The Promised Land - a novel of Cape Breton

1970

A Gathering of Fools

The pile of snow in the corner of the parking lot was tired and dirty, clearly losing the battle against the warmth of a mid-March thaw. A shuffling knot of people enjoyed the coolness of the evening after an hour spent sitting packed together in the Fiddler's Green coffee house. The room had been stiflingly warm with the heat of fifty or so bodies. Every seat was taken, with some additional standees at the back, listening to the music and stories of the legendary Utah Phillips, in Toronto for the first of two concerts.

Man, offered a bearded man near the centre of the group, he is the real deal.

Right on, a number of people responded.

Travels all over the place singing and playing and then he goes back home to a cabin with no electricity in the California woods and kicks back. He's living the dream, alright.

I liked what he said about all the neighbours pitching in to help each other, said one of the girls. That's the way it's supposed to be.

Yeah, said a tall, thin man who everyone knew as Brother Soul, it made me think of hearing John Allan Cameron last year at Mariposa. He said that back home they were always getting together at somebody's house to make music and tell stories and all that.

Is he the guy in the kilt, the one from Cape Breton? someone asked.

That's the one, said Soul. Came from a little town down there, I don't remember the name of it. He says he's always anxious when he leaves and can't wait to get back.

Sounds to me like John Allan Cameron and Utah Phillips would get along just fine, said a girl who didn't look hardly old enough to be out after nine o'clock.

Yeah, replied a tall girl called Lola, I wouldn't want to go to California, but I've heard lots of good things about Cape Breton.

Maybe we should all move there, said an unidentified voice from the darkness just outside the circle, Go farming.

Oh yeah, responded the most neatly-dressed male in the pack. What are you going to do, fool – just quit your job and go? Several people laughed, but not all of them.

It was only the tiniest of seeds, but it landed on moist and fertile ground. As some people drifted away to other groups, several whose ears had perked up a little at the 'go farming' statement, moved closer together. Before everyone went back inside for the second set, several of the group had arranged to meet for further discussion on Saturday morning at a Greek restaurant just down Eglinton Avenue.

It was the first of a pair of meetings. About a dozen people showed up for the initial session. One couple drifted away as the ideas began to coalesce and conversation moved away from the theoretical and into the realm of the practical. Talking about moving back to the land is one thing, but actually pulling up stakes is something else again. In the end, nine people decided to pool their resources and their energy and head down East. A second meeting was set for the following Tuesday. Eight members arrived for this session, but one boy stayed only long enough to resign.

I'd like to go, you know, but my folks already lined up a job for me this summer. My old man said it was a foolish idea anyway. Sorry, man.

And then there were seven. Only one, the girl called Vic, had thought to bring writing materials. She made notes as the planning went along, listing the assets each could bring to the group. The last item of business was to pick a departure date. They were unanimous in selecting an auspicious date, a Tuesday two weeks hence. They would leave on April first.

Pioneers

There it is, the Promised Land!

Brother Soul (the former Brad Smith) nodded out the window at the rocky shore on the other side of Canso Strait.

Yup, and someone already parted the waves for us! said Brother Rhythm (Bob Andrews), pointing to the causeway.

Sister Righteous (Sarah) leaned forward from the windowless back of the truck to take her first look at Cape Breton. If we can't make it here, she declared, it ain't gonna be made. A chorus of 'Right ons' greeted this announcement. The old truck coughed, perhaps in agreement, emitting a cloud of blue smoke that hung briefly in the sunlit morning.

There were seven people in the Chevy, three of them male. Brother Blues (Frank) was the senior member; he would turn twenty in October. Sister Charity (Linda) said she was old enough to be with them, but had never offered to prove it. Lola, who had chosen to be called Sister Salad Bar, was in the group but not quite of the group. Most of the others had an unsubstantiated feeling that she didn't take them seriously enough and behaved a bit cautiously toward her. They called her Slade, but not to her face.

None of their ages matched the vintage of the vehicle, a nearly decrepit Chevrolet panel truck they had bought together for sixty dollars. Their rusty green chariot reluctantly achieved about fourteen miles per Imperial gallon on the highway and guzzled oil at an alarming rate, but it started almost every time without having to be pushed. They called it – what else? – Methuselah.

They might have been poster children for a large segment of their generation. Their beliefs were a mish-mash of Christianity, Buddhism, Taoism, Animism, and Baha'i. Their heroes were Bob Dylan, Pierre Elliott Trudeau, Timothy Leary and Chairman Mao. They were young, idealistic, optimistic, earnest and eager to get back-to-the-land. They were also grubby, scrawny and broke, and in this regard were not unlike the original Scottish settlers who had preceded them by a-hundred-and-fifty years. This group, though, carried fewer Bibles than their predecessors, and considerably more dope.

Like so many people their age the world over, the scope of their plans far outstripped their capabilities. The group intended to continue living in their tent and in the back of Methuselah until the new log cabin was completed in a couple of weeks. Brad had the only construction experience, having received a passing grade for the birdhouse he built in his Grade IX shop class. They planned to live off the production of their own land: milk from the goats, root vegetables from the garden, apples from their own trees, eggs from their hens. Sister Charity had raised a gerbil for her seventh grade science project; she would be in charge of the livestock.

At an estate auction in eastern Quebec, they paid nine dollars for a six-foot long lance-tooth crosscut saw. I saw this on TV once, said Brother Blues. They dig a pit, lay a log over top of it and then one guy gets down in the pit and the other guy is on top and they saw boards out of the log. It looked easy enough.

In time they would find that the principal crop of Cape Breton, even ahead of lobsters, coal and tourism, was rocks. All sizes and shapes of stone, from pebble gravel to scale-model mountains, turned up anywhere you chose to stick a shovel into the dirt. The theoretical digging of a pit was a very long way from an actual hole in the ground.

When they crossed the causeway on the last day of May, their remaining cash assets totaled eighty-one dollars and twenty-two cents. They didn't have much in the way of a concrete plan for their new unplanned community. Other than Methuselah and the tent, they had nowhere to stay. They had talked vaguely about 'getting some land', but just how this was to be accomplished remained fuzzy. Income generation plans were likewise undetermined. They would eventually raise food, of course, but funding for the necessities – things like tools, seed, livestock, gas for the truck, laundry soap and Cheesies – had not been discussed at any length. The rubber was about to meet the road.

Methuselah was thirsty again by the time they reached Whycocomagh. The red line on their financial thermometer dipped to just above the seventy-two dollar mark before he was satisfied. They parked the truck on the corner of the gas station lot and walked across the road to the shore. The Queen (Victoria) carried the road map of Cape Breton.

We are here, she said, spreading it open and pointing to the dot on the map. Now what?

She had asked the question many times before on the trip, but all the answers seemed to suggest castles in the air and riches that magically appeared. When Cape Breton was far away, it had been easy enough to shrug off the tough questions. The sand had run out of that hourglass now. They were here, true, but the Good Fairy was nowhere in sight. They were nearly broke and their only asset was Methuselah, whose sale price wouldn't be enough to pay for a tank of gas for itself. The scant supplies left in the larder were not enough to feed seven people for more than a couple of days. Now what, indeed.

The silence went on for a long time.

For a while, the mood of the group darkened, but it was a position that was impossible to maintain for long, for they were young and the day was beautiful. The sun of late May was warm on their faces and the breeze off Bras d'Or Lake was gentle and kind. The combination of youth and a fine day quickly overrode the stark reality of their situation.

Well, said Frank, It doesn't look like we could do much farming around here. Maybe we oughta scoot up the road and see what there is to see.

All the faces but one brightened at the prospect of abandoning this downer discussion and moving on to the fairy tale ending they were sure was waiting just over the hill. The Queen alone could not brush off the gloom completely, though she could not avoid a soft smile as the naivety of her companions touched her heart yet again.

At her request, they called her Vic when they talked to her, but as a subject of discussion, she was always The Queen. Nor was there any malice in the designation. Each of them had nothing but respect for her calm and calming demeanour, her willingness to take charge when taking charge was necessary. And though she never spoke of it aloud, all of them knew very well the depth of her affection for them. Victoria Mercer Davidson was the acknowledged leader of the little band, a job somewhat akin to that of herding half a dozen frisky kittens through the forest. She was in charge of their meager finances and supplies, the arbiter of the few disputes. Her determination and focus had guided them more than a thousand miles through Ontario, Quebec and New Brunswick, to Nova Scotia and, at last, to Cape Breton. Without ever issuing direct orders, it was Vic the Queen who would 'round 'em up and head 'em out' when it was time to move on.

It was time to move on. Democracy is a wonderful thing, but democracy without leadership has its drawbacks, so Victoria folded the map, offered a 'rise up' signal to her friends and followed them across the road to Methuselah. We'll have a look around in Baddeck, she told them, then take a run up to St. Ann's Bay and see if we can find a place to spend the night. And let's all keep our eyes open for anything that looks like a real place to stay. You just never know.

Methuselah started up, belched a puff of white smoke from his front end and then farted a larger cloud of bluish smoke from his tailpipe. With those formalities out of the way, he turned north and plodded up the road with the agility of a weary old ox reluctantly pulling the plough down one more furrow.

Perhaps it would turn out that the streets of Cape Breton were not paved with gold, but to the starry-eyed kids in the old truck on that sunny May morning, the waters of the Bras d'Or indeed seemed to be strewn with diamonds.

CamFourth

Calvin was in the garden out back of the house, preparing the soil for planting in a week or so. His parents were too busy with the business of running the store to spend any time gardening. It was almost like a meditation for Calvin, working the land, even on the small scale of a vegetable garden. He registered the soft sound of water lapping the shore of Bras d'Or Lake to his left, and the steady hum of life in Baddeck village coming from behind him.

A single sound separated itself from the background noise; that of a truck making its way slowly along Shore Road. He heard it stop out front. There was nothing for a while, which was curious, then the sound of a door opening and closing. Footsteps crunched on the gravel of the driveway, followed by a knock at the front door.

I'm around back, he called.

A few seconds later, a young woman peeked around the corner. She was of average height; not fat but definitely stocky.

Mister MacIsaac?

Calvin was momentarily taken aback. 'Mister MacIsaac' was his Dad's name, or his Grandpa's. This was the first time he could remember anyone using it on himself.

Yeah, I guess that's me, he said.

She came into the yard. Her skin had the brown cast of someone who spent considerable time outdoors. Jeans and t-shirt were clean enough but obviously had some miles on them. There was a design on the front of the shirt, but Calvin didn't want to stare hard enough to work it out. Not just yet. 'Weathered,' thought Calvin later, 'that's how she looked that first time. Not in a negative way, but like someone whose element was the out-of-doors.'

Hi, she said, offering her hand. I'm Victoria Davidson.

Calvin stood up, brushed the garden dirt off his hand. She had a good handshake.

CamFourth, he replied automatically.

CamFourth?

Calvin, he corrected himself. CamFourth is my nickname. What people call me, he stammered.

Well then, I'm Vic.

Vic?

My Dad always wanted a boy, so he wouldn't call me Victoria, just Vic.

It didn't work, thought Calvin. She's no boy.

He noticed her look down at her hand, which to his surprise, he was still holding. He let it go, embarrassed.

What can I do for you, Victoria? he asked.

Well, we – my friends and I – we were up near Indian Brook and we saw the farm there with nobody on it, so we asked Katherine next door and she said that you own it. Is that right?

Yes, he said. That's my Granny's farm. Well, my grandparents' actually, but Grandpa's dead now. Granny was having trouble on her own so we moved her into Alderwood two years ago. She said she's leaving the place to me, so I guess I look after it.

Well, we don't have any place to stay. We just got here from Ontario yesterday and we were wondering if maybe we could stay there for a while.

Who's 'we'? asked Calvin, and what's 'a while'?

Well, there's six of us. Seven, if you count me, she answered, and we're just moving here from Ontario. She paused a moment, thinking. And I guess that 'a while' is until we find our own place.

So you want to rent my Granny's farm right now, is that it? And then move to your own place?

She looked uncomfortable, her head down, her feet doing a little nervous shuffle on their own. Well, she said, we'd like to rent, but the thing is that we don't have any money.

How're you gonna rent a farm with no money? he blurted. It wasn't a particularly clever question, but the concept of strangers asking to borrow a farm was not something he had ever anticipated.

It couldn't have happened, not really, but it seemed to Calvin that suddenly this person who he had seen as a strong young woman – and an attractive woman at that – had shrunk somehow; had become a vulnerable little girl, struggling bravely to hold back tears that were forming not far behind her eyes. When he saw this kind of a scene in movies, Calvin had always snickered quietly and rolled his eyes to see the hero unmanned by a woman's waterworks. It appeared, though, that whoever directed those movie scenes knew what they were talking about. Calvin wasn't quite unmanned – after all he had only met the girl three or four minutes ago – but he was definitely moved, to some degree, at least. His feet did a little shuffle, seemingly of their own volition. He turned a moment and looked out over the Bras d'Or. Where are you staying now?

In Methuselah. That's our truck. And we have a tent. We camped up at the MacLeod Cemetery near St. Ann's last night. Probably go back there tonight.

Calvin thought a minute. Are your friends with you now? he asked.

Yup, they're out front. Would you like to meet them? She sounded hopeful. Any reaction short of outright refusal was a cause for at least a wee tiny bit of optimism.

I'm not promising anything. I just want to see who we're talking about, that's all. In a very un-Calvin-like demonstration of assertiveness, he led the way out of the back yard and up the driveway.

The hood of the truck was up and a pair of blue-jean clad legs in sandals protruded from the opening. Two longhaired young girls were standing at the back of the vehicle talking. A third girl, who looked to be about twelve years old, sat on the grass, picking petals from a daisy and talking to herself. Across the road, two young men sat with their back to the house, sharing a smoke. One had a black ponytail reaching most of the way down his back.

Hey guys! called Victoria from behind him, This is CamFourth. He owns the farm we looked at.

It was a frozen moment, she thought later, a slow motion scene. Five of them turned their heads as one to look toward Calvin. Then Frank followed, backing out from under the hood of Methuselah, wiping stained hands on the legs of his jeans.

She saw them then, as if through Calvin's eyes, and it was a frightening moment for her. They looked small, scruffy and vulnerable. For the first time in a long while, she questioned whether or not she would be able to protect them. The image of this instant was one that she carried with her until her last day on earth. She knew, without a hint of doubt, that her life hung in the balance at that moment, like a teeter-totter, poised so that a whisper of breeze could tilt it in either direction; that a butterfly choosing to land on one end or the other, would decide her path.

In the next frame, all of them looked away from Calvin and back to her, all except little Linda, Sister Charity, the youngest of the group. It was she who turned out to be the butterfly. She, too, looked to the Queen for guidance, but just before she did so, she gave a shy smile and a tiny wave of greeting to the stranger in the driveway. It was not much, but coupled with Calvin's unexpected reaction to Victoria, it was enough. With that small signal, he was no longer looking at a rag-tag gaggle of freaks, but at six individuals – seven, if he counted Victoria. And he did. He definitely did.

He turned. She stood in the driveway a couple of paces back. Whatever his answer, it looked to Calvin as