Torn Away (11 page)

He goes to his own side of the room
and lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling, the diary clasped in his hand, and he waits in the silence. He is waiting for them to come home, rattling and laughing through the door downstairs, tired and happy after their day in the city, waiting for them to dismiss this empty, tomb-like silence.

But they don't come.

The funeral is on Monday. The IRA with their black berets and dark glasses make a political thing of it. The police are there in full force. The Brits too, in their armored six-wheeled Saracens. If they try anything, there will be a riot for sure. Schools are closed. All the victims. All the mourners. Hundreds attend. The coffins closed.

It is the last he ever sees of his ma and his sister, two dark wooden boxes, one of them small, on the shoulders of the IRA pallbearers. He watches, his face pale in the cold spring sun. The pain he feels is unbearable, but he wants to guard it and nourish it so it will grow, and when it has grown powerful enough it will explode.

He watches the coffins being lowered into the consecrated ground.

He doesn't cry.

The Brits don't try anything. There is no riot. Not this time.

After the funeral he holds it in for two days at the O'Malleys'. All day and night and the next day. Then the next night, he climbs through the window into his own empty house and sits on his ma's bed and weeps, weeps until he thinks it will kill him.

He stops remembering.

The wind keens in from the black Canadian sea and rattles his window. He pushes himself up out of bed and looks out at the dark night and the turbulent sea.

He remembers again that picture of his mother's—the Sacred Heart, that sad suffering Jesus face on the wall.

It looks a lot like his Uncle Matthew.

Matthew sat in the garage, cleaning a rifle.

“Looks like an antique,” said Declan. “Did you bring it with you when you ran away from Ireland?” He watched Matthew carefully as he said this. Always, no matter how much he tried to needle his uncle, Matthew never got angry. Now, however, Declan was delighted to see a rictus of irritation jerk at his uncle's mouth.

Matthew paused to collect himself. Then he looked up. “It's a First World War
rifle,” he said evenly. “Ross 303. Made here in Canada.”

Declan watched him. The man was a coward; why else would he put up with Declan's taunts and insults?

“You ever fire a rifle?” said Matthew.

“No.”

“You like to try?”

“Maybe.” He'd love to fire a rifle, but he wasn't about to let his uncle know that.

Matthew closed one eye and peered down the inside of the rifle barrel. “No time like the present.” He got up. Declan followed him out along the cliff and down over the rocks to the beach where his uncle set up a soda pop can on a rock. He loaded the rifle, pushing in five cartridges at the top, and handed it to Declan.

The rifle was heavier than it looked. Declan lifted it to his shoulder, closed one eye and sighted along the barrel. He pulled the trigger and was surprised at the punch it gave his shoulder as the gun exploded.

“I missed.” He was annoyed with himself. He wanted to show his uncle he could do it.

“Pull the stock hard in to your shoulder.

When you're ready to fire, take a good breath, let it out, and squeeze the trigger. Squeeze, don't pull—like this.” He showed him. “Try again.”

The second shot struck the rock underneath the target.

“Squeeze gently. Take your time.”

Declan rested his cheek on the polished stock and took careful aim. The third shot nicked the edge of the can and sent it spinning and rattling from its perch. Declan's blood tingled with the power of the rifle; his heart swelled. How he would love to have in his sights the dirty Prods who'd killed his family!

Matthew propped the target back up.

Declan's fourth shot blew the can away. He thought his heart would burst.

“You'll do,” said his uncle.

When Kate discovered that Matthew had been teaching Declan how to shoot, she was very angry. She was so angry that she forgot Declan was there. Hands on hips, eyes blazing, she said to her husband, “Is this why we brought the boy all the way from the madness
of Northern Ireland? To teach him gun shooting? Is that it?” She thrust out her jaw.

“Now, Juno,” said Matthew, trying to calm her down, “the gun puts meat on the table . . . “

“Don't Juno me, you peacock! I'd rather starve than eat meat gunned down by any child of mine! I never thought I'd see the day that Matthew Doyle would be putting a gun in the hands of a child!”

“ . . . after all, Kate, a man must learn to survive in this . . .”

“Man is it? And him only . . .”

“He'll soon be a man, isn't that the truth, Declan?”

But Declan had already gone, creeping up the stairs to his room, a smile on his face, leaving his uncle to survive Kate's wrath on his own.

They set off before dawn, driving the truck up the narrow mountain road in the darkness.

After an hour they parked and set off on foot in the gray light. Matthew carried the rifle and binoculars, Declan the water and food in a small pack on his back.

The woods were cold and deep.

The higher they climbed, the colder it became. “Deer like the rocky ridges below the summit,” said Matthew. “The snow forces them down to the lower slopes. Once we're up above the tree line, we can track them back down.”

Declan had never hunted before, except for Brits, he thought, grinning to himself, and he would never admit it to his uncle how much he was enjoying the gradual climb through the thin pines and mountain alder, and the huckleberry and salal bush. He breathed deeply, pulling the cold clear air into his lungs, exulting in the strength of his legs.

They emerged from the forest and scrub and rested on the ridge, drinking from their water bottles. The sky behind them was pink. Declan looked out over the seemingly endless forest at the dark sea half a mile below.

Matthew pointed down. “Otter Harbour.”

Declan stared. From up here the village was tiny. Ana and Thomas and Kate were shrunk to invisibility.

His uncle searched the forest through
his binoculars for signs of deer. Declan watched an eagle soaring overhead, its feathered pinions outspread, white head pinked by the dawn.

Matthew passed the binoculars to Declan and pointed to a spot below them under the ridge. “Two blacktail does,” he whispered.

Declan looked through the glasses. At first he could see nothing; everything was a pinky gray. Then something moved, the flick of an ear. The deer's head came up from its feeding. It was looking around. A second deer raised its head above the salal. The two deer were very far away

“We're downwind,” whispered Matthew. “They haven't seen us. Follow me.”

They moved slowly, stalking the deer. Declan copied his uncle, walking softly for several paces, stopping to look and listen, then moving down toward the clearing. Soon they were less than a hundred yards from the deer. Declan could see them quite clearly without the binoculars. A third deer had joined the other two. Tall and stately with wide antlers, it held its head high, gazing around with large dark eyes while the other two browsed. Must
be a buck, thought Declan, which meant the other two were does.

Matthew bit his lip as he pushed the bolt of the rifle forward. It made a barely audible click. Declan saw the buck jerk his head toward them, eyes staring, ears alert, nose in the air. They waited silently. The buck moved slowly to a new position. Matthew passed the rifle to Declan. “The buck,” he whispered. “Aim just below the shoulder.”

Declan felt a thrill. His uncle was trusting him to shoot this magnificent buck! He rested the well-worn stock on his hand, the polished wood running the whole length of the barrel. He pulled the butt into his shoulder and fingered the trigger. His heart pounded with excitement. He had to force himself to breathe slowly. Calm down, he told himself. As he sighted along the barrel, he could feel the blood tingling in his fingers.

The buck was an easy target. Declan could see the full length of the animal's powerful body and the fine head with its high antlers. The buck stepped forward slowly and gracefully on his long legs, head straight. Then it bent its head to browse. Declan had him in his sights at a spot just under the shoulder. His
finger tightened on the trigger. Remember to squeeze, he told himself. Take your time. And then he saw—long legs—his sister, Mairead walking to school on her long legs, straight, with her shoulders held back, just under the shoulder, remember to squeeze, brown hair, white neck, birthday, she didn't know she was to die that day, that morning, death was for ever, death was for keeps, deer about to die, not knowing, white sweater stained with blood, explosion, death, long legs. Declan took a deep breath. He was sweating. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger and the 303 bullet, faster than sound, would blow a hole in the deer heart and the helpless animal would never hear the sound of the shot.

A blue jay gave its harsh cry.

The buck's head jerked up, ears twitching. He gave a snort. The two does bounded away in long graceful leaps.

“Now!” said Matthew.

But still Declan did not pull the trigger, and then it was too late. The buck leaped and was gone.

He had waited too long. Declan stared at the place where it had been. He lowered the rifle and released the bolt.

The sun came up over the top of the mountain and reached its bright fingers down the slope toward them. Declan could feel it warm on his neck. He handed the rifle to Matthew. “Sorry,” he said. “I should have got him.” He felt miserable. What had got into him? What would his uncle think of him now? He said, “I don't know what came over me.”

His uncle smiled.

Declan stared at the unusual sight of a smiling Matthew. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought his uncle was happy.

“Let's go,” said Matthew. “We can try track him down the mountain.”

They set off, moving down the slope after the buck, but though they stalked the deer trails and searched the deadfalls through their binoculars for over two hours, they did not catch another sight of deer.

They ate and rested and listened to the chatter of squirrels and the songs of birds, and Declan turned his face to the sun and heaved a huge sigh of contentment.

Matthew too, seemed contented. He lay back when he'd finished his sandwich and closed his eyes.

After a while, Matthew, his eyes still
closed, said, “One side is as bad as the other.”

“Hmm?”

“The war in the North. One side is as bad as the other.”

Declan sat up with a jerk. “What are you talking about?”

Matthew opened his eyes. “Declan, violence, killing, it solves nothing . . . “

“Let's get back,” said Declan.

They got up and headed back along the edge of the mountain toward the truck. When they had been walking for an hour, they stopped for a rest. Declan's legs were tired now and his body ached. They sat on a log and drank from their water bottles.

Then suddenly, Matthew dropped his bottle and snatched the rifle from the log where he had leaned it. Declan's heart lurched. Without pausing, his uncle pushed the rifle bolt home with a metallic rattle, pulled the rifle into his shoulder and raised the muzzle high over his head.

Declan looked up. A cougar was crouching on the limb of a tree fifteen feet above their heads. Its thick tail twitched and its ears stood up high on its small head as it stared down at them.

Matthew kept the rifle pointed at the cougar. “Freeze!” he grunted to Declan.

Declan set his jaw. He eyed the honey-colored cat. It was as long as a man, with heavy, powerful hindquarters. “Shoot!” Declan hissed at his uncle. “Shoot!”

Matthew held his fire.

The cougar's shoulders bunched. To Declan it looked as though the powerful animal was about to leap. He could not tear his eyes away from its pale green eyes. He yelled at the big cat and waved his arms. “Aaarrgh!” he growled. “Aaaarrrgh!”

The cougar took one last look at them, then turned quickly away, leaping from the tree into the salal and out of sight.

Matthew lowered his rifle. “That was dangerous, Declan. I said to freeze.”

Declan said, “I scared him away. Why didn't you shoot? We could have been killed! A wild animal like that!” His heart pounded.

Matthew said nothing. He released the bolt of the rifle and picked up his water bottle. He pushed the bottle into Declan's shoulder pack and set off along the trail.

Declan followed. “Why didn't you kill it?”

“No need. Be different maybe if he'd been forced down by the snow and was starving. But there's plenty of game about. I would have had to shoot if he'd jumped.”

“He scared the life out of me! I thought he was going to jump.”

“He wasn't about to jump,” said Matthew.

“How do you know?”

“You can usually tell. His ears were up. He was just curious—never seen Irishmen before. When a cougar's hunting, his ears lie back against the head.”

“So you didn't shoot him because of his ears.”

“That's right.”

Declan looked sideways at his uncle. He sure was hard to figure out. Because he never rose to any of Declan's taunts about being a traitor who ran away from Ireland, Declan had concluded his uncle was a coward. But now he wasn't so sure: if he'd been in his uncle's socks, pointing a loaded rifle at a cougar, he would have fired for certain. Matthew had stayed pretty cool.

They continued along the trail. Declan felt weary.

It took an hour. He could have cried out for joy when he finally saw Matthew's old truck standing waiting for them. They climbed in.

Matthew started the engine. “Want a mint?”

Declan took one.

They drove down the mountain in silence.