new targets to arrive by boat from wherever — Blandford, Shelburne, Dartmouth, or Lunenburg.
Chicago was somewhat shocked and appalled to learn that eco-tourists loved to shoot at things. As a result of word-of-mouth reports, eco-tourism to Ragged Island increased by twenty percent. The premiere package tour included two days of whale-watching at the Trough, a day of eco-revenge at Phonse’s salvage yard, and, for an extra fee, you could operate the car crusher on recycling day, which was the third Wednesday of every month.
Chapter Six
Sylvie, alone in the late afternoon, collecting her thoughts. Oh, what a great collection of thoughts. They would fill up some big old South Shore barn, those thoughts, memories. Goes a ways back and then some. But the blackflies in the afternoon, that made her think of her husband, her first husband. David Young.
It had been March when he’d been away. Two days of warmth all of a sudden, three maybe if you counted that surprising burst of warm wind that came in the middle of the night like a lost Arabian horse running wild with hot breath through the sky. The blackflies came out like it was July, pestered islanders right through the brief freak warm spell, then died right off. It had been the entire great summer swarm of insects — annoying little blood-sucking bastards that some hated much more than mosquitoes. Died off and never returned that whole summer. The blackflies: that’s what made Sylvie think of husband number one.
Both seventeen when they married. It had all started with the high rubber boots in the old schoolhouse.
“What on God’s green earth is that smell?” the old teacher asked. She was a wonderful teacher, that Missus Lantz. But, watch out for yourself when things went wrong and she took after that pointer stick she kept sheathed in the rolled-up map of North America.
“It’s the boots, Jesus,” David said and ran to retrieve them, his and Sylvie’s. High rubber boots set tight side by side like lovers, too close to the scalding black metal of the wood stove, old knot-ty spruce logs ablaze inside warding off winter in favour of education. David had set his own boots there alongside of Sylvie’s. He was always doing nice things for her.“Wants your feet to be warm and dry,” he had said. Such a gentleman for a boy.
They were melting. Oh, my God, what a stench. Everyone grabbing their noses and pinching. The little ones taking the opportunity to howl and screech. Missus Lantz opening the door to winter and inviting the old gentleman in. “Everybody out,” she finally said. “Can’t teach with this!” Melting boots meant freedom.
“Whose bloody Wellingtons?” she asked as David scrimped low across the room to grab the boots and haul them out.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “My fault.” David grabbed the steaming boots and heaved them out into the snow. The little ones ran from where they landed as if the devil had been thrown to catch them at play.
Sylvie remembered going out to look at her own boots and saw that one of them had melted itself onto one of David’s. Lying there in the snow, the two black boots stuck together, the smell still something you could not quite pinch out of your nostrils.
“I was hoping to get them nice and warm for you. And dry inside, you know?”
Sylvie felt weak and shy. Not like her at all.
“I’ll buy you a new pair when my dad takes me in the boat to Mutton Hill Harbour this week.”
“It was an accident.”
“I know,” David said, smiling now. “Everything’s an accident. That’s what my grandfather told me the day he died. I’m named for him, you see, and he was named for his grandfather.”
“What do you mean, it’s all an accident.”
“Everything good and everything bad. All an accident. This snow coming down. Missus Lantz back there trying to air the school out. The melting boots. The fact we live on an island like this. All an accident.”
Such a goofy look on a young man’s face.
“And you think that’s a good thing, do you? You don’t think God has a plan for us?” Sylvie had been told by neighbour women over and over, neighbour women out trimming cabbages or drying cod on wooden slats in the sun or collecting summer savoury from their gardens, the words had been oft repeated.“’Tis all part of God’s great plan.”
“God was the one responsible for making everything accidental. It’s a big game for him, I guess. Wondering what accidental thing will happen next.”
Sylvie knew that this boy liked to talk strangely at times, but his words made her head and heart feel light, like a pair of swooping herons, she was so out of kilter. Her with burning boots turning to deep religion and philosophy in the schoolyard snow.
Somebody was throwing a snowball straight at David’s head, but it missed. A second was thrown. That lout Inglis, always bad intent. Another thrown and missed. David pretended not to see, but Sylvie stuck her tongue out at Coors Inglis. Another snowball, this time thrown harder and with worse aspirations, at Sylvie. David turned, put himself in the way, took it hard on the cheek. Looked over at Inglis, gave him a look but did not go after him.
“Sylvie, don’t ever cut your hair.”
“My hair? I wasn’t going to cut it.”
“Great. You have wonderful hair.”
“It’s only brown.”
“Brown hair is the prettiest.”
Sylvie had known the boy had feelings for her but those feelings had always been in check. Her own emotions had always been in check, too, the way it was supposed to be. Why did this absurd little compliment make her feel so powerfully changed? “I won’t cut it,” she said. “I’ll let it grow long like summer vines.”
“Thank you,” he said, and now, for the first time, he touched the cold wet spot on his cheek where the snowball had connected with his face. Sylvie could not stop herself from touching the spot as well. Her eyes went woozy and she had to take a deep breath, then pulled her hand away quickly as she saw Missus Lantz come out to ring a bell, calling everyone back in.
“My grandfather wasn’t a hundred percent right about the accidents, Sylvie.”
“Oh, how’s that?’
“You. You were no accident. You were meant to be.”
That was the last year of school for both of them. They could have gone to the mainland for an extra year or even two if they liked, but they did not. Nor did any of the other students from the island school, for the mainland was considered to be a sorry, inferior place. Sixteen gave way to seventeen for Sylvie and for David. The year was 1934. Far away on the mainland of Canada, the Dionne family in Quebec had quintuplets, five girls and they all lived. In Germany, a new leader, a führer, was sworn in. This man named Hitler would order the construction of concentration camps in Germany for Jews and Gypsies. Off the coast of Nova Scotia the fishing was good, but the prices were less than they should be.
In June of 1934, young David Young married Sylvie Down. Sylvie liked him more than any other boy on the island but she did not know if it was what she truly wanted to do. Her mother said she liked David and so did her father. That was not advice or parental pressure. Sylvie’s father spoke thus:“Comes
