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Doctor Luke of the Labrador, a novel by Norman Duncan |
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Chapter 2. The World From The Watchman |
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_ CHAPTER II. The WORLD From The WATCHMAN The Watchman was the outermost headland of our coast and a landmark from afar--a great gray hill on the point of Good Promise by the Gate; our craft, running in from the Hook-an'-Line grounds off Raven Rock, rounded the Watchman and sped thence through the Gate and past Frothy Point into harbour. It was bold and bare--scoured by the weather--and dripping wet on days when the fog hung thick and low. It fell sharply to the sea by way of a weather-beaten cliff, in whose high fissures the gulls, wary of the hands of the lads of the place, wisely nested; and within the harbour it rose from Trader's Cove, where, snug under a broken cliff, stood our house and the little shop and storehouse and the broad drying-flakes and the wharf and fish-stages of my father's business. From the top there was a far, wide outlook--all sea and rock: along the ragged, treeless coast, north and south, to the haze wherewith, in distances beyond the ken of lads, it melted; and upon the thirty wee white houses of our folk, scattered haphazard about the harbour water, each in its own little cove and each with its own little stage and great flake; and over the barren, swelling rock beyond, to the blue wilderness, lying infinitely far away. I shuddered when from the Watchman I looked upon the wilderness. "'Tis a dreadful place," I had heard my father say. "Men starves in there." This I knew to be true, for, once, I had seen the face of a man who came crawling out. "The sea is kinder," I thought. Whether so or not, I was to prove, at least, that the wilderness was cruel. * * * * * One blue day, when the furthest places on sea and land lay in a thin, still haze, my mother and I went to the Watchman to romp. There was place there for a merry gambol, place, even, led by a wiser hand, for roaming and childish adventure--and there were silence and sunlit space and sea and distant mists for the weaving of dreams--ay, and, upon rare days, the smoke of the great ships, bound down the Straits--and when dreams had worn the patience there were huge loose rocks handy for rolling over the brow of the cliff--and there was gray moss in the hollows, thick and dry and soft, to sprawl on and rest from the delights of the day. So the Watchman was a playground for my mother and me--my sister, my elder by seven years, was all the day long tunefully busy about my father's comfort and the little duties of the house--and, on that blue day, we climbed the broken cliff behind our house and toiled up the slope beyond in high spirits, and we were very happy together; for my mother was a Boston maid, and, though she turned to right heartily when there was work to do, she was not like the Labrador born, but thought it no sin to wander and laugh in the sunlight of the heads when came the blessed opportunity. "I'm fair done out," said I, at last, returning, flushed, from a race to Beacon Rock. "Lie here, Davy--ay, but closer yet--and rest," said she. I flung myself at full length beside her, spreading abroad my sturdy little arms and legs; and I caught her glance, glowing warm and proud, as it ran over me, from toe to crown, and, flashing prouder yet through a gathering mist of tears, returned again. "I knows why you're lookin' at me that way," said I. "And why?" said she. "'Tis for sheer love o' me!" She was strangely moved by this. Her hands, passionately clasped of a sudden, she laid upon her heart; and she drew a sharp, quivering breath. "You're getting so--so--strong and--and--so big!" she cried. "Hut!" said I. "'Tis nothin' t' cry about!" "Oh," she sobbed, "I'm proud t' be the mother of a son!" I started up. "I'm that proud," she went on, hovering now between great joy and pain, "that it--it--fair hurts me!" "I'll not have you cry!" I protested. She caught me in her arms and we broke into merry laughter. Then to please her I said that I would gather flowers for her hair--and she would be the stranded mermaid and I the fisherman whom she besought to put her back in the sea and rewarded with three wishes--and I sought flowers everywhere in the hollows and crevices of the bald old Watchman, where, through years, some soil had gathered, but found only whisps of wiry grass and one wretched blossom; whereupon I returned to her very wroth. "God made a botch o' the world!" I declared. She looked up in dismay. "Ay," I repeated, with a stamp of the foot, "a wonderful botch o' the world He's gone an' made. Why, they's but one flower on the Watchman!" She looked over the barren land--the great gray waste of naked rock--and sighed. "But one?" she asked, softly. "An I was God," I said, indignantly, "I'd have made more flowers an' made un bigger." She smiled in the way of one dreaming. "Hut!" I went on, giving daring wing to my imagination. "I'd have made a hundred kinds an' soil enough t' grow un all--every one o' the whole hundred! I'd have----" She laid a soft hand on my lips. "'Tis a land," she whispered, with shining eyes, "that grows rosy lads, and I'm well content!" "'Tis a poor way," I continued, disregarding her caress, "t' gather soil in buckets. I'd have made enough t' gather it in barrows! I'd have made lots of it--heaps of it. Why," I boasted, growing yet more recklessly prodigal, "I'd have made a hill of it somewheres handy t' every harbour in the world--as big as the Watchman--ay, an' handy t' the harbours, so the folk could take so much as they wanted--t' make potato-gardens--an'--an' t' make the grave-yards deep enough. 'Tis a wonderful poor way," I concluded with contempt, "t' have t' gather it in buckets from the rocks!" My mother was laughing heartily now. "'Twould not be a better world, thinks you?" said I. "Ay, but I could do better than that! Hut!" I cried, at last utterly abandoned to my imagination, "I'd have more things than potatoes grow in the ground an' more things than berries grow on bushes. What would I have grow in the ground, says you? Is you thinkin' I don't know? Oh, ay, mum," I protested, somewhat at a loss, but very knowingly, "I knows!" I was now getting rapidly beyond my depth; but I plunged bravely on, wondering like lightning, the while, what else could grow in the ground and on bushes. "I'd have flour grow in the ground, mum," I cried, triumphantly, "an' I'd have sea-boots an' sou'westers grow on the bushes. An', ecod!" I continued, inspired, "I'd have fishes grow on bushes, already split an' cleaned!" What other improvements I would have made on the good Lord's handiwork I do not know. Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, being on the road to Trader's Cove from the Rat Hole, where he lived alone with his twin lads, had spied us from Needle Rock, and now came puffing up the hill to wish my mother good-day: which, indeed, all true men of the harbour never failed to do, whenever they came near. He was a short, marvellously broad, bow-legged old man--but yet straight and full of strength and fine hope--all the while dressed in tight white moleskin (much soiled by the slime of the day's work), long skin boots, tied below the knees, and a ragged cloth cap, which he kept pulled tight over his bushy grey hair. There was a mild twinkle forever lying in the depths of his blue eyes, and thence, at times, overflowing upon his broad brown face, which then rippled with wrinkles, from the roots of his hair to the fringe of white beard under his chin, in a way at once to make one laugh with him, though one could not quite tell why. We lads of the harbour loved him very much, for his good-humour and for his tenderness--never more so, however, than when, by night, in the glow of the fire, he told us long tales of the fairies and wicked elves he had dealt with in his time, twinkling with every word, so that we were sorely puzzled to know whether to take him in jest or earnest. "I've a very bad son, the day, Skipper Tommy," said my mother, laying a fond hand on my head. "Have you, now, mum!" cried the skipper, with a wink. "'Tis hard t' believe. He've been huntin' gulls' nests in parlous places on the cliff o' the Watchman, I'm thinkin'." "'Tis worse than that." "Dear man! Worse than that, says you? Then he've took the punt beyond the Gate all by hisself." "'Tis even worse than that. He's not pleased with the dear Lord's world." Skipper Tommy stopped dead and stared me in the eye--but not coldly, you must know; just in mild wonder, in which, it may be, was mixed some admiration, as though he, too, deep in his guileless old heart, had had some doubt which he dared not entertain. "Ay," said I, loftily, "He've not made flowers enough t' suit my taste." Skipper Tommy rubbed his nose in a meditative way. "Well," he drawled, "He haven't made many, true enough. I'm not sayin' He mightn't have made more. But He've done very well. They's enough--oh, ay, they's enough t' get along with. For, look you! lad, they's no real need o' any more. 'Twas wonderful kind of Un," he went on, swept away by a flood of good feeling, as often happened, "t' make even one little flower. Sure, He didn't have t' do it. He just went an' done it for love of us. Ay," he repeated, delighting himself with this new thought of his Lord's goodness, "'twas wonderful kind o' the Lard t' take so much trouble as that!" My mother was looking deep into Skipper Tommy's eyes as though she saw some lovely thing therein. "Ay," said I, "'twas fair kind; but I'm wishin' He'd been a bit more free." My mother smiled at that. Then, "And my son," she said, in the way of one poking fun, "would have flour grow out of the ground!" "An' did he say that!" cried Skipper Tommy. My mother laughed, and Skipper Tommy laughed uproariously, and loudly slapped his thick thigh; and I felt woefully foolish, and wondered much what depth of ignorance I had betrayed, but I laughed, too, because Skipper Tommy laughed so heartily and opened his great mouth so wide; and we were all very merry for a time. At last, while I wondered, I thought that, perhaps, flour did grow, after all--though, for the life of me, I could not tell how--and that my mother and Skipper Tommy knew it well enough; whereupon I laughed the merrier. "Come, look you!" then said Skipper Tommy, gently taking the lobe of my ear between his thick, hard thumb and forefinger. "Don't you go thinkin' you could make better worlds than the Lard. Why, lad, 'tis but play for Him! He've no trouble makin' a world! I'm thinkin' He've made more than one," he added, his voice changing to a knowing whisper. "'Tis my own idea, but," now sagely, "I'm thinkin' He did. 'Tis like that this was the first, an' He done better when He got His hand in. Oh, ay, nar a doubt He done better with the rest! But He done wonderful well with this one. When you're so old as me, lad, you'll know that though the Lard made few flowers He put a deal o' time an' labour on the harbours; an' when you're beatin' up t' the Gate, lad, in a gale o' wind--an' when you thinks o' the quiet place t'other side o' Frothy Point--you'll know the Lard done well by all the folk o' this world when He made safe harbours instead o' wastin' His time on flowers. Ay, lad, 'tis a wonderful well built world; an' you'll know it--then!" We turned homeward--down the long road over the shoulder of the Watchman; for the evening was drawing near. "They's times," said Skipper Tommy, giving his nose a puzzled tweak, "when I wonders how He done it. 'Tis fair beyond me! I wonders a deal, now, mum," turning to my mother, his face lighting with interest, "about they stars. Now, mum," smiling wistfully, "I wonders ... I wonders ... how He stuck un up there in the sky. Ah," with a long sigh, "I'd sure like t' know that! An' wouldn't you, mum? Ecod! but I would like t' know that! 'Twould be worth while, I'm thinkin'. I'm wishin' I could find out. But, hut!" he cried, with a laugh which yet rang strangely sad in my ears, "'tis none o' my business. 'Twould be a queer thing, indeed, if men went pryin' into the Lard's secrets. He'd fix un, I 'low--He'd snarl un all up--He'd let un think theirselves wise an' guess theirselves mad! That's what He'd do. But, now," falling again into a wistful, dreaming whisper, "I wonders ... wonders ... how He does stick them stars up there. I'm thinkin' I'll try t' think that out--some day--so people could know, an' wouldn't have t' wonder no more. I--wonders--if I could!" We walked on in silence--down the last slope, and along the rocky path to Trader's Cove; and never a word was spoken. When we came to the turn to our house we bade the skipper good-evening. "Don't you be forgettin'," he said, tipping up my face with a finger under my chin, "that you'll soon be thinkin' more o' harbours than o' flowers." I laughed. "But, ecod!" he broke out, violently rubbing his nose, until I was fairly concerned for it, so red did it turn, "that was a wonderful good idea about the flour!" My mother looked at him sharply; then her eyes twinkled, and she hid a smile behind her hand. "'Twould be a good thing t' have it grow," the old man continued. "'Twould be far better than--than--well, now--makin' it the way they does. Ecod!" he concluded, letting his glance fall in bewilderment on the ground, "I wonders how they does make flour. I wonders ... wonders ... where they gets the stuff an'--an'--how they makes it!" He went off, wondering still; and my mother and I went slowly home, and sat in the broad window of our house, which overlooked the harbour and fronted the flaring western sky; and then first she told me of the kind green world beyond. _ |
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