disasti
quently happen. He is a m;
the middle of an empty to
the impression of clumsine
are innerly caused, and h
Surrounded by mysteries i
with suspicion, awe and gr;
"We are, of course, out
cupboard contains two sn
serves me."
His memory does not s
tains one Guinness. They s
"You bought the whiske:
says.
"Are you preaching, Moi
Morag Dhu. Black More temperament, or so she ho{
Gaelic word is spelled, but
"I'm not preaching. You
ing. I would've liked the \
molasses, that's all."
"How do you know I do
Rites of Passage 401
don't, as a matter of fact, but you've never seen me working.
Nor I you, if it comes to that. I don't seem to be doing
much here. I never do. I leave Crombruach, to get away
from the loony bin up there, and I come here and paint
shit."
"Maybe you should go back, Clan."
"Not yet," McRaith says. "Not quite yet."
They make love then, the continuation of their talking,
the same thing in a different form. They talk interminably
when they are talking; when they are making love, they do
not speak. None of the hot violent words are needed. It is
different each time. Sometimes so swift they are amazed
and amused, taken by surprise, taking one another by
surprise. Today, slow and gentle, even their culmination.
"One thing I have always liked about you," McRaith
says, as though it had been years, "is that you have not yet
asked to see my work. Of course, I have not asked to see
yours, either, although I cheated to some extent and got
two of your books out of the library."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Strange - that it could be you and not you, at the
same time."
"That is just it." She does not want to talk much about
this, but is warmed by the knowledge that he has seen it.
"If you want to look at the ones stacked over there,
Morag Dhu," McRaith says, with a hesitation that is both
protection and pride, "go ahead. I brought those down
with me - for the dealers, hopefully."
"It must be hard to part with them, Clan."
"How often do you read your books, once they're published?"

"Never. Yes. Okay, I'll look, but I won't be able to say.
I don't know, in that territory."
"For God's sake. Just look at them. Who asked you to
say anything?"
Morag looks. Walking naked and therefore less vulnerable
than she would have been if clad, among McRaith's
paintings.
k^

a
<<
402 The Diviners
Dark oils, mostly, but not heavy. The colours black- green, a hundred different greys and browns, but the sun's colours, too, in brief revelations. Some like the rocks of
Crombruach, the miniature shore there on the dresser, nc
recognizable shape nor identifiable form, at least to hei
eyes. Others bear somewhere within them the forms of
fossils and shells, convoluted seashells and rock-fossils o!
ferns or fish, immeasurably ancient, and behind 01
through these, the timid angry eyes of humans. Some o
the human eyes seem distanced, distorted - no, not dis
torted; the flesh mirrors the spirit's pain, a greater pair
than the flesh even if burned could feel. A grotesquerie o
a woman, ragged plaid-shawled, eyes only unbelieving empty sockets, mouth open in a soundless cry that might never end, and in the background, a burning croft.
Morag turns and looks at him, after looking at this lasi
painting.
"The dispossessed."
She puts the canvas carefully back. She straightens
straightens herself, straightens her own back. Then sh(
walks over to where he is lying on his bed. Kneels on the
floor and puts her head with its black hair onto his ches' with its coarse copper hair, and onto the double bow oi
his ribcage. McRaith puts his hands on her shoulders anc
does not move them from there for a while.
What future, Morag does not ask. Bridie remains unrea
to her, and Dan's children are fantasy children. Yet Bridii
is there, in Crombruach, her veins entangled with Dan's ii
that real and existing horde of young, her choice, her hole on him. His choice as well. He had not said No to them
He had not denied Bridie her children, much as he migh
and did resent the presences of so many now dependen
upon him. However much he needs to get away, will hi
ever be able to do so except briefly? Bridie certainly wil
not divorce him. What is Bridie like? Morag does not wan
to know. Morag does not care about marrying him, no
Rites of Passage 403
even about living with him more or less permanently. It
will be enough if things can go on as now.
"Will you ever describe me?" Clan says.
"What are you getting at?"
"Will you, though?"
"No. Or - I don't think so."
"You don't think you have a right, do you, Morag
Dhu?"
"No. No, I don't think I have a right."
"And if I painted you, or a part of you - would that be
different?"
"I don't know. I don't either want you to do it or not
want you to do it. I'll give you the right, if you want it."
"I wouldn't do your body. Don't mistake me - it's a
good body. But it would just be your face, I think, and
your hair. Let me look at you, Morag, so I will remember."

One day he shows her the painting of Morag Dhu, the
only painting he has done in London and not destroyed. It
is not a large canvas - quite small, in fact. It is not even
just her face. Her features are in shadow. Only her black
hair can be seen, and her eyes, clearly and unmistakably
the eyes of Morag, angry and frightened, frighteningly
strong.
Memorybank Movie: The Black Isle It was three years since Morag first met Clan McRaith. To
her, it seems a much shorter time, because she sees him
perhaps twice a year, for a few weeks or occasionally a
couple of months at a time. In between, they correspond,
he in brief scrawls, Morag in lengthy typewritten letters.
Sometimes, after he has once more gone away, she thinks
of him in Crombruach, with Bridie, and rages. It is a fine
arrangement for him - a woman in two camps. But what
about her? At these times, lying sleepless, she feels demeaned,
waiting here for him to return, furious at herself
a
I

404
The Diviners
but unable to do otherwise. She has written dozens o
letters to him, telling him she does not want to go on ii
this fashion, that she doesn't care a damn about marryinj
him but she hates feeling like anybody's mistress, that shi
is nearly forty and is merely marking time with her life
and so on. She always tears these letters up. She know;
that Clan does not view it in this way, that he would laugl
at the suggestion of Morag's being his mistress, that anti
quated word. Also, she is in fact not marking time wit! her life at all. Jonah is completed and accepted and wil
soon be published. Morag works much better whei
McRaith is not in London, of course, herself and her timi not then being divided. If he were here all the time, shi
suspects that she would become impatient with him, re
sentful of anyone's constant presence. No doubt unde
these circumstances, too, she would be expected to maki the meals and do the laundry for him as well as for hersel
and Pique. Clan is accustomed to that pattern, which pre
sumably suits Bridie, but would not suit Morag.
Looked at that way, it's ideal. Why do I keep on feeling badly about it, then? I hate the fact that Dan's never evei
seen Pique, that there is a whole area in my life that hi
knows nothing about, and that there is another whole arei
in my life that Pique knows nothing about. And I'n
jealous of his children and of Bridie, having so much q his life. Bridie, apparently cloaked in her disapproving silences. They're not happy together -for God's sake, wh]
don't they part? But I can't say that to him.
Evening, and Pique is reading in bed. The phone rings
and it is Clan. He sounds dreadfully upset. Morag recog
nizes the symptoms, all too familiar by now.
"Morag, could you come over, right now, do you think" Just for a little while. I really would like to talk to you."
"What is it? You're going home?"
"Morag Dhu, I can't stand this goddamn city a minut<
longer. Today I nearly walked straight into an oncoming bus. One of these days I will. And I am not working worth i damn. Everything I do here is rubbish. I've got to go back.'
Rites of Passage 405
"I'll be over in a few minutes."
Aid and comfort. She does not resent it very much,
because he also has given her aid and comfort, through
the writing of Jonah. Not, however, about Pique and all
that, but then she has never asked for it, there.
Morag very rarely goes over to Dan's in the evenings,
simply because she hates telling lies to Pique, and there is
no way she can go to Dan's without telling lies which
grow far too elaborate and intricate, and which make her
feel as though she is betraying the child, once for leaving
Pique in order to go to Clan, and again for not levelling
about it.
"Who was that. Mum?" Pique enquires.
Morag goes into Pique's bedroom.
"Just a friend," she says. Then, determinedly, "An artist
called Daniel McRaith - he is going back to his home
in Scotland, and he's having a few people in this evening,
and they'd like me to go over for just a little while. Okay?"
Only half a lie. Does that make it better?
"I guess so." Pique is more resigned than she used to
be, about Morag going out occasionally. But she still does
not like it.
"I'll just go up and tell Angie."
"Okay. Mum - don't stay very long, will you?"
"I promise."
Does Pique in some way suspect her relationship with Clan ? Why why has Morag been so careful to keep it from
the child? If Clan were unattached, then she would not
have felt this carefulness to be necessary. But you cannot
say to a child Look, there is this man and he has seven
children and a wife in the north of Scotland, and I am in
love with him and I go over and make love with him
whenever I possibly can, and will continue to do so, however
much it might hurt his wife if she knew about it, and I
am very much afraid that it would.
Clan is pacing around the room like a racehorse impatient
to be off.
"Morag - I am so damn sorry. But I have to go."
406 The Diviners
"Yes. I know you do. I don't understand why, but I
know you do."
McRaith pours them both a whiskey, and she sees his
hands are shaking.
"I wish to God I could explain," he says miserably. "I
don't know ~ more and more I feel like hell about it."
"About what?"
"Why can't I just stay in either one place or another?
That's what is bothering me. I go back to Crombruach,
and I can work - I never do anything, really, anywhere
else. And then after a while - look, I do not hate my
offspring "
"I never thought you did."
"On the contrary, I am normally fond of them, or so I
believe at most times. But "
"Clan," Morag says, feeling tired. "We have been
through all this a hundred times. Go. Just go. But for
God's sake stop trying to explain and justify yourself."
"I'm not trying to justify," he says irritably. Then, sitting
down at the table, he looks up at her and shrugs.
"Yes, probably I am, at that. I wish you would come up to
Crombruach, Morag, just once - just to see. Then you'd
understand both things - my need of the place, the geographical
p/ace, the sea and the shore, and also why I have
to get away, and did even before I ever met you. Now it's a
hundred percent worse, because I want to come down here
and see you, and I also feel more guilty about leaving well,
leaving all of them up there."
"How could I go to Crombruach, Clan? Don't be ridiculous."

"You mean - what would Bridie think? Well, the local
pub has rooms. You could stay there. You're always talking
about going to Sutherland and you never go. It's quite
a long way from Crombruach, but I could drive you. It
would be a reason for going. Bridie would not think anything
if you took Pique along with you. That is how her
mind works "
A woman with a child would be likely to be honourable,
Rites of Passage 407
in Bridie's book? Bridie herself would, no doubt. Perfidious
Morag.
"You've got it all figured out, haven't you, Clan? How
would you explain how it was you came to invite me up to
Crombruach? Or how you got to know me at all?"
"You're making it too complicated, Morag Dhu. I would tell Bridie I met you a couple of times at parties at
Andrew's. I've quite often asked London friends up there,
you know."
"What if she didn't believe you?"
McRaith looks suddenly stricken.
"She would, quite simply, believe me," he says.
"Clan "
They hold onto one another. But they will not make
love this evening.
"I couldn't go," Morag says. "I just couldn't."
"All right. I'll write to you, Morag Dhu."
Early mornings are the worst. Nights, she works late, writing
letters, planning a few short stories, drinking wine
until she thinks she can sleep. But she wakens with the
cold knowledge of Dan's absence, her flesh clamouring
for his, her mind reviewing the things she wants to tell
him, to share with him, and then realizing he is not any
longer just a few blocks away.
After a month, she asks Pique how it would be for the
two of them to go to Scotland during the Easter holidays,
and stay in a real hotel, and visit these friends, some of
whose children are just about Pique's age. Pique is enthusiastic.
Morag writes to McRaith, who replies by return post.
The night train to Inverness. Morag lies in the lower bunk
of their second-class sleeping compartment, listening to
the quake and rattle of the train. Is this going to prove to
be a vast error of judgement? And she will not be able to
touch Clan, not at all. What in hell has made her do it?
Curiosity. Ji
about Crombn
I'm ever to get
Early morni
Small rocky hi
white birches.
along over ston
does not stop, 1

i	i
There is such
world. Morag '
and the stewan
Clan meets t
usual brown i
terned fisherm:
these clothes 1
wear who was
never struck he
look like what
cause warm.
"Pique, this
"Hi. Haveyc
"Hello, Piqu
fisherman's cot
"Have you gi
"Yes. A colli
"I have alwa
ag a reproachfi
The drive ta
farmlands and ]
In the back se
spends with ap
on. Morag, sit
wants to touch
Crombruach '

Rites of Passage 409
pink stone houses rise in tiers up the hillside. The streets
are narrow, cobbled with rough stone. The harbour has a
wharf-breakwater and inside this sheltering arm half a
dozen boats lie. Fishboats? Not anything like the gillnetters
in B.C. These are more like dories, motor-powered
but open. Imagine going to sea in those cockleshells.
They go to the local inn and deposit Morag's suitcases.
Then on to McRaith's house. They draw up beside a row
of stone cottages, not even semidetached. Totally attached,
a whole string of them, across the road from the
windy harbour.
"Here we are," McRaith says.
The house is low-ceilinged, as he has said, two rooms
up and two and a half down. Downstairs, the kitchen
which is also the livingroom has as its focus a black iron
coalstove. There is also a beat-up table, a variety of chairs
in various stages of collapse, two cats, a jumble of anoraks
and rubber Wellington boots, books, buckets, cooking
pots, rock and shell collections, fishing rods, piles of old
newspapers, a sink stacked high with washed but undried
dishes, a cardboard box full of broken toys, an aged and
yawning collie beside the stove dreaming of sheepherding,
a jam jar full of dried grasses and ferns, and another jam
jar full of plastic daffodils.
A woman comes down the stairs into the kitchen, accompanied
by a couple of copper-haired boys who look
about six and nine years old. Bridie. Introductions are
made, which Morag scarcely hears, and will later not be
able to remember. She is intent upon looking at Bridie. It
immediately becomes apparent that Bridie is intent upon
looking at Morag.
Like hell she doesn't suspect, kid or no kid. Oh God.
Why did I ever come here? I should've known better. Too
late now. Have to see it through. With dignity. Come on,
Morag. Pull yourself together.
Bridie is only a few years younger than Clan, so she
must be about forty-five. She looks older than he does.
This seems unfair, for a start. She is a thin slij
her hands rough and red from too much hot wai
weather. Her features are sharp, and indicate th
once have been if not beautiful then extremely
She wears her brown hair cropped short. Her b
skirt and brown poloneck pullover are clean a
and her shoes, well-polished brogues, suggest th< some extent dressed up for this meeting.
Only now does Morag realize what the real i
been in coming here. No longer can Bridie b
woman. She has become, in this instant, real
Her drawn, tense, determined face will now f
come between Morag and McRaith.
Bridie's hands reach down for a second, in ai gesture, as though she were about to wipe t
apron which she now remembers she is not we;
ag's heart lurches and she finds herself wanti didn 't mean to hurt you, if I did hurt you; I c
you were here.
"We haven't much to offer Dan's London fr
die says, in the same low almost formal tone a
Morag sees suddenly what she has taken to
before, in Bridie's perusal of herself, has not t
all. It has merely been shyness, a feeling got
quacy and resentment, possibly, in the face of
don friends, people from that glittering we
probably imagines it to be, where she herself <
and does not want to go.
"Would you be ready for your breakfast, th
goes on.
"Yes - thanks. But please don't go to any '
"It's no bother," Bridie says. "I'll see to it i
But there is a faint undertone now, not of a
of martyrdom. Clan says nothing, but scowls.
After they have eaten. Pique goes out wi
younger boys and the collie, to see the harbc
shore. Two more young have clattered into th
Rites of Passage 411
girl of about twelve, and a boy of fourteen. Mary and
Robert.
Bridie clears the table. Morag offers to help. Bridie
politely refuses assistance.
"You and Clan go ahead and talk," she says. "I've work
to do."
"Couldn't you just sit down for fifteen minutes," Clan
says to her, very quietly but angrily, "and have a cup of
coffee and talk a bit?"
Bridie looks at him as though puzzled, as though trying
to figure out what is expected of her.
"Very well, then," she says.
She sits down on the edge of a chair and sips at her
coffee, as though the house were no longer her abode.
Morag and McRaith talk - of the proposed trip to Sutherland,
which would be shorter by boat but he does not
know anyone with a reliable enough vessel here right now.
They also find themselves talking about Morag's forthcoming
novel, naturally enough, comparing the gillnetters
of Jonah to the boats in Crombruach harbour. Bridie
does not speak. What is she thinking? Morag turns to her.
"Your elder children - where are they?"
"Oh - they're away."
"Sarah left only this year," Clan says, taking over.
"She's just eighteen. Taking a business course in Inverness.
The two older boys have been away for some time - one's
a teacher, and the other is at university in Edinburgh."
"It must be a relief to have grown-up children," Morag
ventures once more to Bridie.
"They are doing well," Bridie says. "But they are
missed here. When they have been your life, it is hard to
see them go."
Well, that remark must make McRaith feel pretty superfluous
at this point. Morag's feelings are so ambiguous
that she no longer makes any attempt to sort them out at
the moment. Bridie is certainly no frail personality - that
much is obvious. But her ways of battling are not
412 The Diviners
open ones. On the other hand, they are the only ones she
has ever learned, ever been taught, presumably.
Morag and Clan begin to talk again - about London.
This is bad, but what else to do? Bridie rises and goes
about her work, of which there seems to be an endless
amount. She has an old-fashioned washing machine, into
which she dumps approximately three tons of clothing,
load after load, moving efficiently, unobtrusively, and yet
in some subtle way obtrusively.
"Let me show you where I work," Clan says finally.
There is a lean-to at the sea side of the house, which
McRaith has built for his studio. The addition is not stone
but timber, not well-built but with a good window facing
east for the morning light. As in London, the canvases are
neatly stacked; the easel is faced away from incoming eyes.
There is no jumble of paints; everything is in its place -
McRaith's defense, just as it is Morag's, against the chaos
of the outer world and the confusions of the inner.
"It's not big enough," he says, "but it's my place. You
might not think anyone could work here. How is it I can't
work anywhere else? Maybe you'll begin to see, Morag
Dhu. When I look out there, I see the firth. It's the place
that's important to me. The surrounding circumstances well,
they have happened and they are here."
"You mean your family and all that?"
"Yes, I guess so. But of course it's not quite like that,
too."
"I begin to see that it's not."
He puts an arm around her shoulder, gently and in a
sense distantly.
"Morag Dhu. I'm sorry."
"Bridie must've been about seventeen when she married
you."
"Yes. Exactly that. We were both born in this village. I
can't leave, and how could I ever ask her to leave? It's her
place, too. If only she could find something else, someone
else to draw her away. But she won't. I don't believe she's
ever had another man. I wish to God she would."
Rites of Passage 413
Morag looks at him, loving and resenting him. He really
believes he means it.
"If she went down to London with you, sometime,"
Morag says, "and went to bed with Andrew, how would
you feel about it?"
McRaith considers.
"Andrew wouldn't attract her," he says finally. "He's
not her type of person."
Morag laughs, and he looks at her for a moment, bewildered,
and then laughs, too. But does he really see what
she is laughing at? And is she laughing, or what?
They are eight for dinner that evening. Bridie once again
refuses Morag's help. Pique has come in with lan and
Jamie, with a huge number of shells collected on the shore.
"Hey, Mum, you should see - you just walk along the
beach and there are all these millions of shells - can I take
all mine back with me?"
"Sure, honey," Morag says.
She sees McRaith looking at her, seeing her in a different
way, the mother of Pique, the child who has been as
unreal to him as Bridie and his kids have been to Morag.
He smiles, and Morag has difficulty in straightening her
spine and talking calmly.
After dinner, the young depart for a time, taking Pique
with them. How much has Pique missed being a member
of a tribe, a large family? She is taking to this circumstance
in a way which makes Morag mourn for all the
days Pique has come home alone, after school, to the flat
with only the two of them there.
McRaith is battering around the kitchen, looking for
something.
"Have you hidden my whiskey, then?" he says at last, to
Bridie.
She does not flinch. She is sitting beside the small black
coalstove, and for a wonder she is not actually doing anything
except stroking the collie's ears.
414 The Diviners
"You know I have not, Clan."
"Then where the hell is it?" He looks ashan
speaks.
"On the lower right-hand shelf of the sideboa
you left it."
McRaith looks, and of course it is there.
"Sorry, my queen," he says. "I have maligned
again."
Bridie says nothing. Well, what could you se famous silences of hers, Morag now thinks, ai
because he hands her lines to which she cannot either angrily or wittily. Her response is silence,
because she has not ever figured out any other ,
She was seventeen. He has moved on, into otl' Bridie has not, and knows it well. She runs his
him; she tends their children and makes the m<
she has discovered, over the years, maybe with
that her silences are more effective in reproac
than any words of hers could possibly be. Do
her any satisfaction to reproach him? Or is sh
times too enclosed in her own pain really to real all?
And yet McRaith does not, at the deepest lew
woman who will stand up to him. For some of th
may indeed want this. But not for most of
McRaith stays, Morag now begins to see, becal
kind of woman that Bridie is. McRaith is no
Crombruach just because of the place. He is hel
Bridie, whom he has known all his life as she hi
him. That is the way it is.
In the afternoons, Morag and McRaith walk, tr
little else to do in Crombruach, accompanied :
children. In the hillside fields, the new lambs ,
where, bravely born into the cold spring. The hi
rocky, moss-covered, but in the valleys the eart
and good. Along the shore, the stones are the '
Riles of Passage 415
jade, rose, amber, seabright at the water's edge, and long
shiny strands of yellowbrown kelp float and straggle. At
dusk, the tide coming in over the mudflats, the flotillas of
wild swans move along the grey waters of the firth, the
young cygnets trailing behind, the great cob swans in the
lead, their powerful white wings furled.
McRaith points across the firth, to the north.
"Away over there is Sutherland, Morag Dhu, where
your people came from. When do you want to drive
there?"
Morag considers.
"I thought I would have to go. But I guess I don't, after
all."
"Why would that be?"
"I don't know that I can explain. It has to do with
Christie. The myths are my reality. Something like that.
And also, I don't need to go there because I know now
what it was I had to learn here."
"What is that?"
"It's a deep land here, all right," Morag says. "But it's
not mine, except a long long way back. I always thought it
was the land of my ancestors, but it is not."
"What is, then?"
"Christie's real country. Where I was born."
McRaith holds her hand inside his greatcoat pocket.
Around them the children sprint and whirl.
After five days, Morag and Pique leave Crombruach to
return to London. McRaith drives them to Inverness station.
Pique rushes about, buying sweets. Morag and Clan,
conscious of the child, and conscious of an ending which
neither of them guessed before, put their arms very lightly
around one another.
"Take care, love."
They both say the words, simultaneously.
In Hedgerow Wi
Pique to see Cl
makes plans but
back to Manawi
even for a time,
want Pique to se
go back, there.
It is two mont
that the cable a
remembers in M,
CHRISTIE LOGA
PAUL GATES.
"Pique, we're
"Home?"(Wh
"Yes. Home."
Memory
The bus spurts al
the green wheat,
couchgrass besid
the dark yellow
Bluffs of poplar
leaves as always
ing leaves.
Pique has rem
is now too late fo
long. He would i
now. How does \
The Manawak
New Coca-Cola ]
young faces of th
miliar. Perhaps
people Morag on
a meaning which
"I've just got 1
"Not good, M
and much older i
enty-six after all.
Riles of Passage 417
Isn't he? And does this, obscurely and absurdly, come
as a surprise?
"What is it with him. Dr. Cates?"
Dr. Cates coughs, and then, very dimly heard at the
other end of the line, sighs.
"His heart's been tricky for some years now, Morag.
He doesn't take much care of himself. But this time it's a
stroke. He's only partially paralyzed. He might get over it.
But "
"But whatT'
"I'm not sure he wants to. Maybe that's nonsense.
Hard to tell. But with a heart like his, he could go out any
time."
"When can I see him, Dr. Cates?"
"You can go up to the hospital now, if you like, Morag.
I'll let them know you're coming."
"I'll just leave my suitcase at the house. Wait - will the
house be open, though?"
Dr. Cates' paper-thin laughter.
"You've been away a long time, girl. You won't find
many doors locked around here, still. Anyway, what's
Christie got that's worth stealing?"
Morag takes her suitcase and walks. Why not get a taxi?
Anywhere else in the world, she would have done, but not
here. A penance, more than likely, or a leftover from the
days when she couldn't have afforded a taxi. The house on
Hill Street is different from her last visit only in that it is
now frankly and indescribably dirty, stinking and chaotic.
No one has cleaned for years. Wrong - someone has evidently
made some efforts, just recently, to wallow through
the accumulation of grime on the kitchen linoleum and
the stacks of old newspapers and spidery floating greygauze
of dust in every corner. Someone has swabbed discouragedly
at the floor. The garbage pail under the sink is
empty. Not Christie, surely. Maybe Eva Winkler, coming
in from the farm on a Saturday night to visit her mother,
looking in at Christie's place.
If I'd stayed or if I'd come back, I'd be dead dead dead.
418 The Diviners
Would I? Who has led a better life, Eva or myself? No
doubt I think she has. No doubt she thinks I have.
Morag does not even take her suitcase upstairs to her
old room. She leaves it in the kitchen and goes out again.
Everything is very silent. From up the hill and over on
Main Street comes the grind and splutter of a motorbike,
the whir of cars. But here, along the deserted sidewalks,
there is silence, broken only by occasional voices from
behind the drawn blinds of the houses. The smell of the
grapebunches of mauve lilacs is overpowering.
At the hospital reception desk, she feels alien, apologetic.

"I've come to see Mr. Logan, my - my stepfather. I
know it's not regular visiting hours ~"
"Oh yes," the girl behind the desk says. "You'll be Miss
Gunn,then?"
"That's right."
"I've read your books. Miss Gunn," the girl says shyly,
"and I just want to say we're real glad you're from Manawaka.
They've got your books in the library."
Coals of fire upon my head. Must I beg this child's
forgiveness, as well? She wouldn't know what I meant, if I
said it.
"Oh. That's good. Well - thanks. May I go in and see
Christie - Mr. Logan - now?"
"Sure. I'll just get ahold of Miss Patterson. She'll show
you in."
Christie.
"How is he?" Morag asks the nurse as they patter down
the antiseptic-reeking corridors.
"Well, I should warn you. Miss Gunn. He can't speak
much at all. And when he does, it's pretty garbled. I'm
afraid it makes him angry."
"My God. My God. No wonder. Can he move?"
"He can move his right arm," the nurse says. "At least,
some."
Christie lies hunched under the too-white bedlinen. He
Rites of Passage 419
was never a large man, but now he seems to have shrunk
even more. He appears to be composed of bones mainly,
and of dried speckled brown skin, stretched barely over
the skeleton. He is ludicrously clean-shaven, none of the
remembered greyish stubble on his face - they do that
kind of thing for people in hospital. His eyes are closed.
"Christie - it's Morag."
He can hear, obviously, and he knows what she is saying.
It is just that he cannot reply. His eyes open abruptly,
and they are, weirdly, the clear blue of years and years
ago. He mumbles, but she cannot make human speech of
it. For Christie Logan to be unable to speak - what must
that be like? Christie, who told the tales, who divined with
the garbage, who ranted in his sorrow like the skirling of
the pipes in a pibroch.
"I'm - I'm sorry I didn't come back before, Christie."
He wants to speak desperately, but cannot. His mouth
opens, and he strains. No words come. His eyes are filled
with such pain and such knowing that Morag can scarcely
endure the sight of them. What emerges from his mouth,
then, is a squawk, a hoarse unverbal croaking like a bullfrog.
He turns away from her, but not before she sees the
shame in his eyes, at being thus diminished before her.
Then his right hand, like an eagle claw, reaches out and
grasps her hand. They sit there like this for long minutes,
both unable to speak, although for different reasons, and
Morag can feel the heavy vein pulsing in his wrist.
A tiny blonde nurse scurries in. From her extreme youth
and striped blue uniform, she looks to be a student nurse.
She carries an object covered with a white linen towel.
"Bedpan time!" she announces ringingly, someone having
evidently told her that cheeriness under all circumstances
is a nurse's duty.
Christie's one good arm pushes weakly at the girl and
the burden she bears. From his throat comes a sound
which Morag has never before heard issuing from a human
throat, and hopes never to hear again. A growl - the
deep growl of a <
of a man.
"For God's sa
be, just until I'm
"I was going t
girl says, half offf
"Get out," Mo
"I'll have to re
"Report, then.
just part of the r<
The nurse scar
face Christie. Wl
He has regained
shroud of hospita
mouth in a sound
comes out as the
tion, hers and Ch
She wants to s
him. She also wa:
this. There is soncan discover the i
"Christie - I u
you've been my H
His responding
she hears them.
"Well - I'm bl(
Another way o
say - Well, I'm dt
chosen. She sees
intentional.
Back at the hous<
to her old room. '.
grey ferns in the
but it is otherwis
the single bed co'
bring herself to 1(
Rites of Passage 421
and lies down on top of the quilt. This is the first time she
has ever stayed alone in this house, and she has dreaded it,
but now none of the ghosts seem threatening. Prin is here,
and Piper Gunn and Clowny Macpherson and another
younger Morag, the felt or imagined presences of real and
fictional people, the many versions of herself, combining
and communing here, in her head, in this room with its
time-stained wallpaper. Outside, a faint rain begins falling,
and the open window channels in the smell of wet
earth and grass and prairie lilac.
Waking, Morag is at first disoriented.
"Morag!"
The woman's voice, Morag now perceives, is external
and not part of a dream or nightmare. She stumbles
downstairs, and it is Mrs. Winkler, hideously frail in appearance,
although she must in fact be tough as dandelion
roots to have survived this long.
"It's the hospital on the phone, Morag. They want you
to go there, right away."
"Can I get a taxi, Mrs. Winkler?"
"Well, I wouldn't know about that," Mrs. Winkler says
doubtfully. "It ain't but a short walk, there."
By the time Morag reaches the hospital, however,
Christie Logan has gone to his ancestors.
When Prin died (a long time ago, it seems), Morag had to
make all the funeral arrangements. Christie didn't do a
thing. Still, he was there, and they held their wake for
Prin, the two of them, sitting at the kitchen table with a
bottle of whiskey between them. Now there is no one.
Morag takes the necessary steps, robot steps, not thinking,
not even thinking of mourning yet.
The sweeping black-branched spruce trees are the same,
but the big gloomy frame house looks different. It has,
Morag observes, been painted an eye-shattering limegreen.
422 The Diviners
The sign no longer reads "Cameron's Funeral Home." It is
now an enormous crimson neon, letters about a million feet
high, and it would appear at first glance to apply to some
publicity-worshipping evangelical sect.
JAPONICA CHAPEL
Underneath, in more modest lettering, are these words:
Free Parking For Clients
Die now and get free parking forever. Almost worth it.
Morag has phoned previously, so is expected. A shortish
man, built rather on the lines of an energetic barrel, and
wearing light brown slacks and a checked yellow and
brown sports shirt, bounces out to meet her.
"Mr. Jonas?" she says uncertainly.
"The same," he carols. "Hector Jonas. At your service,
Miss Gunn. Or do you mind if I call you Morag? You
being a local girl, and me having read your books, I feel
like I know you. We don't stand on ceremony here. At
least, some do, but I am not of that number, unless, of
course, clients prefer the formal approach, in which case I
am happy to oblige."
"No - of course I don't mind."
"My name, as I mentioned previously, is Hector. Now
come in, come on in."
The office is small but exceedingly tidy. Cherry and
blue linoleum tiles on the floor. An impressive desk which
takes up most of the floor space. A swivel chair for Hector,
and two slender plastic-upholstered armchairs for
clients.
"Now, then," Hector proceeds, "I was very sorry to
hear about Christie, an old-timer like him. Of course, I
never knew him all that well, myself "
"No one knew him all that well. Hector. He lived nearly
all his life in this town, and everyone knew him to see him,
Rites of Passage 423
and they all called him Christie, but nobody knew him, to
speak of, or even to speak to, much, if it comes to that."
Hector stops on his way to the cupboard.
"Why in the world would that be, now, Morag?"
"Oh well, he was the town scavenger in the days when it
was still called that, and was looked down on. He was also
supposed to be some kind of maverick, as I'm sure you
know."
"Well, like I say, I didn't know that much about him,"
Hector hedges. "Only hearsay, like. Could I offer you a
little sherry, Morag? Or a rye? Although I know the ladies
usually prefer the sherry, it being sweeter, like."
Morag smiles, unaccountably moved by his flashiness,
his public-relations act, and by some kind of genuine solicitude
which lurks under the glittery plastic and the veneer
of himself.
"Not this lady," she says. "You can pour me a stiff rye.
Thanks. That's very kind of you."
"Well, it isn't, really," Hector says, in apparent remorse.
"It's really for business. Although I don't usually
admit it. But then, most people who come in here are in
pretty terrible shape, of course, bereaved and that, kind of
knocked-out, you might say, by their dear one's departure
from this vale of tears. So they need a little steadying,
those of them who aren't teetotallers, and believe you me,
we get plenty of them. Maybe you think I'm not sounding
too serious, but in my business you either have a laugh to
yourself sometimes or you'd be climbing the walls, I'm
telling you straight. The departed are hard enough to look
in the fisheye, to tell you the truth, but the bereaved are
usually just that much harder, because they are either all
busted-up or else holding themselves together with chewing
gum, like, so brittle and held-in that you think they'll
crack like a dropped tumbler if you breathe at them. I
shouldn't be talking this way, I guess, but you being a
writer, it seems natural to talk, although in my profession
you learn it's discretion discretion all the way, and in other
424 The Diviners
words you acquire the ability to keep your trap shut. You
just seem better in hand of yourself than some, Morag."
This guy will learn to keep his trap shut when he's
pushing up daisies. Who buries the undertaker? Whoever
will undertake it. One of C. Logan's old-time jests. Something
good about Hector, though.
"I'm not better in hand of myself," Morag says. "I just
show it differently, that's all. Has Niall Cameron been
dead long?"
"Some years now," Hector says. "You knew him?"
"Yes. I knew him. And I went to school with one of his
daughters. He was a good man."
"Yeh, so I gather," Hector says uneasily, "although he
drank himself to death. I mean, like, sure he was a good
man. But he didn't want to go on living, did he?"
Morag laughs, and the sound is more startling and bitter
in these surroundings than she has intended.
"I guess he did and he didn't, both," she says. "It's a
common enough trait, hereabouts."
To be or not to be - that sure as death is the question.
The two-way battle in the mindfield, the minefield of the
mind. Niall. Lachlan. Lazarus. Piquette. Prin. Christie.
Jules? Morag?
"Mrs. Cameron and Rachel, they moved out to the
Coast a few months back," Hector says. "Mrs. Cameron
used to say she'd known you well when you were kneehigh
to a grasshopper. She never said it when Rachel was
around, though, so I kind of wondered. It was after your
second book came into the town library."
Parsons' Bakery - Morag going in for jelly doughnuts
for Prin. Mrs. Cameron and Mrs. McVitie. Poor little
thing - don't they ever cut her hair wash her hair shorten
her dress poor poor little thing. Morag behind the
counter at Simlow's - the dressmaker suit so suitable for
someone about thirty years younger than Mrs. Cameron
and Stacey running running from the store in unhealable
embarrassment.
"Yeh. Well, you're right. It wasn't quite the way she
Rites of Passage 425
said. Hector, I suppose they don't call it the Nuisance
Grounds any longer, out there?"
Hector, swivelling gently on the large mobile chair behind
the desk, gives her an odd glance.
"You mean - the Municipal Disposal Area?"
"Yeh. That's what I mean. The Municipal Disposal
Area. Alias the Nuisance Grounds. That's where Christie
really should be buried."
"Good Lord," Hector says, "you've got to be joking.
You know, don't you, that "
"Yes. I know. Don't worry. It's all right. I know you can't
just bury people anywhere, like that. It's just that - when
Prin died, Christie said he'd like to have buried her in the
Nuisance Grounds. He didn't have much use for some
things, although it's hard to explain. And he'd buried someone
there, once, himself. In the Nuisance Grounds."
"WhatV
Morag smiles. It is really Christie she wants to talk to,
about this. But he has moved not only beyond speech but
beyond hearing.
"Don't upset yourself. It was a very long time ago. I
don't think he ever meant to tell me - he just found himself
telling it. It was, I now see, an aborted child, wrapped
up in a newspaper and tied around with a string, and left
out with the garbage. Kind of a dumb thing to do, when
you think of it, but I suppose the family wasn't thinking
too well just then. The string must've come undone. He
didn't say what family. He only said the girl had been
made to suffer enough. I never knew who she was, or what
happened to her. And she never knew that her unfinished
child was given a burial."
She does not mention that there was another unfinished
child buried there, years later.
Hector is looking at her as though he were trying to see
beyond her, as perhaps he is.
"I never knew any of that."
"Nor did anyone, except Christie and myself and - never
mind. It doesn't matter any more."
"I thought," Hector says
cremated. I mean, it's kind
"No," Morag says, carefu
be buried in the Manawaka (
is a small stone in that plac<
Grey granite. With both thei
next to nothing. I know. Bu
"All right. Yes, I can sun
"One more thing, Hecto
piper?"
"Good christ," Hector bi
"A piper. I don't want ar
at the cemetery."
"The things I get mysel
you should consider a shor
just the last few words, ther
The Burial of the Dead. and a sojourner, as all myj
"All right, Hector. But n
the United Church, if the
over Christie, who never we
"Oh, he will." Hector is
eh?"
"No. I still want the pipe
Hector, thinking she ha
most. Now, undoubtedly, t
on his hands. He sighs, but
"Well, old Scotty Grant
the spring, and walks up
garden, but I don't know -
Morag rises.
"Hector, thanks."
"For nothing," Hector se
Then, simultaneously sei this last statement, they got
Rites of Passage 427
Morag rummages through the Hill Street house. Finally
finds the only things of Christie's which she wants to keep.
Four books. Two heavy volumes - The Poems ofOssian In
the original Gaelic with a Literal Translation into English
and a Dissertation on the Authenticity of the Poems
by the Rev. Archibald dark. Minister of the Parish of
Kilmallie, Together with the English Translation by Macpherson,
in 2 Vols., 1870. And two small books. The 60th
Canadian Field Artillery Battery Book, 1919. And The
Clans and Tartans of Scotland. In this last book she looks
up in the Gaelic Glossary the word for black. It says dubh,
dhubh, dhuibh, duibhe, dubha, but omits to say under
what circumstances each of these should be used. Morag
Dhu. Ambiguity is everywhere.
The morning of Christie Logan's funeral is fair and cloudless,
the sky a light newly washed blue after the recent
rains. At the church, there is no music, no oration, simply
the bone-bare parts of the order of service, the old words.
At the Manawaka cemetery, up on the hill, the wind blows
hot and dusty, carrying the sickly over-sweet perfume of
peonies but also the clean dry pungency of the tall lowboughed
spruces that sentinel the place like dark angels of
light. Far below, the shallow amber water of the Wachakwa
River flows rattling over the stones.
"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God to take
unto himself the soul of our brother here departed, we
therefore commit his body to the ground - "
The words are murmured with a kindly awkwardness
by the young unknown minister whose brother Christie
Logan manifestly was not, although this by no means the
minister's fault. Perhaps he even wonders who Christie
was, and perhaps, if Morag could bring herself to express
the years, he might even like to know. But it is not possible,
not now, not here.
Then the minister and the pallbearers (all unknown,
t
Ten
the willows along the river had been changed by
the alchemy of autumn from greensilver to greengold.
The maples were turning to a million shades of russet,
crimson, scarlet, pale red. The air was beginning to have a
sharpness about it, the first suggestion of frost. In the
evenings, Morag lighted the woodstove. Soon it would
have to be the furnace.
She had been working through the day, the words not
having to be dredged up out of the caves of the mind, but
rushing out in a spate so that her hand could not keep up
wi'-li them. Odd feeling. Someone else dictating the words.
Untrue, of course, but that was how it felt, the characters
speaking. Where was the character, and who? Never mind.
Not Morag's concern. Possession or self-hypnosis - it
made no difference. Just let it keep on coming.
By dusk, Morag had a cramp in her right hand. Writer's
cramp - joke. But it happened. Must quit. Go outside
and walk off the tension.
Walking down to the river across the meadow of
mmown grass, Morag realized what it was that was different
about this day. It had been at the back of her mind
since early morning, but she had not really seen it until
now. There were no swallows. Yesterday the air had been
filled with their swiftness. Now there were none. How did
they know when to leave and why did they migrate all at
once, every one of them? No stragglers, no members of the
429
clan who had an imperfect sense of time and season. I- yesterday, gone today. There might be a reason, but
would just as soon not know.
Back at the house, Morag leafed through several ne
arrived books which she had ordered, books on weeds
wildflowers. One told all about the plants hereabo
which could be used as sustenance, boiled or raw, if f
one were to find oneself lost in the bush. Or, if not actu
lost, at least how you could cook certain plants in so
what fancier fashion at home.
Wait. What about the Poison plants? Morag turnec the section hastily. Oh heavenly days. Never attempt
mushrooms unless you really know what you are doi;
this seemed the only policy. The Destroying Angel. L
matic Old-Testament name. Wonderful name. Terr
mushroom. And how about Water Hemlock? No kill
antidote. It looked to Morag's unknowledgeable (
much like Queen Anne's Lace. Same family - Wild P;
ley. Well, no one would go around eating Queen Am
Lace, would they? Nonetheless, suppose you mistook
Deadly Water Hemlock for some innocently edible pie
Symptoms very nasty. "Vomiting, colic, staggering :
unconsciousness, and finally frightful convulsions wl- end in death." Ever so cheery.
Morag: (summoning ghost) Catharine, I'll bet the W;
Hemlock wouldn't have alarmed you. You knew w
was what. No way you were going to boil up a t<
mess of Hemlock under the impression it was Lan
Quarters. But didn't you ever worry that one of y
kids would come home chomping on some lethal pl£
How could you stand the strain?
Catharine Parr Traill: Ignorance, my dear, breeds fear,
anxiety. I took great care to inform and enlighten
little ones, at the youngest possible age, of the haza
to be avoided in our beautiful woods and forests. E
the tiniest child can soon be taught the identificatiol
plants. Thus my mind was easy, and could be freed
Rites of Passage 431
the important matters at hand. You, if I may say so,
oftentimes see imaginary dangers.
M. Gunn: You're darned right I see imaginary dangers,
but do you know why? To focus the mind away from the
real ones, is why. Leave me to worry peacefully over the
Deadly Water Hemlock, sweet Catharine, because it
probably doesn't even grow around here. Let me fret
over ravening wolves and poison-fanged vipers, as there
is a marked scarcity of these, hereabouts. They're my
inner demons, that's what they are. One thing I'm going
to stop doing, though, Catharine. I'm going to stop
feeling guilty that I'll never be as hardworking or
knowledgeable or all-round terrific as you were. And
I'll never be as willing to let the sweat of hard labour
gather on my brow as A-Okay and Maudie, either.
Even Pique, ye gods, working as a cashier in the bloody
supermarket all day, and then going home and feeding
those squawking chickens and washing dishes and
weeding the vegetable gardens, etcetera. I'm not built
like you. Saint C., or these kids, either. I stand somewhere
in between. And yet in my way I've worked damn
hard, and I haven't done all I would've liked to do, but I
haven't folded up like a paper fan, either. I'll never till
those blasted fields, but this place is some kind of a
garden, nonetheless, even though it may be only a wildflower
garden. It's needed, and not only by me. I'm
about to quit worrying about not being either an old or
a new pioneer. So farewell, sweet saint - henceforth, I
summon you not. At least, I hope that'll be so, for your
sake as well as mine.
C.P. Traill: (voice distant now and fading rapidly) "In
cases of emergency, it is folly to fold one's hand and sit
down to bewail in abject terror: it is better to be up and
doing."
M Gunn: I'll remember.
i
I
Rites of Passage 433
Night-flowering Catchfly
Queen-ofthe-Meadow
Spiked Loosestrife
Hounds Tongue
Creeping Charlie
Heal-all or Self-heal
Black Nightshade
Sneezeweed
Pussy-toes or Lady's Tobacco
Common Mugwort
Rough Daisy Fleabane
Povertyweed
Staggerwort
Devil's Paintbrush
"Gee," Tom said. "Wow."
He and Morag exchanged glances of glee and mutual
appreciation. But this pleasant mood was not to last.
"We've bought our first horse, Morag," Clan said.
"Really? What is it?" Not that she would know.
"A palomino gelding. Stands fifteen hands. We got it
for two hundred and seventy-five bucks."
" You paid for it," Pique said, not sounding too happy.
"What you mean is, it nearly cleaned me out," Clan
said, scowling. "Why don't you say so, then?"
"All right. It nearly cleaned you out."
Morag, thinking of Pique behind the cash register, felt a
surge of anger towards Clan. Must not. Not her concern.
"Well," she nonetheless found herself saying, "it sounds
a fine horse, but not exactly what I'd imagine the HorseBreeders'
Gazette would recommend if you're going into
the horse-breeding business."
"Oh Ma - shut up, can't you!" Pique cried furiously.
A-Okay came back into the house, and feeling the tension,
responded instantly by becoming tangled up with the
rocking chair, which overbalanced, the pointed rockers
missing A-Okay's unspectacled eyes by a quarter-inch.
"Watch it. Dad," Tom said.
434 Ths Diviners
"When I want your advice, I'll ask for it," A-Okay said
in an unusually ungentle voice.
A-Okay raised his voice to Tom so seldom that it came
as a shock. Obviously, all was not milk and honey at the
Maison Smith, just now.
Stay out. Tread warily, Aforag.
Dan's dark eyes were obviously battling his own angry
responses. Towards Morag, for opening her big mouth,
towards A-Okay for interrupting, maybe even towards
Pique for defending him when she wasn't all that pleased
by his purchase.
"The brood mares will come later," he said in a low and
dangerously quiet voice which reminded Morag of Jules.
"We can do without a studhorse. We can rent the services.
But I can give lessons with the palomino. He's quiet and
he's been shown good manners. He'd be a bit big for kids
under eleven or twelve, but okay for those over that."
"I think you just wanted him to ride yourself," Pique
said.
Clan turned furiously to her.
"If I had my choice, don't you think I would've picked a
bigger horse and one with more spirit?"
"I don't understand that kind of talk," Pique said. "I
don't know about horses. I never learned."
"Well, here's your chance."
"I'm not interested, thanks."
Her father's people, the prairie horselords, once. She
never learned. Well, so what? What was so essential about
it? Nothing, except that it was the mythical beast. Signifying
what? Many would say potency, male ego, but it
seemed that a kind of freedom might be a better guess.
Both Maudie and A-Okay were peacemakers at heart,
the difference between them being that scenes of expressed
anger made Maudie physically ill, sometimes to the point
of having to rush for the bathroom to throw up, and at the
same time she professed to believe (and with her intellect,
undoubtedly did believe) in the necessity of expressing
anger overtly before it became a dangerous canker in the
Rites of Passage 435
blood, whereas A-Okay believed that anger could be dealt
with from the inside, by the angry person or persons, and
yet he could bring himself to enter the fray when necessary,
bearing, as it were, cold towels.
"As far as I'm concerned, the horse is a-okay," A-Okay
said. "If Clan wants to ride it, Pique, there's nothing so
peculiar about that. But Clan and I are going to be doing
something else, too, Morag. It was all Royland's doing."
Neat deflection from danger area. Well done. Smith.
"What's that?" Morag asked.
"Well, I was talking to Royland a few days ago, and he
gave me hell. He said if we thought of doing anything
more with the farm than raising our own vegetables,
which, as he said, any fool can do if they're prepared to
work a bit, and if we were serious about the option to buy,
then we'd better smarten up. First, raise some money in
the ways we could, me by writing more of those everlasting
science articles, which is not my favourite form of
entertainment, but not so bad once you get into them, and Clan by working in town this winter. Second thing was,
next spring Clan and me to get jobs with some local
farmer, for the summer. Clan knows about horses but he
doesn't know fuck-all about farming. Royland says Charlie
Greenhouse can't get help - he's sixty-five and aims to
retire and move into the Landing in a year or so, and
would likely take us on. He's a mean old bastard, Royland
said, and you won't like him, but he's been farming all his
life and he knows what if's all about."
However dour and bad-tempered, and Charlie Greenhouse
was certainly that, he could undoubtedly teach
them things they couldn't learn from books. True, they
wouldn't find him easy to get on with. Charlie hated trees,
which he regarded as the natural enemy of man. He also
appeared to hate the earth, but at least he knew enough
not to fight it in impossible ways. Charlie reminded
Morag of various prairie farmers - he wrestled with the
land like Jacob wrestling with the Angel of the Lord, until
(if ever) it blessed him. A-Okay and Clan would not have
Charlie's outlook. They were different - they h
Carthage; they had walked the streets of Askek
had known something of Babylon, that mighty cit
dealt in gold and silver and in the souls of men; t
walked in the lion's den and had seen visions sue
prophet Daniel had seen while Belshazzar feaste
came to the land in ignorance, perhaps expecting i
which would not occur, but at least with caring,
as a gift and not an affliction.
Morag said nothing for a while, afraid to speak
she should say too much, too soon.
"It'll be a-okay," she said finally, not knowing'
it would be or not, but praying.
What of Pique? She was not settled here. Mayl
would be. Committed to Clan, but how much? Hi
move on, hit the road? For how long?
Pique picked up her guitar and began to sing.
her, there was an area of silence, as though all of t in this room, here, now, wanted to touch and hi
and could not, did not dare tamper with her al(
She began to sing one of Jules' songs, the song fc
rus. Her voice never faltered, although she was cr
In the morning, groggy from insomnia, Morag w
side to clear her head. The air was distinctly cold. i nearly over. Winter soon to descend. Sitting on tl
Morag became aware of an unmistakable sound o\ Very far up, they flew in their V-formation, the few
out front, the flock sounding the deep long-dr,
resonant raucous cry that no words could ever ci which no one who ever heard it could ever forget.;
and a sight with such a splendour in it that the o
response was silence. When these birds left, the wii
about to happen. When they returned, you would
was spring.
The Canada geese were flying south.
Rites of Passage 437
Memorybank Movie: Beulah Land "Aren't you even going to read the reviews?" Ella asks.
Walton and Pierce have forwarded a sheaf of the clippings
on Jonah. Morag has glanced through them and
laid them aside. They appear, on the whole, to be favourable.
So what?
"I guess so, Ella. Later. I can't work up any enthusiasm."

"Well, what about the book club sale? Can't you work
up a trace of enthusiasm over that?"
"Yeh."
But she can't. Milward Crispin, faithful agent, has
phoned from New York. Jonah has been taken by a book
club, Spear of Innocence and Prospero's Child are coming
out in paperback, and a film option has been taken
on Spear. Probably nothing will come of the latter,
Crisp says, but at least there's the option money. Things
are looking up. Morag, meanwhile, appears to be looking
down. She and Pique have been staying with Ella
and Mort in Toronto for one month now, ever since
Christie's death. Ella has infant twins and is run off her
feet. She keeps telling Morag what a lot of help it is to
have her here, as Morag washes diapers or dishes, or
holds one yelling ravenous kid while Ella feeds the other.
In fact, Ella needs Morag here like she needs an attack of
flu at the moment.Two extra people underfoot, and
Morag with all the verve of a collapsed balloon.
"Ella, I've got to get up off my ass and decide what
to do. My God, it's been good of you to have us here,
but "
"Now, will you kindly shut up, please?" Ella says. "So
who's complaining? Wait until Mort and I start glaring
at you before you begin the guilt bit, eh?"
"Yeh. Okay. Sorry."
That's a christly bloody useless word. Sorry. C.
Logon. Christie, tell the garbage - throw those decayed
bones like dice or like sorcerer's symbols. You really
4
M
438 The £>(vi>
could see, though. What about iru
see, in writing? What did I ever s< until it was too late? I told my chi
never took her to see you. I mad
while the living you was there all
house.
Morag goes through the days li
walker. In fact, sleeping is all she
finds she can sleep far too eas
Insomnia would be almost weic alive. She wakens each morning ^ own death. When she rises, she c< Mort expresses concern, telling h»
offering to let her have a prescripl
lizer. She promises (hypocritical!;
rettes, but refuses the pills, consk
subject for instant addiction. So
Pique to go back to school. \
refused to grapple with the pro
evidently has her by the throat a
letting go. Morag Dhu.
The city depresses Morag furt
downtown, certain she will find h
apartment block where she once
that she will meet Brooke on the s
probably not here any more. 0
downtown. She walks past the re
Street where Jules used to live. V
That she could conjure him up?
Save me 0 God, for the water.
soul. Psalm 69.
It is, however, not God who fin. of sorts, but the Goldenrod Rea
haps fate really does travel in stra
Late morning, and the twins a
ing. Morag and Ella are having ci
with coloured chalks on large she glancing at the Classified section i
Rites of Passage 439
The Goldenrod Realty Co.
For Sale - Near McConnell's Landing; So-acre farm,
river frontage, good well, four-bedroom log house structurally
very sound, needs some interior decoration, halfbasement,
nearly new furnace, forced sale - Don't Miss
This Rock-Bottom Offer For Relaxed Country Living!
Phone Steve Harchuk This
ad strikes Morag like the spirit of God between the
eyes.
"Ella - I've decided what to do. I'm going to buy this
farm, here, if I can afford it."
"You're what? Morag, you're out of your head."
"Let's see. Mum," Pique cries, leaping up. "Is it a real
farm? Can I have a dog?"
"Listen, Morag," Ella goes on, "you should excuse my
shrieks of caution, but wouldn't you be pretty isolated?
Are you really going to learn to drive? And anyway, isn't
one supposed to - well - kind of shop around, some,
before buying a house, much less a farm? Let's have a look
- needs some interior decoration. That means it's a mess
inside. Oh heavens, Morag, I'm sorry. I have no right to
discourage you. But "
"It will be all right," Morag says calmly. "You will see."
On the way out to McConnell's Landing, Morag stares
out the bus window, experiencing profound qualms. What
if the place is already sold? What if it really is a mess?
What could she possibly do with eighty acres?
When she returns to Toronto that evening, she has
made an offer to purchase and has left a cheque as deposit
and proof of her earnest intentions.
Land. A river. Log house nearly a century old, built by
great pioneering couple, Simon and Sarah Cooper. History.
Ancestors.
Innerfilm Outside, the blizzard rages and the snow piles up against
the house and along the window frames. It is Forty Below.
440 The Diviners
(Forty Below is the magic winter temperature figure. Onl^ to prairie people? It means something more than tempera
ture - it denotes amazing endurance and people say it will pride, almost reverence. They never say Forty Below Zero
Does it go that far down in southern Ontario?) Inside the
little house, all is warmth, all is cheer. Morag, having pu
in an excellent day's work on the nearly completed nove
(which will in time prove to be her best thus far) is reading in her comfortable chair near the black woodstove whici is crackling a merry tune (safely; new stovepipes). Pique i;
contentedly working on a piece of embroidery (who" Pique?). Well, then. Pique is contentedly - hm hm - mak
ing a miniature log house, the very model of this one, for i History project at school, this house being of such histori
cal interest. In the half-basement, the nearly new furnaa
is chonking away - a charmer, this furnace, no problems
ever. Morag is filled with a sense of well-being. The shec contains enough split wood for the winter. The basemen contains shelves and shelves of bottled preserved plums
applesauce, pears, blueberries, chili sauce, crabapple jelly
and so on, the work of Morag's hands, the produce of hei
garden. All is well. The bank balance is healthy. Th<
friendly neighbourhood farmer is a bachelor (widower'
yes). Although by no means an intellectual, he is a well
read man. Also handsome. And and
Memorybank Movie: McConnell's Landing Morag and Pique move in at the beginning of October
Despite Morag's many forays for secondhand furniture
the house looks bare. The old linoleum is cracking, anc the nearly new furnace turns out to have been nearly new
twenty-odd years ago, and now exhibits odd traits o
temperament, making Morag fear it will explode or els< simply fail to operate. The bathroom has been installec
upstairs, replacing one of the bedrooms, but the hot watei heater has not yet been put in. Baths are icy. The wall'
many years ago were papered with hideous floral wallpap
Rites of Passage 441
ers, pink peonies and drooping lily-of-the-valley in what
look to be funeral wreaths. The paper is shredding
brownly off most of the walls. In the bedroom closets are
piles of ancient newspapers and decaying articles of clothing
thoughtfully left by the previous tenants. The halfbasement
is reachable only by a trapdoor and a hazardous
ladder. Why did she not notice these things when she first
saw the place?
The old grey pine barn, so beautiful from a distance, is
now seen to be falling down. It also contains bats.
Four windows are cracked and have been patched with
adhesive tape. The electric pump for the well gets frequent
airlocks or otherwise loses its prime, making helpless
asthmatic noises. Morag makes calmly hysterical phone
calls to the plumber.
The meadow from the house to the river contains grass
about three feet high. A power mower will be necessary in
the spring. Who will work it? Morag?
Pique is scared at nights. So is Morag, although she
doesn't let on. Pique announces that if a bat gets in her
bedroom, she will die. Morag yells at her not to be so
stupid; bats are harmless. Then feels self-reproachful, as
she herself also feels that if a bat gets in anywhere, she too
will die.
"Are there coyotes in those woods, Mum?" Pique asks.
"We say kiy-oot," Morag says, with ludicrous pride
and snappishness. "Only John Wayne says coy-oA-tee.
And no, there are none in our woods."
Are there?
A colony of mice is discovered in the small cupboard
under the stairs. Pique, perversely, takes to these creatures
and accuses Morag of murder when the colony, with great
difficulty and squeamishness on Morag's part, is destroyed.
Winter will soon be upon the land. Pique and Morag
will obviously freeze in this broken-down old wreck of a
place. No wonder it was so relatively cheap.
What have I done?
442 The Diviners
"C'mon, honey, let's go and have a look at the river
before it's dark."
They walk through the long grass. Pique, suddenly happy,
begins to run, sweeping at the grasses with her outstretched
arms. Across the river, the maples are trees of
flame. The river carries on its ripples the last of the daylight.

"Hey, Pique, you know what? It's going to be all right
here."
"Sure it is," Pique says. "Who doesn't know that?"
Oh. Pardon me. I thought you didn 't.
They look up to see an old man approaching. He has an
exceedingly tidy grey beard. He is wearing crumpled
brown corduroys and a blue plaid windbreaker.
"My name's Royland," he says. "From the place next
door, downriver a little way. Didn't come over sooner
because I thought you'd likely want to settle in a bit first.
Then I started wondering if maybe you needed a hand
with anything."
"Well, thanks. I'm "
"I know your name, Morag Gunn. Stevie Harchuk told
me."
"This is my daughter. Pique."
"Hi," Royland says. "I'm divining a well tomorrow,
Pique. That's my job, finding wells. Want to come along,
as it's Saturday?"
"Gee. Well, sure. What's it mean, divining?"
"You'll see."
A hoarse eerie sound from overhead, and they look.
Very far up, the flock is flying in its V-formation, the few
leaders out in front. Again the flock sounds its deep longdrawn-out
resonant raucous cry that no words can ever
catch but which no one who ever hears it will ever forget.
The Canada geese are flying south.
Memory bank Movie: Shadow of Eden Three years, and the novel is finished, the last few final
revisions completed one moment ago. It has been acceptRites of Passage 443
ed, although no doubt it will be a full year until it is
published. Three years of trying to get inside the thing
quickly in the mornings after Pique has left for school,
and of trying to get outside in the afternoons before Pique
arrives home. Morag feels a massive relief at having it
done, and at the same time the emptiness that always
follows the ending of a book. She packages the sheaf of
paper, ready to return to the publishers, paces a little,
considers phoning Ella, and decides that a letter will be
cheaper. Finances are getting low. Pray God they hurry
with the advance on royalties.
Dear Ella Just
now finished the final touches on Shadow of Eden. I
haven't wanted to talk about it until now, but now I do.
Maybe you and Mort could come up for a weekend? Bring the
kids - Pique thinks they're great, and would prevent their
falling in the river. Let me know, eh? Any time.
Odd - the tales Christie used to tell of Piper Gunn and the
Sutherlanders, and now this book deals with the same period.
The novel follows them on the sea journey to Hudson Bay,
through that winter at Churchill and then on the long walk to
York Factory in the spring. Christie always said they walked
about a thousand miles - it was about a hundred and fifty, in
fact, but you know, he was right; it must've felt like a thousand.
The man who led them on that march, and on the trip
by water to Red River, was young Archie Macdonald, but in
my mind the piper who played them on will always be that
giant of a man. Piper Gunn, who probably never lived in socalled
real life but who lives forever. Christie knew things
about inner truths that I am only just beginning to understand.

I kept thinking about the tales Jules once told me, a long
long time ago, about Rider Tonnerre. Which brings to mind a
curious thing - something that must've come from Old Jules.
Rider was called Prince of the Braves, Skinner said, and his
rifle was named La Petite. Infactuality (if that isn't a word, it
should be), those names pertained to Gabriel Dumont, Riel's
444 The Diviners
lieutenant in Saskatchewan, much later on. That's okay Skinner's
grandad had a right to borrow them. I like the
thought of history and fiction interweaving. The tale of how
Rider got his horse, Roi du Lac, I've recently discovered,
comes from a Cree legend - probably Old Jules didn't know
that. You wonder how long that story had been passed on.
Enough of this. I feel I've neglected Pique, to some extent,
recently, trying to get this thing finished. And I mustn't. Especially
right now, because she's feeling badly. My God, I
meant to tell you this first, and didn't, and now feel heartless
even though I'm just as upset as Pique, or thought I was. Our
beloved Flame (the Irish setter we got shortly after you and
Mort were up here last, about a year ago) was run over last
week. Royland, good neighbour that he is, buried the dog. I
don't think I could have. Pique won't even consider another
dog, and I guess I don't really want one, either. Pique's first
real encounter with death, because Flame was a member of
the family. Christie's death didn't really affect her, because
she'd known him only through stories, and in that way, he's
never died in her mind.
Please try to come up for a weekend. The land looks splendid,
and the crops are beginning to ripen - not, however, on
my land. Here at the Gunn ranch we have a lovely crop of
unmown grass, which I am hoping to lend to a local farmer as
pasturing for his cows in exchange for cream, a ploy which I
consider to be fairly brilliant.
Love to you all,
Morag
Memorybank Movie: Gainsay Who Dare "Hi, Ma," Pique says, slamming the screendoor.
"Hi, honey."
This Ma bit is new. It is as though Pique, at fifteen, has
now decided that Mum sounds too childish and Mother, possibly, too formal. The word in some way is a proclamation
of independence, a statement of the fact that the
distance between them, in terms of equality, is diminishing,
and the relationship must soon become that of two
Rites of Passage 445
adults. On balance, Morag is glad. But it will take some
inner adjustment.
Pique is tall now, nearly as tall as Morag, and has a fine
slender figure and what Morag's generation would call
good breasts. Melon breasts no longer being in fashion,
however. Pique is constantly moaning that hers are too
ample.
Pique and Morag have been at McConnell's Landing
four years now. Vast changes. Pique nearly grown-up. The
log house renovated in various ways as finances have permitted.
A large window now enables Morag to look out at
the river while writing at the long oak table in the kitchen.
An electric stove. New furnace. The old linoleum removed,
and the original pine floors sanded and restored.
Morag's land is now only a few acres, meadow and
woods. She has sold the rest, partly because she needed
the money and partly because she did not like to see the
land unused and it took her a very short time to realize
that she herself wasn't going to work it.
Pique, crunching into an apple, casually flicks through
the pile of reviews on the table. Shadow of Eden having
come out at last.
"These come today, Ma?"
"Yeh. Quite a few favourable ones, thank God. Some
snarling ones."
"Do those ones bother you? Doesn't it make you mad
when people say terrible things about you?"
"Well, they don't exactly make me feel like a million
dollars. On the other hand, they don't knock me out,
either, the way they once did."
The thing that will take some getting used to, in the
reviews of Shadow of Eden, is that so many of them refer
to Morag Gunn as an established and older writer. At
forty-four - an older writer? She has thought of herself as
a beginning writer for so long that it has come as a shock
to realize she no longer fits into this category. There are
now a large number of writers young enough to be her
children, and some of them are very good indeed. Morag
446 The Diviners
reads their work out of fascination, not duty, and in the
past few years has got to know quite a few" of them as
friends. Yes, older writer is the right phrase. Takes some
mental adjustment, though. Meditation. Assimilation.
Pique has laid aside the clippings and is looking out the
window. She turns and Morag sees from her eyes that she
is troubled.
"What is it, honey?"
"What's the legal age a person can quit high school?"
"What?"
"Do you know? I'm just asking you. If you don't want
to tell me, I can find out easily enough."
"I don't know for sure what it is. Pique. But why?"
"Because I'm getting out of that school the moment I
can do it without some truant officer hassling me about it,
that's why."
Pique's comment on the reviews. Doesn't it make you
mad when people say terrible things about you?
"What happened. Pique?"
The girl sits down and lowers her head, spreading her
long black hair like a veil or a mask around her face.
"I just can't see much use in what they're teaching,
that's all."
"I don't think that's all. Is it?"
Pique is silent for a moment. When her voice bursts
out, it is tense with pain.
"What do you know of it? You've never been called a
dirty halfbreed. You've never had somebody tell you your
mother was crazy because she lived out here alone and
wrote dirty books and had kooky people coming out from
the city to visit. Have you? Have you?"
The old patterns, the ones from both Morag's and
Jules' childhoods, the old patterns even in Pique's own
life. The school in England, Morag sees in retrospect, was
a more fortunate thing than she had recognized at the
time - the primary school in Hampstead was full of Pakistani
and African and West Indian kids, and also full of
kids whose parents were writers; amongst that lot. Pique
Rites of Passage 447
was normal and accepted, nothing unusual. McConnell's
Landing was a different matter. When Pique first started
school here, she'd been given a bad time. Gradually, as she
stuck it out (with how much anguish Morag will never
know) the taunts tapered off, only to rise again in adolescence.

"No, I never had exactly that. Pique. Your dad had a
lot of comments passed about him and his family, when
he was a kid, I remember, but at least he could beat up on
nearly any boy who gave him that kind of talk. With me, it
was comments about Christie being the Scavenger, the
town garbage collector, and about me wearing - at least in
grade school - long droopy dresses like floursacks. I always
thought I was going to spare my child that kind of
pain. I haven't, though. It's different, with you, but it's the
same. What happened today?"
"Yeh. Well. It was just that this guy, a real smartass,
came up and started making these passes at me, see? And
when I more or less told him to get lost, he said Aw come
on, don't give me that shit - you know halfbreed girls can't
wait to get fucked by any guy who comes along."
Oh jesus.
"Goddamn," Morag says furiously. "Who was he? I am
going to go and see the principal."
"No, Ma, don't. The guy's dad is on the School Board.
It wouldn't do any good to see the principal. He'd be sorry
and all that, but he couldn't do anything. Yeh, maybe a
person's got to put up a fight. But not that way."
"What way, then?"
"I don't know," Pique says. "At least, not yet."
How to spare one's children at least some kinds of pain?
No way. Where in the Bible does it speak of a new heaven
and a new earth? That's what we need all right. Lord, but
it looks to be a long time in coming.
"Okay. I'll do whatever you want me to do about it,
then. Pique."
"I guess I don't want you actually to do anything, right
now, Ma."
448 The Diviners
Pique's voice, this moment, is very far i young.
They eat dinner in silence, but a relate
distant one. About nine, Pique is watchinj
and seldom-used livingroom (the big kite
old manner of farmhouses, having develoj ural meetingplace). Morag is writing let
draws up noisily at the back of the hous
out the back window, but in the darknes
nize the figure who climbs out. She go
opens it and waits. Odd - in a city she woi
door before she knew who the unexpected
here it never occurs to her that it might I
presence.
The man comes around the corner of
the front door. Runs his hand through his a gesture of awkwardness or embarrassmc
"Hi, Morag," Jules says. "Can I come :
At first it seems likely that for no appan
hallucinating. But no. Jules steps inside ar
good sweat smell of him, as always. She i
thing. She puts her arms out to him, and
"These damn glasses of yours," he say;
did get in the way."
He takes them off and sets them carefu
Then kisses her. She responds at first as s\
and then relaxes a little, realizing that it
from ten years before. The sheer force ar are diminished. They are kissing each oth
pie who have known one another for a Ion
have not seen one another for a long time.
"Skinner "
The old nickname comes out without
intended it. Jules laughs.
"The only other damn person who ever
for me now is my brother Jacques. Even
has."
"Are you still singing with Billy Joe, the
Rites of Passage 449
"Yeh. We split up the team for a few years, and Billy
went north to his people, there, but we got together again
a year or so ago."
"How did you know I was here, Jules?"
"It's not so hard to find you. I phoned your publishers.
They gave me your address."
He wouldn't have done that, years ago.
"How did you find the place, then? Rural Route One
isn't very helpful."
Jules hugs her briefly, as though amused.
"Hell, nearly everybody in McConnell's Landing
knows you, Morag. They think you're crazy as a bedbug."
He looks, of course, older. He is older. He must be
forty-seven now. He looks more like Lazarus than he did
ten years ago, and he was looking a lot like Lazarus then.
His hair is longer and the grey in it is extensive. His old
brass-buckled belt is now slung under an increased belly,
and his eyes are the tough tired eyes of a man who still has
to battle but no longer finds much joy in doing so. He is
wearing purple corduroys and a wide-sleeved Russianstyle
mauve shirt, and this form of dress somehow seems
less confident than the plain coarse Levi's and blue workshirt
of a decade ago. In Toronto fifteen years ago, he had
worn sequinned satin shirts, but only for his performances,
and he had been scornful about that fancy-dress outfit.
Fifteen years? That long? Pique is fifteen now, so in
fact it was nearly sixteen years ago.
Morag becomes aware of the fact that it is not only
herself who is doing the scrutinizing. What is Jules thinking?
Ten years have changed this woman.
"We're both older," Jules says in the quiet voice which
has always denoted either anger or hurt or both.
"Why did you come here, now?"
"Do I have to have a reason, Morag?"
"No."
"Maybe I wanted to see you. Maybe I thought it was
time I saw her - Pique - again."
"Will you be staying awhile, then?"
Is she enquiring
"No," Jules says
And he will be sl
spare bedroom, b^
realizes she is not
herself. It is he whc
hands tighten toget
lation against time.
"What do you hi
"He died a few }
"I'm sorry. He v
"Yes. He was."
Morag realizes n
room have abrupt!
doorway. Tall, strc
Her dark eyes sizin
"I know you," sl
Just that. In a r
manding. Jules, wh
Pique was five, is n
can say or dare say
"You've sure chc
thing - I want to a
mother, I can't."
"Because of you]
"Yeh. Would yoi
Morag goes to g(
going to apologize
himself would be
originally to have
never in his life de
Why should she?
"Are you still sin
"Yeh. I'm still s
been born later. L
think you're some 1
sometimes, but mo
and they want your
Rites of Passage 451
"You're not getting old." The young voice, crying out
against time, against the evidence of her eyes.
Jules laughs. Then goes briefly out to the truck, returning
with his guitar.
"You want to hear, Pique?"
She nods, silently. Morag suspects that Pique would like
to tell him she is trying to learn guitar, that she sings as well,
that she plays the records of Baez and Dylan and Cohen
and Joni Mitchell and Buffy Sainte-Marie and James Taylor
and Bruce Cockburn and a dozen others whose names
Morag frequently misplaces, over and over and over, trying
to learn from them. Pique listens to groups, too, but it is the
solitary singers, singing their own songs, who really absorb
her. Pique cannot tell Jules any of this now. Maybe later. If
only he would stay longer. But probably he can't.
"You don't remember, I guess," Jules says, "when you
were a little kid, there, in Vancouver, and I sang the song
to you about my grandfather Jules Tonnerre, your greatgrandfather?
He fought with Riel, there, at Batoche, the
last flight, in 1885. You remember the song?"
Pique frowns. It was a long time ago. There is no resemblance
between five and fifteen.
"I kind of remember," she says, "but not that much."
"Well, here it is," Jules says.
He tunes his guitar, and sings.
The Metis, they met from the whole prairie
To keep their lands, to keep them free,
They gathered there in the valley Qu'Appelle
Alongside their leader, Louis Riel.
They took their rifles into their hands,
They fought to keep their fathers' lands,
And one of them who gathered there
Was a Metis boy called Jules Tonnerre....
He goes through the fifteen verses, but the song does not
seem long. His voice is rougher than it was ten years ago,
452 The Diviners
but it is still strong. One foot beats time. Pique, sitting on
the floor beside the woodstove, keeps her head lowered. Her
eyes cannot be seen. Jules finishes and reaches for another
beer which Morag has placed beside him. Then he and
Pique look at one another. Pique again nods silently. Apparently
nothing needs to be spoken. The tension in Jules'
shoulders eases visibly. It is all right, then.
How unlike me. I would have had to say what I thought
about it, analyze the words, probably, yakkity yak. She
doesn't have to, and neither does Jules. They do it in a
different way, a way I can see, although it's not mine.
Jutes turns to Morag.
"You remember, in Vancouver, there, I wanted to get a
song about Lazarus, only I couldn't get it just then?"
"Yes. I remember."
"Well, after a while I did get it. Did you ever tell Pique
about Lazarus?"
"Some."
Jules laughs.
"Yeh. Some. Well, here's some more."
And he sings. Pique again lowers her head, her hair
spreading out like a veil, a mask, around her face.
Lazarus, he was the king of Nothing
Lazarus, he never had a dime.
He was sometimes on Relief, he was permanent on grief.
And Nowhere was the place he spent his time.
Lazarus, he lived down in the Valley;
Lazarus, he never lived in Town.
Now that damn town, still, see, it sits up on the hill,
But Lazarus, oh he belonged way down.
Lazarus was what they called a halfbreed;
Half a man was what the Town would say.
What made him walk so slow, well, they didn't care to know
It was easier by far to look away.
Rites of Passage 453
Lazarus was nothing to the Mounties;
They knew he never had a cent for bail.
When his life got more than rough, and he drank
more than enough,
They just threw him in the Manawakajail.
Lazarus was not afraid of fighting;
It was the only way he knew to win.
But when the fight was o'er, he'd be in the clink once more;
Those breeds must learn that anger is a sin.
Lazarus, he went and lost his woman;
She left him when she found he wasn't king.
Then he had no woman there, nothing left,
no kind of prayer,
And Nothing was his always Everything.
Lazarus, he had a bunch of children;
He raised them in the Valley down below.
So that they could eat, he shot rabbits there for meat,
Where his ancestors had shot the buffalo.
Lazarus, he lost some of those children,
Some to fire, some to the City's heart of stone.
Maybe when they went, was the worst time that was sent.
For then he really knew he was alone.
Lazarus, he never slit his throat, there.
Lazarus, he never met his knife.
If you think that isn't news, just try walking in his shoes.
Oh Lazarus, he kept his life, for life.
Lazarus, rise up out of the Valley;
Tell them what it really means to try.
Go tell them in the Town, though they always put you down,
Lazarus, oh man, you didn't die.
Lazarus, oh man, you didn't die.
454 The Diviners
Morag has stopped thinking about Pique and what she
may be thinking and feeling. It is again the valley, inside
her own head, and the last time she ever spoke to Lazarus,
after that first time with Jules when Lazarus held the
bottle up and said This here, it's my woman now, and
Jules was angry, angry. Lazarus.
Pique raises her head.
"I didn't know it was like that."
"There's a lot you don't know," Jules says harshly.
"Your mother probably didn't tell you that when my sister
died in that fire, with her kids, she was stoned out of her
head with home-brew, on account of she didn't give a fuck
whether she lived or died, and she had her reasons."
"No. I just heard about the fire. I know about that. Do
you have to tell me again? I don't want to hear it."
Jules reaches for another beer. To Morag, he looks
much older than forty-seven now, and much younger. His
purple costume seems to fall away from him, leaving only
the bones of his being, and his implacable eyes.
"Yen, I guess I have to tell you it, again."
My sister's eyes
Fire and snow What
they'd be saying
You couldn't know.
My sister's body
Fire and snow It
wasn't hers
Since long ago.
My sister's man
Fire and snow He
ate her heart
Then he made her go.
My sister's children
Fire and snow Rites of Passage 455
She prayed they'd live
';.. But it wasn't so.
My sister's death
Fire and snow Burned
out her sorrow
In the valley below.
My sister's eyes
Fire and snow What
they were telling
You'll never know.
Pique keeps her head down. Morag, too, can say nothing.
What thoughts may be going on in Pique's head, she
can only guess. And Pique has no notion of the thoughts
in Morag's head. The fire, and Lazarus standing alone in
the snow. Jules, years later, saying Tell me, just tell me.
"It's a good song," Pique says finally, out of the need
for distance, but possibly also out of something else. -
"Yeh," Jules says.
He puts his guitar away in its case.
"I never got around, yet," he goes on, "to doing songs
for any of the other ones. I never managed to do one for
myself, neither. Crazy, eh? I guess you didn't know what
happened after that time, Pique. It was after Lazarus
died. My brother Paul, he was twenty-five, and he was a
guide up north, and they say he drowned. Well, he
handled a canoe better than most, so I doubt he drowned.
It could be, I know; it's happened. But he was taking a
coupla tourists, eh, and they came back, all right, and
reported to the nearest rcmp that he'd drowned. They had
a lotta guns with them, those guys, I'd guess, and a lotta
booze. I don't think he drowned. Jacques never got to first
base with an investigation. After that, my sister Val finally
died. She'd been trying hard for years, and she finally
made it."
"How did she die?" Pique's voice is ageless.
456 The Diviners
"She was thirty-seven years old," Jules says viciously.
"I used to think she'd likely die in some brawl, but she
never. After Paul, she fell apart. She'd looked after him,
mostly, as a kid. She died of booze and speed, on the
streets of Vancouver. As a whore."
Pique looks at him, her eyes hurt and bewildered and
angry.
"Why did you have to tell me? Why did you have to?"
Jules brings down one clenched fist upon the table.
"Too many have died," he says. "Too many, before it
was time. I don't aim to be one of them. And I don't aim
for you to be, neither."
Pique begins crying, then, silently, and he puts an arm
lightly around her shoulder.
"My brother, Jacques, he lives away up at Galloping
Mountain. I guess you'd like the mountain. If you ever go
west, go and see him, eh? He talks better than me."
Pique lifts her head and smiles at him, and there is such
a desolation in Jules' eyes that Morag longs to put her
arms around him. But cannot move or speak.
"I'll show you something," Jules says, to lighten the
atmosphere. "The only thing I got now that belonged to
Lazarus, and it's not a thing which was even really his.
Funny,eh?"
He reaches into his wallet and brings out a silver
brooch, now blackened with lack of cleaning.
"Jules - that's a plaid pin," Morag says. "How in hell
did Lazarus come to have that?"
"Is that what you call it? Well, when my dad was just a
kid, he used to horse around, sometimes, with this other
kid called John Shipley, and Lazarus traded his knife for
this brooch, thinking it'd be worth a lot of money, I guess,
but then he was scared to try to sell it - people would've
thought he'd stolen it, see? When I came back from the
war, there, Lazarus gave it to me. I would've liked to get
that Shipley guy to trade back again, but he'd been killed
a few years before the war, Lazarus said, when his truck
piled into an oncoming freight train."
Rites of Passage 457
Morag stares in disbelief. These things do not happen.
Oh yes, they do, though. Everything is improbable. Nothing
is more improbable than anything else.
"Jules"
"Yeh?" Then, as he sees her face, "What in hell's the
matter, Morag?"
"Even if he hadn't been killed," Morag says, her own
voice sounding detached from herself, "he wouldn't have
had the knife. He'd sold it for a package of cigarettes. To
Christie Logan. Christie never mentioned the guy's name,
but he told me the story. Christie never knew whose the
knife had been, or he'd have given it back to Lazarus. He
gave the knife to me, years ago. That, and a few books,
that's all I have of Christie's."
"You're crazy," Jules says. "You're kidding."
"She's not kidding," Pique said. "Where do you keep
it, Ma?"
"Top drawer of my dresser."
Pique goes upstairs and returns. She is about to hand
the knife to Jules. Then she hesitates and finally hands it
to Morag. Jules hunches in his chair, motionless, eyes
concealed.
It is an ordinary hunting knife, dulled and slightly rusty
with age and lack of use. On the handle there is a sign:
I
"I always wondered," Morag says, "what the sign on
the hilt meant. I see now it's a 'T.'"
He takes it without a word and turns it over and over in
his hands, running his fingers over the blade.
"Jesus!" he says at last. "How about that? It could even
be cleaned and sharpened, you know that? It's still a good
knife."
Pique looks as though she were about to say something,
then changes her mind and remains quiet, as though recognizing
that all this is only between Morag and Jules.
"Here," he says, shoving the plaid pin across the table
to Morag. "Fair trade."
She takes it and examines it. Neither of them has
458 The Diviners
thanked the other. No need. A fair trade. Morag goes to
her bookshelves and gets out Christie's The Clans and
Tartans of Scotland. Leafs through it, trying to find an
illustration of this particular plaid pin. Pique watches,
curiously, but Jules is still looking at the knife.
"Here it is," Morag says. "It's the Clanranald Macdonalds.
Where could he have got it from, John Shipley?
We'll never know, of course. The crest, it says here, is On
a castle triple-towered, an arm in armour, embowed, holding
a sword, proper. Their motto was My Hope Is Constant
In Thee - those are the words on the pin. Their war
cry was Gainsay Who Dare."
Clan Gunn, according to this book, as she recalls from
years back, did not have a crest or a coat-of-arms. But
adoption, as who should know better than Morag, is possible.

My Hope Is Constant In Thee. It sounds like a voice
from the past. Whose voice, though? Does it matter? It
does not matter. What matters is that the voice is there,
and that she has heard these words which have been given
to her. And will not deny what has been given. Gainsay
Who Dare.
PART FIVE
The Diviners
'""fh e c a n a d a geese had been gone for a week now, and JL the wind was fringed with cold. The leaves were beginning
to fall and the grass was splattered with them, red
maple, yellow elm, brown oak.
Pique had quit her job at the supermarket and was
having coffee with Morag.
"I never told you, Ma," Pique said, "about when I
went to Manawaka, did I? I guess I should. I thought - I
dunno - I guess I thought it might upset you, or something.
I went down in the valley to see the Tonnerre
shack, the one my dad rebuilt after the fire. There wasn't
much left of it - it had sort of fallen in, and the boards
were rotting. I was glad I'd gone, though. It seemed I
really knew then that all of them had lived there, once. The grass was thick and high all around, and there were
these thin prairie maples and the wolf willow. I liked it
there. There wasn't any sign that there'd ever been a fire,
not now. I stayed all night, not sleeping much, just sort
of thinking, you know. It was very quiet. I could hear the
river - it's really more a creek, isn't it? It sounded kind of
like voices. In the morning "
She hesitated.
"Go on," Morag said.
"Well, in the morning, I went up to the Manawaka
cemetery, and looked up Christie and Prin Logan's grave.
Zinnias had been planted, and somebody was there, weed462 The Diviners
ing. It was this plain little middle-aged woman with kind
of stringy hair, looking sort of exhausted, you know? But
she sounded quite cheerful. I liked her. I told her who my
mother and dad were, and she looked surprised, but all
she said was Well, now, think of that; I'm glad Morag did
have a child after all. She said you wouldn't recall her
married name, but you would know her single name. It
was "
"I know," Morag said. "Eva Winkler."
"That's right. How did you know?"
"It couldn't have been anyone else."
"Ma - I did upset you, didn't I? I'm sorry. You're crying."

"It's okay. Honestly. It's just - well, I guess I can't
explain."
Too many years. No brief summary possible. Accept it
and let it go.
"I've decided what I'm going to do, Ma," Pique said.
"I will be going west again."
"Where to. Pique?"
"Just as far as Manitoba. I'm going to my uncle
Jacques' place at Galloping Mountain."
"You are? Does he know?"
"Sure. I've been writing to him."
"You have? What sort of place is it, Pique? Do you
know?"
Would that sound suspicious? Shouldn't have said it.
Still and all, a farm or whatever at Galloping Mountain.
Forty Below all winter. Probably an outdoor John.
"I've been there," Pique said. "I went up there after I'd
been to Manawaka. My dad said I should go, sometime,
remember? When he was here that time about three years
ago, he said that. So I went. He's got this small farm,
Jacques, and he sets traptines in the winter, he and the
boys. They're not well-off, but Jacques is some guy. He
doesn't come on strong - I don't mean that, not at all. It's
just that he's sure of what he's doing, and nobody is going
The Diviners 463
to put him down, if he can help it. He and Mary - that's
his wife - they've got four of their own kids, as well as the
others."
"The others?"
"Valentine's three kids," Pique said slowly. "Mary and
Jacques have been raising them."
"I see. I didn't know Val had -"
"Yeh. Well. They've been up at the mountain all their
lives, just about. Also, there's Paul's son - he'd be about
fourteen, I guess."
"Jules never said there was - did Paul's wife die?"
"No. She's got th. There's some younger kids as well."
"Whose?"
Children of Jules? If so. Pique would not say. What did
it matter, anyway?
"Jacques goes to Winnipeg sometimes, for Metis meetings
and that. He usually comes back with some kid or
other, kids whose parents have died or vanished. You
know. They've had pretty rough lives, so some of them
aren't that easy to get on with. That's what I'll be doing helping
Mary out with the work and with the kids who
aren't at school yet."
"It sounds - well, like kind of a madhouse."
"Oh it is," Pique said, laughing. "You'd hate it, Ma.
It's a messy house, with all those kids. It doesn't bother
me. Yeh, sometimes it does, I guess, but not too much."
"Where in hell does any money come from? The farm
wouldn't make enough."
"Well, there isn't much. Some of them work out - Valentine's
two eldest boys, and Jacques' daughter, Val,
who's about a year older than I am."
"What about Clan, Pique?"
Pique looked troubled.
"He wants to stay here, and I want to go. He doesn't see
that it's necessary for me. Maybe I'll be back, or else he'll
decide to come out for a while. Or maybe I won't and he
won't. I haven't got the gift of second sight."
464 The Diviners
In a way, she almost did, though. But whatever Pique
felt was likely to happen, she was not about to say.
"Pique, I hope "
What? That Pique wasn't taking on more than she
could cope with? That she wasn't making an error of
judgement in going at all? Nonsense. Who could ever enter
anything with a guarantee? Let her go. This time, it had to
be possible and was.
"I hope everything goes well for you. Pique."
Pique smiled faintly.
"Thanks. It will and it won't, I guess. I wish I was
better at explanations, Ma. I'm not going out there
because they need me, particularly. All I can do is contribute
my share, if I can. For me, it's more, really, that I need
them, right now. For a while, anyway. I don't know how
long they'll want me to stay. I don't know how long I'll
want to stay. But my reasons for going - well, it's like
when I went off before. I couldn't say, exactly, and yet I
knew. Could I sing you this song I did? I haven't sung it
yet for Clan and the Smiths, but I'm going to. At least, I
hope so. Maybe Clan will see then - I don't know."
Morag had wondered why Pique had toted her guitar
over here today. She must have had this in mind, not
having quite decided whether to sing it or not, hesitating
to make herself that vulnerable. It was easier, in some
way, to make yourself vulnerable in front of strangers.
Pique sang. Morag had listened to Pique singing many
times before, but never before her own song.
There's a valley holds my name, now I know
In the tales they used to tell it seemed so low
There's a valley way down there
I used to dream it like a prayer
And my fathers, they lived there long ago.
There's a mountain holds my name, close to the sky
And those stories made that mountain seem so high
The Diviners 465
There's a mountain way up there
I used to dream I'd breathe its air
And hear the voices that in me would never die.
I came to taste the dust out on a prairie road
My childhood thoughts were heavy on me like a load
But I left behind my fear
When I found those ghosts were near
Leadin' me back to that home I never knowed.
Ah, my valley and my mountain, they're the same
My living places, and they never will be tame
When I think how I was born
I can't help but being torn
But the valley and the mountain hold my name
The valley and the mountain hold my name
Then silence. Pique could not speak until Morag did, and
Morag could not speak for a while. The hurts unwittingly
inflicted upon Pique by her mother, by circumstances -
Morag had agonized over these often enough, almost as
though, if she imagined them sufficiently, they would prove
to have been unreal after all. But they were not unreal. Yet
Pique was not assigning any blame - that was not what it
was all about. And Pique's journey, although at this point it
might feel to her unique, was not unique. Morag reached
out and took Pique's hand, holding it lightly.
"Could I have a copy of the words. Pique?"
This was apparently all she could say. Pique's fingers
tightened around Morag's, then let go.
"Sure. I'll write them out for you now."
That evening, when Morag was having dinner alone, the
phone rang. Morag, wanting only to be left to herself to
think, answered reluctantly.
466 The Diviners
"Hello."
"Morag? Billy Joe. I thought I oughta phone you,
maybe. Jules, he's not so good."
"What's the matter?"
"Well, I don't know that I oughta say, like. He's sick."
"What is it? Is he in hospital?"
"No. He won't go."
"What is it?"
Then Billy Joe's voice, uncertain, telling her.
"Billy. In his throat?"
"Yeh."
"Where is he?"
Billy gave the address.
"Do you think he'll see me, Billy?"
"Yeh. I think so."
"He didn't say he wanted to see me?"
"Well, no. But "
"Never mind. He wouldn't. It doesn't matter. I'll get the
seven o'clock bus. I'll be there about ten. Is he - is there a
woman with him?"
"Not now," Billy Joe said. "Not after he got real sick."
Royland drove Morag to the bus station in McConnell's
Landing. She told him what had happened.
"Look, Royland, phone over to A-Okay's, will you, and
just tell Pique I decided to go in and spend a few days with
Ella and Mort, and I'll be back before she goes."
"Okay. But are you sure she shouldn't know?"
"No, I'm not sure of a damn thing. But I think it's
better to wait and see how he is, and also what he wants
me to tell her."
"Yeh. Okay. You gonna be all right, now, Morag? You
seem pretty shaky. Want me to come along with you?"
"No. But thanks anyway."
The bus crawled along the highway. Morag shut her
mind, as she was sometimes able to do in time of need. If
she began thinking about Jules now, about his whole life,
about the way he looked when he was young, she could
not face whatever it was that she would have to face.
The Diviners 467
The place was on Spadina, a three-storey house which
seemed to be slumped in upon itself with the years and
lack of repairs. Billy Joe answered the door. He had been
waiting for her. Morag had not seen him for - how long?
Nearly nineteen years. Was that possible? Indeed. Billy
Joe looked shorter than she had remembered. His hair
was still black as crows' feathers, but his face was seamed
and wrinkled, even though he could not be more than in
his early fifties. He evaded her eyes.
"I dunno if I done the right thing, Morag, phoning you.
I never told him I done it, yet. You can't do nothing. We
got two rooms, top floor. C'mon."
Outside the door to Jules' room, Billy Joe stopped. He
looked oddly determined, as though Jules might not
approve of what he had done, but also as though he knew
that this was necessary and what Jules wanted even
though in an unadmitted way.
"You go in," he said.
Then he left her, and went into his own room. Now
Morag was afraid. Not afraid, any longer, that Jules might
mock her or tell her to get out. Not that, not now. Simply
afraid of what she might see, of how he might look.
Afraid that she might have to look at something she could
not bear to look at. She opened the door. One ceiling
light, not more than forty-watt, was burning, and the
small room was shadowed. The usual one-room setup.
Discoloured linoleum on the floor. A table, a couple of
straight chairs, a hotplate, a cupboard. Tatty lace curtains
on the window. And in one corner, a double bed with a
grey blanket.
Jules was lying outstretched on the bed, his arms bent
upwards and his hands clasped behind his head. He was
wearing an old pair of blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt,
the kind you buy at the cut-rate clothing stores for $3.33
or thereabouts. He looked more like himself than the last
time she had seen him. His leather belt, though, wasn't his
old one - this was wider, new, with a clasp buckle in brass
braid. Then Morag remembered he'd given his old belt to
4
ill
f
j
The Diviners 469
that although you needed to do battle, you didn't always
need to, every minute. Or was she interpreting him, as
usual, only through her own eyes? How else could you
interpret anyone? The thing now was not to interfere, not
to enter fear. She would, of course. It was her nature.
"Jules - maybe you should go into hospital? What did
the doctor say? Maybe they could "
She sat down beside him on the bed. He put one of his
hands on her wrist, not the angry gesture of years ago.
Now, a still-strong but almost neutral touch.
"They couldn't," Jules said. "You know, Morag, I was
always pretty mad, there, about Lazarus not being taken
to the hospital. And I tried, you remember, to get Val to
go, but she wouldn't stay, and I thought she was a crazy
woman. I see now it wasn't like that. By the time they got
around to needing a hospital, it was already too late.
Except that for them, there, it wasn't the same as with me.
With them, it was somebody's fault or everybody's fault,
and it started a long way back, but with me, it's just bad
luck. I had some luck in my time. It's run out, that's all."
Morag's mind fought this concept.
"If you'd been president of the Royal Bank of Canada,
they'd have every specialist on the continent in, and -"
Jules laughed again.
"And in the end, it would've made no damn difference.
You think I want all that? People punching you here and
there, tubes down your nose, parts of you cut out like you
were beef being butchered? The president of the Royal
Bank can keep it. It's all shit to me."
"Yen. Okay. I won't say any more."
He motioned to her to pour another drink. It was only
when she saw the sweat on his forehead and around his
mouth that Morag realized he was dwelling within the
kind of physical pain which she had never experienced
and could not imagine.
"Jules - did he give you anything for - I mean -"
"Yeh. Second shelf of the cupboard."
She got the bottle of tablets, and he swallowed three.
470 The Diviners
Lay back for a while. Then raised himself again, and
drank.
"I haven't sung for some time, here," he said. "It was
gonna stop soon, anyhow. Lotsa good young singers
around now. Jesus, the shitty gigs Billy and me have had
these past coupla years. Well, never mind. I didn't do so
bad. I've done what I wanted to do, mostly."
What would he be recalling, now? What memories of
uncaring audiences, in fourth-rate dives? She would never
know. He contained his own pain.
"Pique's going west again. Skinner."
He half sat up and looked at her.
"Yeh? Where?"
"To Jacques' place. She went there, before, after she
saw you in Toronto that last time. She went to Manawaka
and then up to Galloping Mountain. She only just told
me. She's been writing to him. He's not like you - you
never wrote letters, remember? She'll be going soon.
Maybe she'll be back, and maybe she won't."
Jules reached out to the floor for his drink. When he
faced her again, it was with some residue of the ancient
anger, the ancient grief.
"You let her be, see? You just let her be."
Even now, he felt he had to speak like that, did he? And
perhaps he did, perhaps he did.
"She sang me one of her songs," Morag said. "I
brought the words. That's all. Just the words. No music. I
don't know about all that. So you can't hear it. Unless she
comes here."
"No," Jules said. "I don't want her to come here. Not
with me like this. Don't tell her, either, you hear? If you
do, she'll be here. Yeh, it would be good to hear it. But
there's no way. Let's see."
He reached out for the paper, and read the words.
Handed the page back to Morag, then changed his mind
and took it again.
"Yeh. Well. I'll keep this. You can get another copy.
The Diviners 471
You can tell her - oh, the hell with it, you don't need to tell
her anything. Nobody does."
They drank some more rye, not speaking much. Jules'
voice seemed to have run out and he spat more frequently
into the basin beside the bed. He was getting fairly drunk
now, and his pain was lessened by the pills and the rye.
The pain in his throat, anyway. The night was wearing on.
Finally Morag got up and turned out the light. Kicked off
her shoes and lay down beside him, both of them clad,
lying silently, connected only by their hands.
Then Jules turned to her and put his arms around her,
and she put her arms around him. The brief sound in the
darkness was the sound of a man crying the knowledge of
his death.
In the morning, Morag left before he wakened.
Morag, unable to write, sat at the table looking out at the
river. She had been back for four days now. Had pretended
all was fine. Pique was preparing to leave within
the next week or so, as usual vague about the time of her
departure.
How can I not tell her about Jules? How can I tell her?
He doesn't want me to tell her. He doesn't want to see her,
He wants to see her, but not for her to see him.
The aeons ago memory. The child saying I'll just go
up and see my mother and father, now, for a minute. And Mrs. Pearl, holding tightly to the child's wrist, saying
No you don't; they're too sick to see you; they don't
want to. They had wanted to see her; they had not
wanted her to see them. The gaps in understanding, the
long-ago child wondering what was being kept from her,
wondering why they did not want to see her. Morag had
been five. Pique was not a child. Nevertheless, she would
want to see him and would not likely understand why
she must not.
The truck drew into the driveway that evening. Jules'
472 The Diviners
old pickup truck. For an instant Morag thought he might
somehow have had a reprieve, the doctor having diagnosed
wrongly.
Billy Joe got out of the truck and came inside. His face
wore its usual masked expression, but only just.
"Billy. He's dead, isn't he?"
"Yeh. He's dead."
Morag poured them both a drink, and Billy Joe drank
without saying anything.
"It happened very quickly, didn't it?" Morag said,
numbed. "I guess that's lucky for him, although it's hard
to think of it that way. It's not usually that fast. Is it?"
"He didn't wait for it," Billy Joe said.
Just that. He didn't wait.
"I see." Her voice had an unreal calm. "Billy - how did
he-"
Billy Joe turned to her. Jules had been his partner, his
songbrother. How could she know anything about that,
about what Jules and Billy Joe had been to one another,
over more than twenty years?
"It don't matter, how he done it," he said with finality.
No use asking. Billy Joe would never say.
He fished in his pocket and drew out something. Jules'
knife, the knife of his father Lazarus. Morag looked at it.
"Billy "
"He wanted Pique to have his knife, that's all," Billy
Joe said, very quietly.
Morag picked up the knife. The blade had been sharpened
since Jules first got it, three years ago. The steel was,
of course, perfectly clean.
"Where - where is he. Billy?"
"I wired Jacques. He said to send the body to Galloping
Mountain. So I done that. Jacques would've sent the
money for that, but there was no need. Some of us here,
we done that."
The Metis graveyard up at the mountain, where the
grey wooden crosses stood above the graves of the TonThe Diviners 473
nerres. Nearby, Jacques Tonnerre had his livingplace, his
living place.
"Morag," Billy Joe said. "I'm gonna go now."
"Yes. All right."
Morag wanted to hold onto him, and cry. But could
not. Nor could he. And yet, at the doorway, they held to
one another after all, momentarily. Then Billy Joe left without speaking again.
Morag phoned to A-Okay's and told Maudie to ask Pique
to come over. Morag had not cried. When Pique arrived,
she saw the knife on the table.
"Ma - something's happened to him, hasn't it?"
"Yes. He's dead. Of throat cancer."
Abruptly, like that. Unable to speak it otherwise. Pique
said nothing. Then crumpled, knelt, put her head on Morag's
lap and cried. But later, when she rose and saw her
mother's face, it was she who comforted Morag.
After a while, they could manage to talk once more.
"He didn't know I was going to Jacques' place, Ma. I
wish he'd known that."
"He did know."
"How?"
"I told him," Morag said. "I - went in to see him.
That's where I went, a few days ago. Billy phoned me."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Pique's voice was sharp with
hurt.
"He didn't want me to. He didn't want you to see him,
the way he was. He was in a lot of pain. I showed him the
words of the song."
"He didn't hear the music," Pique said. "I wish he
could have heard that."
"I know. It's always too late for something. But he kept
the words."
Pique picked up the knife.
"Did he - is this for me?"
"Yes."
"What was it used for, ^
"What? Oh - that. La2
when he was young."
Would Pique create a fi
both more and less true t
made a song for him, as sl
had never brought himself
i
i
Pique was going by train tl
ing. The day she left. Me
station after all. She prefe
here. Why put yourself th
than necessary? A sign of a
but what the hell.
Pique came over in the t
"Hi, Ma."
Morag wondered when r
ing that. But did not expre
"Hi, honey."
"Listen, I'm not gonna s
vously. "I can't stand thes
me."
"Yeh. Me, too."
"Ma - maybe this is kinc
you wouldn't consider lett
suppose?"
Morag thought about thi
her head.
"Not right now, Pique.
me. You can have it, thougl
"Meaning what?"
"When I'm gathered to i
Pique grinned.
"That's a new one in eu]
"It's not euphemism," t
either."
The Diviners 475
"Well, I didn't really think you'd want to part with it,"
Pique said, "but I thought I'd ask. It's okay. I hope I don't
get it for a long time, then."
She shivered slightly, and her eyes darkened.
"Ma -" she added, "you'll take care, eh? You'll be
okay?"
"Of course. I am okay."
And in a profound sense, this was true.
Pique put one thin brown arm around Morag's
shoulders.
"So long, then."
"So long. Go with God, Pique."
"Ma, you have some pretty funny expressions."
"Now, then, don't I just?"
She watched while Pique walked across the meadow to
the river and the boat. Then she walked back inside the
house.
Late that afternoon, Morag heard the train whistle
from McConnell's Landing. The train was moving west.
Finally able to get back to work, after only several days,
Morag did not welcome interruption. But it was Royland
at the door. He rarely came in during what he knew were
her working hours.
"It's not a good time to come over," Royland said.
"But maybe you won't mind, this once."
"Royland - what's the matter?"
To superficial glance, Royland looked the same as
always. The same old bushjacket and beat-up trousers, the
same greybeard as neatly trimmed as ever. The usual
smile. But something different.
Please, Lord, no more anything/or a while, eh? I've had
enough for just now.
"I went over to Tim Mackie's place today," Royland
said. "His old well had seepage."
"And?"
"And nothing. I knew the moment I started that noth-
476 The Diviners
ing would happen, and that is just what happened. Nothing.
It's not so strange. People often lose it, I mean the
divining, when they get older. It's a fact. It's gone on with
me for a long time."
"Royland - anybody can have a temporary setback, for
heaven's sake."
"No," Royland said clearly. "I had it for a long while,
and now I don't have it. It's as simple as that."
The Old Man of the River, his powers gone. What
happened to an ex-shamanf Was he honoured as an elder
of the tribe, or was he driven forth? In Royland's case, the
former. But would that help how he himself felt about it?
"Royland - I'm so damn sorry."
"Well, not that much need to be, really, I guess. I'm not
actually going to starve. I've got a little put by, and I own
my place, so with the old-age pension I can manage. It's
not that, though."
"I know."
Royland sat down and accepted a cup of coffee, but
didn't drink it.
"It's not so easy to take," he said. "But you know,
Morag, there's something I never told you."
"What's that?"
"It's something I don't understand, the divining," Royland
said slowly, "and it's not something that everybody
can do, but the thing I don't usually let on about is that
quite a few people can learn to do it. You don't have to have
the mark of God between your eyebrows. Or if you do, quite
a few people have it. You didn't know that, did you?"
"No. No, I didn't."
Royland laughed.
"A-Okay tried," he said. "He was that nervous and
suspicious. But he could learn, if he has a mind to. That
was plain. I think he was kind of upset by it. But he could
learn."
"Really? Will he?"
"If he can just get over wanting to explain it," Royland
said, "maybe he will. That's up to him."
The Diviners 477
The inheritors. Was this, finally and at last, what Morag
had always sensed she had to learn from the old man? She
had known it all along, but not really known. The gift, or
portion of grace, or whatever it was, was finally withdrawn,
to be given to someone else.
"This that's happened to me -" Royland said, "it's not
a matter for mourning."
"I see that now," Morag said.
When Royland had gone, Morag sat in her armchair
looking out the wide window. Contemplating. Could this
be termed an activity? It was to be hoped so. She certainly
spent enough time doing it.
At least Royland knew he had been a true diviner.
There were the wells, proof positive. Water. Real wet
water. There to be felt and tasted. Morag's magic tricks
were of a different order. She would never know whether
they actually worked or not, or to what extent. That
wasn't given to her to know. In a sense, it did not matter.
The necessary doing of the thing - that mattered.
Morag walked out across the grass and looked at the
river. The sun, now low, was catching the waves, sending
out once more the flotilla of little lights skimming along
the greenbronze surface. The waters flowed from north to
south, and the current was visible, but now a south wind
was blowing, ruffling the water in the opposite direction,
so that the river, as so often here, seemed to be flowing
both ways.
Look ahead into the past, and back into the future,
until the silence.
How far could anyone see into the river? Not far. Near
shore, in the shallows, the water was clear, and there were
the clean and broken clamshells of creatures now dead,
and the wavering of the underwater weed-forests, and the
flicker of small live fishes, and the undulating lines of gold
as the sand ripples received the sun. Only slightly further
out, the water deepened and kept its life from sight.
Morag returned to the house, to write the remaining
private and fictional words, and to set down her title.
6
.0
^
The Ballad of Jules Tonnerre
The M6-tis they met from the whole prai-ne To keep their lands, to
^ J J j .



^f=
^H=

--r--

keep them free, They ga-tlicrcd there in the valley Oii'Ap-pcllc Alongside
their lea-dcr, Loii-i.s Ri-cl.
THE BALLAD OF JULES TONNERRE
(Written by Jules "Skinner" Tonnerre, for his
grandfather who/ought with Kiel in 1885)
The Metis they met from the whole prairie
To keep their lands, to keep them free,
They gathered there in the valley Qu'Appelle
Alongside their leader, Louis Riel.
They took their rifles into their hands,
They fought to keep their fathers' lands
And one of them who gathered there
Was a Metis boy called Jules Tonnerre.
He is not more than eighteen years;
He will not listen to his fears.
481
482 The Diviners
His heart is true, his heart is strong;
He knows the land where his people belong.
Macdonald, he sits in Ottawa,
Drinking down his whiskey raw,
Sends out west ten thousand men,
Swears the Metis will not rise again.
The young Anglais from Ontario,
Out to the west they swiftly go;
They don't know what they're fighting for,
But they've got the cannon, so it must be war.
It was near Batoche, in Saskatchewan,
The Metis bullets were nearly gone;
"If I was a wolf, I'd seek my lair,
But a man must try," said Jules Tonnerre.
Riel, he walks with the Cross held high,
To bless his men so they may not die;
"God bless Riel," says Tonnerre,
"But the cannon Anglais won't listen to prayer.
Dumont, he rides out to ambush the foe,
To hunt as he's hunted the buffalo;
He's the bravest heart on the whole prairie,
But he cannot save his hunted Metis.
Jules Tonnerre and his brothers, then,
They fought like animals, fought like men.
"Before the earth will take our bones,
We'll load our muskets with nails and stones."
They loaded their muskets with nails and stone;
They fought together and they fought alone;
And Jules, he fell with steel in his thigh,
And he prayed his God that he might not die.
Album 483
He woke and found no soul around,
The deadmen hanging onto the ground;
The birds sang in the prairie air.
"Now, it's over, then," said Jules Tonnerre.
Riel, he was hanged in Regina one day;
Dumont, he crossed to the U.S.A.
"Of sorrow's bread I've eaten my share,
But I won't choke yet," said Jules Tonnerre.
He took his Cross and he took his gun,
Went back to the place where he'd begun.
He lived on drink and he lived on prayer,
But the heart was gone from Jules Tonnerre.
Still, he lived his years and he raised his son,
Shouldered his life till it was done;
His voice is one the wind will tell
In the prairie valley that's called Qu'Appelle.
They say the dead don't always die;
They say the truth outlives the lie The
night wind calls their voices there,
The Metis men, like Jules Tonnerre.
484 The Diviners
Lazarus
ni ,	=

fl
La-za-ius, he	was the king of	Nothing;

La-za-rus, he	nc-vcr	had	a dime.
J1 - ' ^ I J J	J	J §
He was	sonic-times on	Re-	lief, he was

f	f	f
=3=


pcr-ma-nenton	glicf.	And	No-»!icre was the
i ' J ' Q J
J J.	1^
place he spent his time.
^
La--za-rus, he lived down in	the val-
1	J'	J J I J J .1 ^
Icy,
^
La- za- rus, he nc-vcr lived in
Town.	Now	that damn town,
Album 485
^^
still, sec, it	sits up on	the	hill. Oh but
-^----r--








^=SE^


-j--r-

=^=
=3=1

^
=3----^
La-za-rus, oh	he bc-longcd way down.
=-?=
LAZARUS
(Written by Skinner Tonnerre, for his
father, Lazarus Tonnerre)
Lazarus, he was the king of Nothing;
Lazarus, he never had a dime.
He was sometimes on relief, he was permanent
on grief,
And Nowhere was the place he spent his time.
Lazarus, he lived down in the Valley;
Lazarus, he never lived in Town.
Now that damn town, still, see, it sits up on the hill,
Oh but Lazarus, oh he belonged way down.
Lazarus was what they called a halfbreed;
Half a man was what the Town would say.
What made him walk so slow, well, they didn't care
to know It
was easier by far to look away.
Lazarus was nothing to the Mounties;
They knew he never had a cent for bail.
When his life got more than rough, and he drank
more than enough,
They just threw him in the Manawakajail.
«
Album 487
Piquette's Song

s = m '' "s^
^
Fire and snow--
Mysis-ter's eyes
ss

^
f^"



l^^
^
fe^


N
My sis-tcr's bo-dy Fire and
^3?
snow-	It was-n't hers	Since long ago.
PIQUETTE'S SONG (Written by Skinner Tonnerre, for his sister)
My sister's eyes
Fire and snow What
they'd be saying
You couldn't know.
488 The Diviners
My sister's body
Fire and snow It
wasn't hers
Since long ago.
My sister's man
Fire and snow He
ate her heart
Then he made her go.
My sister's children
Fire and snow She
prayed they'd live
But it wasn't so.
My sister's death
Fire and snow Burned
out her sorrow
In the valley below.
My sister's eyes
Fire and snow What
they were telling
You'll never know.
Album 489
Pique's Song
^TJ4p

#=^={




=^=
--,

-----»

There's a val-lcy holds my name, now I	know In the
/P+:
: J J. J J [

=f=r






t=

----f-
^
=^=
5
--
1 --
'=H.

There's a
/iVJJ , , I
b-T--M
,-



r--^t--^^


^>------------y
^ J J- ^







= pounds



------(----
val-lcy way down there	I used to dream it like a prayer And my
¥
^



------

fa-thers, they lived tlicrc long a- go.
PIQUE'S SONG
(Written by Pique Gunn Tonnerre)
There's a valley holds my name, now I know
In the tales they used to tell it seemed so low
There's a valley way down there
I used to dream it like a prayer
And my fathers, they lived there long ago.
There's a mountain holds my name, close to the sky
And those stories made that mountain seem so high
490 The Diviners
There's a mountain way up there
I used to dream I'd breathe its air
And hear the voices that in me would never die.
I came to taste the dust out on a prairie road
My childhood thoughts were heavy on me like a load
But I left behind my fear
j When I found those ghosts were near
Leadin' me back to that home I never knowed.
Ah, my valley and my mountain, they're the same
My living places, and they never will be tame
When I think how I was born
I can't help but being torn
But the valley and the mountain hold my name.
The valley and the mountain hold my name.
Afterword
BY TIMOTHY FINDLEY
Maybe it would be best not to read this until The Diviners
has had a chance to sigh and to settle; until you, yourself,
have had a chance to sigh and to settle.
My friend and I have a rule when we go to plays and
movies: neither of us is allowed to talk when the play or
the movie is over if we perceive the other has been upset or
moved by what we've just seen. Surely there's nothing
worse than somebody breaking in on your own reflections
with: "Wow! What a piece of garbage!" Or even with:
"Wasn't that terrific!" It doesn't really matter whether the
voice breaking in agrees with you or disagrees. The point
is, the only voice that matters when an experience is over
is the voice of the experience itself.
A psychologist once remarked that what we experience in
dreams can be just as affecting - whether for ill or for good
- as what we experience in what we call "reality." Books
can hit us hard - or leave us cold. We can set the book aside
and say: "I forget." Or we can close the covers and know we
will always remember what is between them. Books, like
dreams, are essentially private realms. Nothing should be
allowed to detract from each person's right to read a book
privately and to interpret it freely in the light of what each
person has experienced and knows of life. This is why what
we receive from critics can be so dangerous. Not that critics
are inevitably wrong; only that critics forget, too often, to
remind us they speak only for themselves.
491
The Diviners, since its publication in 1974, has sufferec
from a plethora of critics - many of them negative, som< of them positive - all of them loud. It has been the eye of i storm that has raged off and on from the moment Mar
garet Laurence wrote its final sentences up to the momen
of her death in 1987 and beyond. To be brief: it has beer plagued by the dread fear of honesty.
The sources of this fear have been as influential - anc
crazy - as school boards and pulpits. "Crazy" because i
would seem to be self-evident that school boards and pul
pits should have a vested interest in honesty. And yet, the^ have mounted attacks against The Diviners, charging both it and its author with everything from malicious propaganda against the sanctity of the family to under
mining the morals of the young; from pornography t(
blasphemy. Nothing, of course, could be further from the
truth. At its worst, the campaign against The Divinen took on the colours of riotous comedy, as when its authoi was accused of being "personally responsible for the cur
rent increase in teenage pregnancies."
As a consequence of the attacks against The Diviners few of its readers since 1974 have been able to retire into i
quiet place to read it alone. Now, it is achieving the status of a classic and, while there is an obvious rightness in this
it would be a pity if its classification as "literature" were t(
prove to be intimidating. Nothing we can read should b(
less daunting than this book. Yes, it is difficult - but onb
difficult because it pulls no punches. Difficult isn't daunt
ing, anyway. Difficult is exhilarating.
The only kind of book that daunts - if such a wore exists - is a book that lies: a book that clouds or obscure;
the truth with sentimental claptrap or mind-easing plati
tudes. Earth and air and fire and water and all that thes<
imply of reality abound in The Diviners. The flesh, too
and all it implies of being alive. The people here are wholt
and imperfect - rampant, afraid, and terrifying - and the^ ask of life and one another nothing more and nothing les;
than we would ask if we were written on these pages. Sue!
Afterword 493
things cannot be said of every book. In fact, they can
rarely be said of any book. We know such books when we
find them in our hands because they breathe. Books as
seemingly different as One Hundred Years of Solitude and Madame Bovary, as Lady with a Lapdog and The Moons
of Jupiter all speak of one condition: of being alive, and of
the subtle horror we all experience of being trapped in
human flesh when what we want - and long for - is something
only the spirit can attain. I know this - and you
know this. We all know this, at heart. But it takes a Marquez,
a Flaubert, a Chekhov, a Munro, a Laurence to
articulate it. Why?
Don't ask.
Be glad.
Late one summer afternoon - in August of 1973, to be
exact - Margaret Laurence walked out onto the lawn behind
her cottage on the banks of the Otonabee River in
Ontario. She wore an oversized cotton mumu and a pair
of untied running shoes, and she carried a pack of cigarettes
and a glass of wine. Under her arm there were a few
loose pages of her inimitable typing - criss-crossed with
penciled notes and amendments.
Inside the cottage, a pot of chili was simmering and a
large wooden salad bowl stood ready on the kitchen table.
The smell of the food was tantalizing and comforting. One
of Margaret Laurence's guests came up out of the water,
flopped onto the dock, and grabbed a towel.
"It may look warm," he said, referring to the river,
"but it's really cold. And I wasn't alone in there . . ."
Margaret Laurence laughed.
"That's the snapping turtles," she said. "You better
count your toes, kid!"
The sun began its long descent beyond the trees on the
opposite bank and the swimmer put on his sweater.
Three other guests were sitting down on steps and on
the grass.
I
I
Two people passed in a to'
- one of them fishing, both (
Margaret Laurence slippe
adjusted her glasses. One
watched the swallows swoop
Someone lighted a cigaret
The swimmer poured him:
Margaret Laurence began
had all been having a conver
garet Laurence's turn to spe<
"Morag," she said, "is nil
is a good four feet thick out
school on the roads, where tl
She read for some time.
She ended with the piece Piper Gunn and the bit aboi Gunn's Woman.
This is how books are ma
ing entirely from the heart
with the writing of the word;
Five people out on the \w grass and water and one o
comes on:
". . . and Morag was new
whole wide world. Never. If
this Morag there be scared?
would only laugh and say. Ft
I have the power and the se
and the strength ofconvictio
"What means The Strengi
"Morag sleeps."
Not Margaret Laurence.
What means the strength <
Perhaps, when you have Ie
settle, you will know.
BY MARGARET LAURENCE
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
The Prophet's Camel Bell (1963)
Dance on the Earth (1989)
essays
Long Drums and Cannons: Nigerian Dramatists and Novelists
1952-1966 (1968)
Heart of a Stranger (1976)
fiction
This Side Jordan (1960)
The Tomorrow-Tamer (1963)
The Stone Angel (1964)
A Jest ofGod (1966)
The Fire-Dwellers (1979)
A Bird in the House (1970)
The Diviners (1974)
FICTION FOR YOUNG ADULTS
Jason's Quest (1970)
Six Darn Cows (1979)
The Olden Days Coat (1979)
The Christmas Birthday Story (1980)
LETTERS
Margaret Laurence - Al Purdy: A Friendship in Letters
[ed. John Lennox] (1993) , ;
Selected Letters ofMargaret Laurence and Adele Wiseman I ;
[ed. John Lennox and Ruth Panofsky] (1997)
history ,
A Tree for Poverty: Somali Poetry and Prose (1954) j!