Harvey - The Town That Forgot How to Breathe

Kenneth J. Harvey is the author of several novels, including Brud and The Hole That Must Be Filled. Nine Tenths Unseen was praised by J. M. Coetzee as a harrowing journey into the dark underside of family life. Kenneth J. Harvey lives in Newfoundland.

MISS EILEEN LARACY shuffled up the higher road in search of lilacs to lay atop her white chenille bedspread. With the summer sun fierce above her, detailing each line in the wrinkled mapwork of her face, she sang lamentfully:

Bury me not in da deep deep sea,

where da cold dark waves will swallow me,

where nar light shalt break troo da darkenin waves,

n nar sunbeam find me silent grave.

Smacking her toothless gums together as if savouring the splendour of the afternoon air, she paused to fish an embroidered handkerchief from the sleeve of her green and white striped dress. The bandana that covered her head and was tied beneath her chin was green with a multitude of tiny blue polka dots. She blew her bulbous nose vigorously, then wiped at it several times before shoving the handkerchief back up her sleeve.

A girl on shore many tear will shed,

fer im who lies on da ocean bed,

where above is heart da whale will hiss,

n is pallid lips da fish will kiss.

A lone fly buzzed close to her ear, interrupting her mournful dirge. Gway fly, ya bloody nuisance, she griped, raising her tiny hand to swat it away. Lest ye be a lilac fairy in disguise. She chuckled, then, humming, continued on her search.

With their brief lives and breathtaking fragrance, lilacs were considered a favourite of the spirits. Miss Laracy welcomed visitors from the afterlife, unlike those who feared them as navigators assigned to carry off kindred souls. She devoted an inordinate amount of time to attempting to lure them into her home, offering sanctuary through her faithful presence.

From the time she was a little girl, up until middle age, she had been spoken to from beyond the grave. But shortly after her forty-fourth birthday, on a brisk fall night, the spirits no longer came to simply sit and stare while she lay in bed, or pass plain comment back and forth. Their serene fellowship had been a comfort. Miss Laracy had spoken with them of infants and of generations passed on, for they were filled with the blaze of their ancestors, lineage that trailed after them like a stream of unbroken dusty amber. This was the endowment when a mortal passed on the melding of energy of familial souls linking the chain of spirits, augmenting their command of the absolute.

Through years of births and deaths, Miss Laracy had grown accustomed to endings and beginnings. Yet she had never stopped missing the spirits. Even the mysterious presence of an unheld candle gleam travelling up the stairs was a hopeful sign she longed to witness once more. Eileen Laracy sighed as she proceeded up the higher road, her doll-size feet disrupting pebbles. A child screamed shrilly at play and a lawnmower droned down by Codgers Lane. She glanced north, to her left, the land sloping toward the old square houses arced around glistening Bareneed cove. It was a fine day, yet she felt out of sorts. A hollow spot had ached in her heart since that night the spirits abandoned her.

A couple of crows cawed back and forth, announcing her advance. Gazing up at the sharp blue sky, she searched for the black birds. She listened, counting the crows by their caws. One for sorrow, two for mirth.

In her pocket, she clutched a piece of thick oval-shaped hardtack, sailors bread so hard you could snap a tooth off trying to bite through it. As a rule, she kept a piece in the front pocket of her dress when near the woods. It was a gift for the fairies should the tiny creatures appear fluttering before her. When settlers ventured forth from England and Ireland, crossing the Atlantic to ply the fishing grounds around Newfoundland in the 1500s, hardtack was one of their staple foods. It was a natural choice to offer the fairies, to prevent them from transporting a person off to their underground abodes. As a child, Miss Laracy had seen the fairies twice and had given them the bread, careful to keep her eyes averted. A child didnt want to be carted off by the little people. What happened to babies and children who were taken by fairies was common knowledge. They would be returned not as themselves, but of a different shape and size. It had happened to Tommy Quilty from down the road. He had been changed; he had also been given the sight.

Miss Laracy stopped to regard a house with a steeply-sloped glass roof, which was set far back from the road, a dark purple aura shrouding it. The twisted branches of two small lilac trees grew close to the house, a good distance down the lane. Tis where dat artist hides away, she informed herself. Da one who lost er daughter. All dat unrest, she tutted, her heart going out to the woman for her troubles. Shockin stuff.