Fury of the Wind

excerpt

Humph, he thought, what’s the matter with me? The heat must
be softening my brain.
She gave him a grateful smile. “No, thank you, Mr. Andrews.
That’s very kind of you and your … missus. But Ben … Mr. Fielding
could be here at any moment.”
“Suit yourself.” The agent turned back to his desk.
She crossed the room and resumed her position on the bench,
this time with her head lowered. Several minutes passed but she
did not look up. Will could not keep his mind on the weigh bills in
front of him. His eyes continually strayed to the waiting room.
Something about the woman disturbed him – something about
her appearance. Or could it be the slight whiff of perfume he had
detected as she stood at the wicket? But what on earth was he thinking?
He had never been one to feel attracted to a pretty face or carried
away by the whiff of a lady’s scent – not like some he could
name. In any case, he didn’t feel that kind of attraction to her. He
was, after all, old enough to be her father.
What would he do with her if Ben Fielding didn’t show up soon?
He couldn’t get in touch with the scoundrel, and he sure didn’t feel
like driving her all the way out to the Fielding farm. He could imagine
what kind of reception he’d get from Ben, anyway.
As the minutes ticked by, Will’s concern for his aching feet and
parched throat subsided in the face of his growing anxiety over the
young woman. He couldn’t begin to guess her business with Ben
Fielding but he had the urge to tell her that, if she had any sense,
she would take the fastest way back to wherever the deuce she had
come from.
Suddenly there came the sound of a motor and the crunch of automobile
tires on the gravel outside the window. The young woman
jumped to her feet, both hands gripping her handbag in front of
her, eyes fixed on the door which burst open to reveal a tall man in
bib overalls and a battered straw hat.
For a moment they stared at each other, the woman’s lips parted
in a tremulous smile. No answering smile appeared on the man’s
face. His dark, aquiline features were inscrutable, his lips set in a
thin line. He opened them only enough to say, “Sarah.”
“Hello, Benjamin.”
Bending over to pick up the two large bags that Will had dumped

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Savages and Beasts

excerpt

though his mind got stuck on the last event at school, before he
came home: so powerful it was, so fulfilling, so satisfying, so
content that he couldn’t think of anything else; then he took the
diary. He opened a page at random.
“October 16th, 1957. Influenza has spread in the school. A lot of
kids are sick. Two members of the teaching staff caught it as well. The
children, being almost malnourished and weak can’t resist the strength
of the virus. We buried eleven of them today, eight yesterday. We placed
them in one big grave same as we did yesterday. The only medicine the
School has is aspirins; officials came from the hospital and demanded that
all the children get inoculated. The skunk thought it wasn’t necessary
since the children and teachers will be protected from the virus by the
grace of the Lord.”
Anton’s mind ran wild. He turned a few pages, read the
entry.
“May 24th, 1961, the skunk released to all personnel that the Federal
Government funding was again reduced therefore all extra expenses
were suspended immediately and food rations would take effect; all
unnecessary purchases were canceled and each proposal for purchasing
any item would be at the discretion of the administrator.”
Anton felt as if someone was tightening his hands around
his neck, someone was choking him, he felt out of breath which
he couldn’t replenish. He got up. Put the diary aside, walked
to his window and gazed at the western horizon that was shifting
colors from the purple to the dark red and from the softly
lighted to softly darkened and then the occasional glints of the
sun falling on tree tops or hill sides, interchanging with patches
of dark airy matter flooding nature from the hillsides to the
houses of Kamloops such as the effect it had in the heart of
Anton, heavy and burdened at this moment as he recollected
the diary entries.

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The Unquiet Land

excerpt

FOUR
Mother Ross was washing dishes from the previous night’s party. Humming an air she had learned long ago, she washed the last greasy plates in a basin of hot, soapy water on a wooden bench that ran the length of one wall of the scullery. The scullery opened off the kitchen at the back of the house, and while she fussed over the dwindling pile of dirty dishes Mother Ross could look through the window and see, above in the gap between the barns and the stable, the mountainside rising steeply to the rocky tors on Donevan. Loose frills of swiftly driven cloud swept across the black rocks, but the cloud was patchy and the sky was mostly blue. Halfway up the hill Mother Ross could just make out the tall, round-shouldered figure of Finn MacLir in his dark-blue jacket and tweedy, grey jersey. She paused for a moment and watched the old seaman and his favourite dog slowly climb the hill. A gloomy foreboding, a mixture of fear and sorrow, shuddered through her breast.
“Your days on the mountain are numbered, old man,” she murmured. “You just don’t have the wind anymore.”
Her mind drifted back to that day long ago, that early morning in June, when Finn MacLir, tall and straight and in his prime, had come upon her, sitting on a granite boulder outside the smoking, blackened ruin of her once neat cottage near the Tamnagh Bridge. The air stank of burning. Smoke drifted slowly upwards into the limpid sky from the charred roof-beams and the smouldering cling of thatch. The windows were broken. Half of the door had burned away, and flames still flickered along its black, crackling edge.
“Jinnie, are you all right?” Finn shouted, as he approached with that long, determined stride of his.
Her real name was Sinead, but few ever used it. When her mother died, the name of the former village midwife had passed to her, and she had been known as Mother Ross by everyone ever since. Even after her brief marriage to Jimmy John O’Neill, she was still known as Mother Ross. Finn MacLir had always called her Jinnie.

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Ken Kirkby – Warrior Painter

It was a body blow. He thought hard as he waited for her to return. She
arrived late in the evening, speaking little. She changed out of her business
suit, put her briefcase away and poured a glass of wine.
“We have to talk,” Ken said, sitting on the couch opposite her.
“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m tired.”
“Then let’s play the Ten Questions game,” Ken said softly. “Number
One: Do you want me out of your life?”
Without hesitation, Karen replied, “Yes.”
Ken felt alternately icy cold and feverish. He paused, then placed his
unfinished glass of scotch on the table and stood up. “I guess there’s no need
to ask the other nine.”
He put his coat on, and called the dog to him. Karen looked surprised.
“Where are you going? Can I come with you?”
Ken stared at her in disbelief. “You don’t want me in your life, yet now
you want to walk with me? No.”
That was the death knell.
Karen was rarely home now, and the only thing that took Ken out of
the house was the need to exercise the dog they had recently adopted. For
a number of months he’d done no painting. He ate next to nothing, existing
largely on cigarettes, coffee and scotch.
Ron eventually proposed a solution for his friend. “Get out of here
before this kills you. Pack up and move to Bowser. Go fishing at Nile Creek.
Good things will happen there.” Ron was familiar with Nile Creek. It was a
favourite getaway for both of them.
My friend Ron is as far removed from a New Age practitioner as
anyone could get, but this suggestion actually made sense to me. I was
as intensely unhappy as I’d ever been in my life. There was nothing of
value left to me—my health was broken and even painting offered no
escape from this infinite black hole.
When I was a child, my Auntie Helen committed suicide. She had
been a tall, striking woman with glossy black hair and startling green
eyes. She mixed very little with the family and always took the contrary
view in discussions. There was an aura of perpetual sadness around her
and I eventually learned that for each of the past fifteen generations,

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