Finton Moon (48 page)

He leaned in and touched his lips to hers, and then they both laughed.

“It was nice,” he said.

“I thought so.”

She slipped her hand into his. “We should get going.”

His head was spinning, his rational side telling him that his feelings were just the product of a successful prom and a romantic walk in the moonlight with a beautiful girl. The kiss alone wreaked havoc with his hormones. But, of course, he was already in love with her, and so it would break both their hearts when he had to leave.

Alicia said something about her plans for the summer—she'd found work at the fish plant, starting next week—but Finton wasn't listening. He was fearfully watching the car, with its lights on high beam, slowing down as it came towards them.

“What's this jackass trying to prove?” He pulled Alicia away from the road, towards the gaping maw to their left—a treacherous plunge that could cause serious injury. The pitch darkness made it impossible to determine the drop off point, and so they halted breathlessly, clinging to each other, and stood completely still while they waited for the danger to pass. But the car accelerated and veered straight for them.

“It's Bernard,” she said. At the last possible moment, she pushed Finton to the ground and fell on top of him. Alicia yelped as the car zoomed past, blaring its horn.

“Did he hit you?” Finton shouted above the roar of the engine.

“Yes,” was the only part of her response he heard.

A few yards away, the driver tried to guide the car back onto the pavement, but just as Finton was imagining the worst possible outcome, the vehicle skidded off the pavement, with screeching tires, crashed into a guard rail and flipped. It rolled over once more as it tumbled down the embankment, filling the air with ghastly noises: crunching metal and a heart-stopping scream. On last impact, its headlights went dark; the whole world fell still, except for the whirring of spinning tires.

As they stared at the black space where they'd last seen the car, neither Finton nor Alicia were sure of what they'd just seen. “Did that just happen?” Alicia asked.

Stirring themselves at last, though it had only been a few seconds, together they lumbered towards the wreckage. Alicia had looped her arm around Finton's neck, and she was hobbling slightly. “I've got to get down there,” said Finton, although he couldn't see the edge where the shoulder ended and drop off began. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I think so.” Alicia lifted her hands and, in the feeble glow of moonlight just emerging from behind a cloud, he saw that her palms were coated in blood.

“You're bleeding,” he said.

“Just go—he might be seriously hurt.”

“Or dead.”

“Don't even think it.” Alicia's voice quavered. Although he argued that she should stay on the roadside to wave down a car, she insisted on going with him. “If anyone passes, they'll see us in their headlights,” she said.

More and more, it felt as if they were delaying the inevitable and so carefully, together, they maneuvered towards the railing, figuring a guide post would provide them with something to grasp and, therefore, their best chance of scaling the steep hill. But they quickly realized that, even below the railing, there was no solid ground, only loose rocks and gravel.

“It's too dangerous,” Finton said. “I'll go on my own.”

“You'll kill yourself,” Alicia said.

As they gazed into the darkness at the bottom of the hill, the returning moonlight produced a glint of metal that revealed the wreck's location. There was, at first, no sign of Bernard, but as the light grew stronger, Finton realized he'd been staring right at him—an anonymous mass just a few feet from the upturned car. “That's him,” he said, pointing. “It
is
Bernard.”

“Oh, God.” The strain in Alicia's voice was agonizing.

“I'm going down.” He spread his arms wide and bent his body slightly. Then he dipped the toe of his shoe, searching for earth but finding air. He tilted himself forward like a downhill skier at the top of a mountain. “Leap of faith,” he said in a trembling voice. “If I don't land safely, I'll call out, and you'll have to flag someone down.”

With a deep breath, he let himself fall. He focused on the car, assessing the distance, as his feet struggled to keep in contact with the shifting gravel. The scuffing noise and the pressure on his soles were his main reassurance that he was standing upright. Stomach in his throat, heart thumping madly, Finton hurtled downward in a seemingly endless dive.

Suddenly, his feet couldn't feel the ground. He felt the twinge of a twisted ankle, the crunch of a jammed toe, the wrench of a knee. And yet he kept plummeting until he reached the car and collapsed a few feet away from Bernard Crowley's lifeless body.

His first thought, upon realizing he'd safely landed, was whether it was truly possible for an overturned car to ignite and explode. The thought was interrupted by much grating and squeaking, as well as the unnerving sound of tires slowly spinning. A few seconds later, the tires fell silent, and the only sounds remaining were the distant roar of pounding surf, and the odd pops and pings of metal cooling.

“Are you there?” Alicia shouted.

“Yes!” he called back. “I'm here!”

“Is he alive?”

“Good question,” he said aloud, but only to himself. Thankfully, the moonlight was now at its peak, although it would soon duck behind another cloud.

He scrambled to where Bernard lay sprawled, face down, a few feet from the car, recognizable by his denim jacket. The image of another face, from several years past, an unburied ghost, flickered before Finton's eyes. He could swear he saw Sawyer Moon, face down in the foxhole.

“Please, God,” he muttered as he rolled the body. “You can do this,” he said. “You've done it before.”

But that was a long time ago, yish it was.

“I can do this,” he said. “I can.”

Why go saving the likes o' him? Won't get no medals or thanks for that.
Yer new girlfriend's better off without 'im—'n you'd be better off too.

Finton struggled for breath. He didn't know but the car would blow at any second. It continued to make strange noises—pings and cracks, the disconcerting grinding of metal against metal. Helping his enemy wasn't really a choice, for, in reality, Finton knew it was his instinct and calling. He tapped Bernard's face and yelled. “Wake up!”

But the eyes didn't open. No limbs twitched. No breath seemed to come from Bernard's lungs. Finton had seen dead before, and this was it.

But then, he'd also solved death before, though never quite like this, and never with any sense of reluctance. The worry and doubt, he knew, were natural.

“Bernard Crowley—you arsehole—open your goddamn eyes!” He slapped Bernard's cheek, then, seeing no results, took hold of Bernard's face and shook it. The smell of alcohol almost made Finton puke. For a moment he thought the eyes might open, but seconds passed, and finally he gave up.

“Goddamn you!” he said as repositioned himself. “Goddamn.”

Scanning the body, he spied a gaping wound above Bernard's left eye. Finton quickly placed one hand on the injury, trying to ignore the blood beneath his fingers. The other hand he placed on Bernard's chest, above his heart.

Then he prayed out loud. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. On earth as it is in heaven.”

He heard Alicia call out to him: “What's going on? What are you doing?”

He was vaguely aware that another car had stopped beside the guardrail, headlights on. Alicia called out his name, her voice fading.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…” He felt as if he were leaving his own body. He soared upward, toting the gruesome cargo into the blue-black sky. “Now and at the hour of our death… Amen.”

After what seemed a long time, he stopped praying and opened his eyes. The earth was receding. Below, he saw the Darwin Day fairgrounds and just beyond them, a small car pulled over by a guard rail, headlights on, Alicia standing beside a youth. He knew the young man. Couldn't see his face, but knew it just the same.
Skeet Stuckey.
And that was Dolly standing with them.

Shockingly fast, he jetted upward and found himself bedazzled by bright, stars of varying hues. A long-tailed comet dashed through the sky, instantly followed by two more.

There, just below, was his Planet of Solitude. Breathing deeply, he allowed himself to descend, the weight of his load growing heavier. All around him, the planets were clustered, blazing brightly in myriad, deep colours.

Beneath him, the white apple tree had come into view as he descended towards the planet's grassy surface. And then he touched down. Quickly, he scurried—somehow walking-floating—to the tree and lay beneath it.

Immediately, he heard a voice say,
This is what you brought?

Yes
, he said.
I hope it's not too late.

This one's not fit for your concern.

Maybe not...but who am I to say?

It's your gift to give. It's always your say.

Then I say, he lives.

Silence greeted his proclamation, and Finton looked down at the face of Bernard Crowley, lying in his lap.

The dark eyes opened and looked up at him. “Am I dead?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Finton. “You are.”

“Good.” Bernard spoke softly as if all the meanness had drained out of him.

“It was your own fault,” Finton said. “I should leave you here.”

Bernard's eyes flickered—sadness, perhaps, and some regret and resignation.

“But I won't,” Finton finished. “Now open your eyes.”

Bernard's lids flickered open, and Finton knew he was back in Darwin. His hands ached. His arms practically screamed with pain. But Bernard was stirring. He still had that ugly gash, and he was covered in scratches, cuts, and blood. But he was alive.

For better or worse.

Last Leaf

The first official on the scene was Kieran Dredge, who had quickly called for paramedics, checked the extent of his sister's injuries and draped her shoulders in a police jacket. With the aid of a high-power flashlight, he negotiated the steep embankment and, within a couple of minutes, he reached the overturned vehicle. Finton was sitting, head between his knees, beside Bernard who lay on the ground, bleeding and gasping for air. “Son of a gun is alive,” Kieran told Alicia, when he and Finton had clambered to the roadside. “Someone up there's looking out for him, for sure.”

She nodded vaguely and turned to Finton. “What did you do?” she asked. The breeze played with her hair while the moonlight cast her features in a soft, ethereal glow. The attendants had inspected her wounds and applied bandages to her arms, as well as a Band-aid to the palm of one hand that was scraped and bleeding. But the worst of her injuries was a flesh wound on one elbow where Bernard's side mirror had grazed it.

Finton was trembling and dazed, but relieved to be back at the top of the hill, leaning against the police car, with its red lights flashing.

“I just helped him,” Finton said. He considered telling her what he'd done, but decided discretion was best. “I just stayed with him. That's all.”

“Thank you,” she said. Alicia fell silent then, her body quivering as she started to cry. Finton understood: they'd both been traumatized by the accident—not because it was Bernard, but because they had almost been killed. It was just one more example of Darwinian violence wherein the supposed strong fall victim to their own instincts.

It took more than an hour to load Bernard into the ambulance. Getting him up the hill was an arduous task, especially in the dark, without a street lamp nearby. Eventually, the two attendants, with Kieran and Futterman, managed to pull him up to the side of the road. By that time, Finton had answered every question he could about how Bernard had come from out of nowhere, how he'd been tormenting Alicia for a long time, and how he'd flipped over his car without any help, or taunting, from them. Thankfully, there were no questions about Finton's voodoo. They didn't suspect and didn't need to know. Bernard, if he survived, would never know how.

As spring moved on and summer closed in, Finton kept his own counsel and rarely sought wisdom or companionship outside of himself. He had been removed from the family into which he was born—perhaps, in some way, he'd even been rescued—and taken into a household to which he would never truly belong. On some level, he was grateful, but that didn't justify his parents' actions. He was developing an interest in history and, in the library, he read articles about how Newfoundland was railroaded into Confederation—some kind of trickery performed by the “Father of Confederation,” some cloak and dagger maneuvering that allowed certain politicians to justify their skullduggery. The Canadian government would never admit their own greed, that they acted not to save the “youngest province” from a horrible fate, but to enhance their prestige and to spare themselves from feeling incomplete with each glance at the map that showed a detached, lone wolf in North Atlantic. In the end, they'd created artificial ties with an entity who'd never truly assimilated with a family that had merely kidnapped it.