William Deverell - Trial of Passion

Outside, the air has turned keen and sweet. The sky has cleared. Suspended above is a fattening harvest moon.

The sun’s first rays brush the mountain peaks across the inlet, their wreathes of clouds made rosy by the slanting September light. Arcing over the North Shore mists, a faint rainbow: Iris gliding through the purple air, When loosely girt her dazzling mantle flows.

There will be time enough to sing the songs of Flaccus. I am already packed, my suitcase heavier by several pounds. A gift arrived in my room last night: a compact disc player, CD’S of Shakespeare’s entire oeuvre for the stage, a note in Jonathan’s scrawl: “For this relief, much thanks.”

My phone rings. The office limousine awaits below to fetch me to the ferry. (My rolling stock is now sorely depleted, so I shall be truckless and footloose on Garibaldi.)

And now I am aboard the Queen of Prince George as she furrows through tossing waves towards those green hills rising from the inner sea. Ah, the beautiful Isles of the Blest, the heaven of the ancients, where the gods transport the virtuous to live in blissful eternity: thither go I, the finally and forever retired lawyer, reborn as a tiller of soil. On some distant future day, let my obituary read: Though skilled in court, A. R. Beauchamp was ultimately better known for his stirring feats as a farmer.

Obituary. . George comes back to me. How I would have loved to regale that darling man with my tales of near calamity and triumph. My return home will not be without some grief.

A few of my fellow islanders are out here on the upper starboard side (permanents, like me), and I am of course besieged with all manner of questions and comments about my trial, the outcome of which is the subject of blaring headlines in the morning dailies.

But Kurt Zoller has more important matters on his mind. As he sidles up to me, he asks, “Know why we always run out of water? The trees drink most of it up.” He leans to my ear. “They compete with us for the necessaries of life.”

His water delivery service having been rained out, he has traded his tank truck for a heavy-duty van, newly stencilled with the logo of a toppling fir tree and the words: “Zoller’s Tree Service. Ecologically Sensitive Landscaping.”

“I’m tired of helping people, Mr. Bo-champ, so I’m going to let Margaret Blake be trustee for a while. We’ll see how people like it when she puts the clock back. You still friendly with her? Beware. She’ll turn on you. That’s all I can say.” It is as if he holds some dire secret, though his words sound more of a curse than a warning.

The wind has whipped up, and the Queen of Prince George is rocking slightly, the tides of Active Pass churning beneath us. Clouds scud along the eastern sky, massing against the mountains above Vancouver, fleeing the hot September sun under which our islands bask.

A lanky fellow of middle years — a long blond-grey ponytail, a sad, sensitive look to him — squats on the deck, expertly fingering the strings and struts of a guitar. A sprightly Vivaldi sonata.

When he concludes, I clap my hands.

“You’re most kind.” His smile is natural, unlaboured.

We introduce ourselves. Malcolm Lorenz, a name I recall from somewhere, perhaps on the radio, a CBC music program. This must be the classical guitarist Margaret mentioned, our fall fair guest artist.

He joins me at the railing. “I saw your picture all over the front pages this morning. Oddest damn trial, must have been fun. Congratulations. You have a place on Garibaldi, Arthur?”

“I do, indeed.”

“Spent five years off and on there. Fifteen-year-old runaway who thought he could change the world on acid and mushrooms. Do you know Margaret Blake?”

“She’s my neighbour.”

“Heard of the Earthseed Commune? That was us. We hadn’t the faintest idea what we were doing, except for Chris and Margaret — they had the green thumbs. They lasted it out.”

He’s an engaging man, with an interesting history — but why does he make me nervous? “Did Margaret invite you?”

“Sort of. I just came back from a tour of East Africa. Canada Council funding, raise money for Rwandan refugees, that sort of thing. The idea is to keep me from starvation, too. I called Margaret, thought I’d pay her a visit, and she asked me over to do a free gig. Sounds like fun.”

“It does, indeed.”

“Haven’t seen her since Chris’s funeral. I admired Chris. Still very fond of Margaret.”

“Malcolm, I know Margaret would be absolutely delighted if you would join us at the lamb barbecue.”

He flicks the quickest little look at me, then his eyes settle on the horizon, the small green islands dappling it. I fixate on a quartet of gulls hanging rigidly in the vessel’s slipstream. The gulls lose formation and wheel away as the ferry heaves to port, rounding the beacon off East Point, heading into the ferry slip, where gathers the usual crowd of weekend greeters. On the car deck, cyclists strap on helmets, mount their bikes, and the boat’s metal gates begin to yawn open.

Observing my suitcase, Malcolm rightly infers I am without a vehicle. I accept his offer of a lift. He seems a gentle person, and in normal circumstances I would like him. He has qualities I both admire and lack: charm and panache. Therefore, he worries me.

On the car deck, Zoller is tying on his life jacket for the risky drive onto the ferry dock. “Guess the island hasn’t changed much,” Malcolm says. “Different characters, that’s all.”

I sling my suitcase into the back of his old Volkswagen van. He also has a bag. Clearly he is proposing to stay the night. Where? Has Margaret offered him her couch (or worse)? Should I let him know Garibaldi boasts a few charming bed and breakfast inns — or might he prefer one of the funky cabins at The Brig? No wedding band decorates a finger. But I am being absurd. He and Margaret are friends of long standing; only an unhealthy jealousy would read anything base in a friendly reunion.

Stranded near the dock is my old rattletrap truck, which I foolishly lent to Nelson Forbish. I suppose it was too much to expect that Stoney might have had it serviced and running for my arrival. Perhaps he can offer another loaner.

As we pass the entrance to her bar, Emily Lemay waves. She is dressed grandly for the fair, sun glinting off her shiny satin dress.

“My God, is that Emily? She stole my sixteen-year-old virginity, that woman.” Malcolm laughs, begins talking in a relaxed drawl about the old days. There was no bar then; he and his fellow hippies used to smuggle their beer and whisky from the American islands. “No electricity, no car ferry, no cops, no paved roads, nada. We lied to ourselves: This is paradise, we said, and we’re not insanely bored.”

I listen to his reminiscences with a tight smile as we bump up Centre Road. He obliges me by stopping at the general store, where Mr. Makepeace hands me a week’s worth of junk mail and a postcard from Bayreuth. “Your ex is coming back for the winter season. Going to be doing Hansel and Gretel at Christmas.”

How blurred in memory has Annabelle become; how lightly throbs the pain of yesterday. I hope she has found happiness with her Musikmeister. (I expect flouncy Francois Roehlig shares my curious passion for strong-willed women. He has the advantage of youth and may last her out.)

A quick run up Potter’s Road, and while I dash into the house, Malcolm wanders across the yard. Someone has delivered George Rimbold’s fishing gear. Its presence beside my unlocked door causes another brief pang of loss. I quickly change into country garb and return outside to find Malcolm gazing wistfully over the fence at his former homestead.