Sacrament

'So what are you going to do?'

'Let him go. Get myself a man who doesn't care if he's the last of his line, and still wants to fuck like a tiger on Saturday night.'

'You know what?'

'I should have been queer. I know. We would have made a lovely couple. Now, are you going to move your butt? This damn bear's not going to wait forever.'

CHAPTER IV

i

As the afternoon light began to fail, the wind veered, and came out of the northeast across Hudson Bay, rattling the door and windows of Guthrie's shack, like something lonely and invisible, wanting comfort at the table. The old man sat in his old leather armchair and savoured the gale's din like a co

But tonight the sound failed to soothe him as it usually did. He knew why. The responsibility lay with the visitor who'd come knocking on his door the night before. He'd disturbed Guthrie's equilibrium, raising the phantoms of faces he'd tried so hard to put from his mind. Jacob Steep, with his soot-and-gold eyes, and black beard, and pale poet's hands; and Rosa, glorious Rosa, who had the gold of Steep's eyes in her hair, and the black of his beard in her gaze, but was as fleshy and passionate as he was sweatless and unmoved. Guthrie had known them for such a short time, and many years ago, but he had them in his mind's eye so clearly he might have met them that morning.

He had Rabjohns there too: with his green milk eyes, too gentle by half, and his hair in unruly abundance, curling at his nape, and the wide ease of his face, nicked with scars on his cheek and brow. He hadn't been scarred half enough, Guthrie thought; there was still some measure of hope in him. Why else had he come asking questions, except in the belief that they could be answered? He'd learn, if he lived long enough. There were no answers. None that made sense anyhow.

The wind gusted hard against the window, and loosened one of the boards Guthrie had taped over a cracked pane. He raised himself out of the pit of his chair and picking up the roll of tape he'd used to secure the board, crossed to the window to fix it. Before he stuck it back in place, blocking out the world, he stared through the grimy glass. The day was close to departure, the thickening waters of the Bay the colour of slate, the rocks black. He kept staring, distracted from his task, not by the sight but by the memories which came to him still, unbidden, unwanted, but impossible to put from his head.

Words first. No more than a murmur. But that was all he needed.

These will not come again

Steep was speaking, his voice majestic.

-nor this. Nor this

And as he spoke the pages appeared in front of Guthrie's grieving eyes; the pages of Steep's terrible book. There, a perfect rendering of a bird's wing, exquisitely coloured

-nor this

-and here, on the following page, a beetle, copied in death; every part documented for posterity: mandible, wing-case, and segmented limb.

-nor this

'Jesus,' he sobbed, the roll of tape dropping from his trembling fingers. Why couldn't Rabjohns have left him alone? Was there no corner of the world where a man might listen in the wail of the wind, without being discovered and reminded of his crimes?

The answer, it seemed, was no; at least for a soul as unredeemed as his. He could never hope to forget, not until God struck life and memory from him, which prospect seemed at this moment far less dreadful than living on, day and night, in fear of another Will coming to his door and naming names.

'Nor this...'

Shut up, he murmured to memories. But the page kept flipping in his head. Picture after picture, like some morbid bestiary. What fish was that, that would never again silver the sea? What bird, that would never tune its song to the sky?

On and on the pages flew, while he watched, knowing that at last Steep's fingers would come to a page where he himself had made a mark. Not with a brush or a pen, but with a bright little knife.

And then the tears would begin to come in torrents, and it wouldn't matter how hard the northeasterly blew, it could not carry the past away.

ii

The bears did not make a liar of Adria

Will got out of the jeep and approached. Adria

It was plain he was not interested in either the adolescents or the female. It was the old male he wanted to photograph. He glanced over at Adria

Typically, of course (how she cursed his machismo sometimes) he was going to position himself so close to the base of the hillock that if the animal decided to come after him he'd be in trouble. Creeping close to the ground he found his spot. The animal was either unaware of, or indifferent to, his proximity; it was half turned from him, casually licking dirt off its paws. But Adria