Enigma

enigma

BY

ALAN E. LONGWORTH

ENIGMA By Alan E. Longworth

Copyright 2013 by Alan E. Longworth All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced, scanned, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Author. Piracy of copyrighted materials is a criminal offense. Purchase only authorized editions. eBook version 1.0 eISBN: 978-0-9880874-8-4

Prologue A blinding flash occurs, and then a tremendous noise rends my ears. I was enveloped in darkness, blacker than a starless cloudy night. Instantly it is followed by a silence deeper than might be heard in a remote forest with no wind to break it. An intense quiet, so profound, it makes my ears hurt. I wonder, is this a dream or reality? There is no way to tell, no way to understand. It is a feeling of suspension in a lightless, silent world with no tangible means of support. I feel nothing physical around me, and yet, my mind is functioning. I wonder, have I died?

People who claim to have come back from death’s door, say they felt they were travelling in a tunnel with a bright light at the end. I remember no such tunnel, but I did see a brilliant light. Is this my grand entrance into the after-life? But why would my entrance be different from all the others who have made the journey before me? I have never felt more special nor deserving than anyone else. I struggle to see, if in fact, I have entered the Promised Land. But the dark, as thick as blackstrap molasses, envelopes me like a shroud. I strain to hear the fabled harps of those already within the pearly gates.

Not even the minutest hint of a sound comes to me. I feel like I am locked in limbo, not knowing why, or how, I come to be in this state. My mind puts it to me thus; if I have not arrived at the pearly gates, am I about to enter the other domain? But this doesn’t seem likely either. I can hear no agonized wailing, nor the screams of the damned, nor even the hint of heat from everlasting flames.

It is said that one’s life is flashed before his or her eyes at the moment of death, but I have no such recollection of this occurring. Perhaps I am not dead after all. I wonder does the brain function for a while after the physical body has died. For I have heard that hair continues to grow after death. Could it be the same for thoughts and sensations?

I feel movement under my body. But it is not my muscles moving me. The sensation comes from outside my body. I can make no sense of it. Now comes a feeling of sitting in an unlit cinema. Suddenly the screen lights up. Grainy images appear in black and white. I struggle to recognize the shadowy characters as they slowly come into focus. I see my brother and myself. But we are boys, not the men we have become. Then obviously, this has to be a dream. But is it?

On the screen, Ted and I are strolling down the gravel road of our small fishing village toward the net sheds. We open the big doors and enter. The two of us break into a run and hurl ourselves headlong into a pile of dried fishing nets. Then climb up into the low rafters, swing from a beam and drop down into a soft heap of nets.

It is a game we often play; we do no damage, and the fishermen don’t complain. I would suppose that they, in their childhood, did exactly the same thing. The net sheds are a great place to play, especially when the weather is inclement. For in our west coast fishing village it rains quite a lot, and storms roll in from the sea regularly in the winter months.

When the village mothers want their children out from under foot, the net shed becomes the local playground. We play at being Tarzan and Cheetah, and swing from the beams with

short lengths of net rope. Soon we tire of our game and depart the net shed, closing the doors as we leave.

The film becomes grainy. The image of my brother Ted and I walking back to our house fades to grey. I stare at the screen, willing a clear picture to return. Eventually a grey blob, centre screen, begins to take shape. The image takes form as a fishing boat leaving the dock. Brother Ted, inexplicably, is older now. He waves goodbye to me from the stern. I recall this day instantly. It is a day which changes both our lives. He has landed a job on the shrimp boat, The Harvester. I have lost my daily companion; and in a village with few others of my age, I expect there will be times when I will be lonely. Ted, however, will have the constant company of the crew, and he will have money in his jeans when the catch comes to port and is sold. The screen image of The Harvester’s wake as she leaves the harbour begins to fade, and then it is gone. After a period of darkness, new images began to form.

Chapter One I lie in bed staring wide eyed at the crack running across the ceiling. It is Saturday, I feel no compulsion to get out of bed and greet the morning. I am at the awkward age of sixteen. There is nothing I have to do, nor anyone to do anything with.

Before my brother Ted got a job fishing, we always had things to do, and we did them together with gusto. Now my life is a trail of boredom. Doing almost anything alone is tedious at best. My gaze follows the crack in the ceiling from end to end, as it has so many times before. Sometimes I imagine it to be the road out of the village to a new and exciting life somewhere else.

I hear my mother’s voice rising to my room from the kitchen below.

“It’s time you were up and about. Your breakfast is going cold.” I really don’t feel like it, but I force my legs over the bed edge and stand and get dressed. I go downstairs and eat my bowl of almost cold porridge.

“What are you going to do today, Matt?” my mother asks.

“I don’t know yet, Mother,” I reply. I know that today is her baking day and she would like me out of the way. “I think I will go down to the dock and see if Mr. Hanson wants a hand rebuilding the wheelhouse on The Northern Fisher.” Mother does not answer, so I grab my jacket from behind the door, and walk out into the damp morning air. With the moisture laden air, comes the smell of the sea. The aroma is always there, but is more pronounced on mornings like this.

I saunter down the gravel road towards the waterfront. I approach Wickham’s general store. It is the only store in the village. Mr. and Mrs. Wickham have been running it as long as I can remember. They sell most grocery staples, and serve as the village post office. Mr. Wickham has one corner of the store as his domain, to sell work clothing and waterproof outerwear for the local fishermen. Outside the store is a long, rough hewn bench. It is the unofficial meet and greet place for the village population.

I see old Harry Foster, seated on the bench smoking his ancient and weathered pipe. A puff of exhaled smoke rises into the morning air. Harry likes company and tends to waylay anyone who happens by.

“Morning, young Matt,” he says to me.

“Good morning to you Harry,” I respond. He taps the bench with his hand; it is a silent invitation for me to come and sit with him. I accept his invitation.

“When are you going out fishing young fellow?”

“I’m only sixteen, Harry; nobody is going to hire me until I’m a bit older.”

“Things are different today, Matt. I was only twelve when I went to sea the first time.” I knew I was in for Harry’s life story, which I had already heard several times before.

“I can’t stay, Harry. I’m on my way to help Mr. Hanson. He is rebuilding the wheelhouse on The Northern Fisher,” I told him.

“I don’t know why he chose mid-shrimping season to begin a job like that. Most folks would wait until the season was over. Like I said, young fellow, things are different today.”

I eased myself off the bench. I didn’t want to hear any more of Harry’s proclamations. I left him puffing on his pipe as I went down to the dock and along the slip to The Northern Fisher. I could hear Mr. Hanson hammering inside the almost finished wheelhouse. I called out, “Hello aboard, Mr. Hanson. It’s Matt Wilson; I’ve come to see if you need a hand with anything?” A head appeared round the wheelhouse door.

“Thanks Matt, but I have just about got the job done. I figure on heading out in the morning.” I sensed an opportunity.

“Can I sign on as a trainee, Mr. Hanson?”

“Sorry Matt, my regular crew will be coming back to work. There is no room for an extra hand.” I turned and walked back along the slip to the main dock. It was always the same, rejection after rejection. I was beginning to hate my life here in Westport.

I walked along the shore until I came to the breakwater. There was a place I often came to in my loneliness; huge rocks and slabs of broken concrete had been piled as a barrier to the sometimes violent waves, inadvertently forming a small cave. I had found a driftwood board and placed it inside for a seat. Here I would sit, sometimes for hours, watching the breaking surf, and daydreaming about where my life might lead me.

To my surprise, I found my cave already occupied. Maria Best sat on my seat with a look of surprise at seeing me. Maria was a year younger than I. Like me, she lived in the village and no doubt found the place as boring as I did.

“Can I come and join you?” I asked. She nodded; her look of surprise had changed to one of sadness. “Have you been to the cave before?” I asked, as I sat next to her. “ Yes, sometimes, when I can’t stand it in the house anymore,” she said in a sad tone. I chose not to ask, for I already knew what it felt like when parents wanted you out of the house. I told her, “I understand. I come here quite often and just sit and watch the waves. There is so little to do in this village. I’m too young to work, and too old to play.”

She did not answer but stared straight ahead at the incoming rollers. Conversation between us had come to a standstill. I felt lonely and it seemed obvious that Maria felt the same way. It was the oddest thing; we both sat silent as the tide crept slowly up the beach, then suddenly Maria exclaimed, “I have to get home now.” She stepped out of the cave and was gone. I had a feeling she was deeply troubled, but did not have the courage to speak about it.

I could tell by the position of the sun attempting to pierce the low cloud hanging over the sea, that it was well past noon. I abandoned my seat and with a dejected step went back up the road to the house. My father’s five ton truck was parked in front of the house. My father, Ed Wilson, delivered the shrimp catches to the packing houses in Birkeville. On the way back, he brought a full load of broken ice for the shrimp boat holds. On occasion he would bring back a large appliance or piece of furniture for someone in the village.

Mother had served him lunch and had saved a plate of the same for me in the still warm oven.

“What have you been up to this morning, Matt?” he asked.

“Not much Dad. I asked Mr. Hanson if I could help work on the repairs, and if I could sign on as a trainee on The Northern Fisher. He said no to both.”

“Just try to be patient, Matt. One day one of the owners will give you a break.”

The only break from the monotony of the following months was when The Harvester was in port and Ted was home for a few days. He always gave me some spending money and we had fun together. In the in-between times, I often went to sit in the cave and daydream about life being more exciting. Sometimes Maria Best would show up and come sit with me. At times we took to holding hands and engaging in innocent kissing. There was always a barrier between us which prevented our feelings from becoming more physical. It was never spoken of, but there was an understanding that it be so.

Finally my seventeenth birthday arrived. I felt that with achieving this milestone in my life, I might be able to get a job. The birthday came and went, but my life didn’t change. One day, feeling quite despondent, I went to mope in the cave. I found Maria already there crying. I coaxed her into speaking about the reason.

“It’s my father.” The words made her let out a deep sob. “He keeps coming to my bed. He forces me to submit to him, and calls me a whore and a slut.” Maria let out an agonized wail, followed by choking sobs. I put my arms around her and held her close to offer comfort. The act of doing so calmed her somewhat, and in me, it caused a realization that I had developed deep feelings for her. I needed her to feel that she could trust me; and to lean on me in her trauma. I wanted to be her protector, the one she could always count on. Though I was only seventeen, these feelings became etched into my heart.

I kissed Maria’s forehead, and just before she rose to leave she said, “I have to go now. Thank you Matt.” Then she was gone. It was several days later when the gossip went round the village that George Best’s daughter, Maria, had run away from home without even leaving a note.

I was devastated. I figured there were only three people in the village who knew why she had left, Maria, her father, and me. But sadly, the consensus was that Maria was an ungrateful daughter who had left her widowed father in the lurch.

I had been bored and lonely before, but with Maria gone it seemed doubly so.

However, things made a ninety degree turn. Dave Sellers called me to his house one afternoon. Dave was skipper and owner of the shrimp boat Intrepid. He invited me into his living room. “Word has it, Matt, you are looking for a position shrimping. Old Frank Smith is looking to retire; his arthritis is bothering him to the point where he can’t do the job properly anymore. He and I spoke about you, and Frank says he will do one more voyage to teach you the ropes; are you interested?”

“Absolutely, Dave. When do we sail?”

“We sail day after tomorrow at six p.m., so you need to get some warm clothing and waterproof gear. You can get what you need at Wickham’s store. Have it put on my account, and I will take my money from your share of the next two catches, okay Matt?”

“Yes Sir!” I exclaimed, “I’ll do my best for you, Dave.”

“I know you will, Matt.”

I left Dave’s house with a spring in my step like never before. I could hardly wait to tell my parents. Dad congratulated me, but I think mother was relieved that I would be out from underfoot most of the time from now on. My heart swelled with pride knowing I would soon be my own man, making my own way in the world. It even pushed aside the emotion of heavy loss I had felt at Maria’s leaving so unexpectedly.

At the general store, Mr. Wickham took me into his menswear alcove and fitted me up with warm underclothing, sweaters, bright yellow waterproof pants and jacket, and a sou-wester hat. “Just sign the chit Matt; Dave will take care of the bill.”

I was so excited, I was on the dock at four p.m. Mr. Wickham’s delivery van brought the ship’s galley supplies to the dock, so I went to work helping pack the boxes aboard. Frank Smith ambled aboard just before we cast off. He saw me in my new bright yellow outfit. He came and tapped me on the shoulder and said in his usual squeaky voice, “Pay close attention to what I tell you, Matt, and we will make a shrimper out of you.” I did listen to every word Frank said. He was a great teacher; after all he had spent 50 years as a shrimp fisherman. He had seen just about everything there was to see during those years. Even during meal times in the galley he offered advice.

When the skips in the hold were full of iced shrimp, we headed back to port. On the way Dave Sellers called me to the wheelhouse.

“Frank says you are a fast learner, Matt. He is pleased with your work, and so it goes without saying, I too am pleased, for you will make a great replacement for Frank.”

I worked for two years on The Intrepid. I occasionally wondered during that time where Maria was and how she was doing. I had hoped she would at least send me a postcard. I could only think that she did not harbour the same feelings as I did. I often regretted not being able to tell her how I felt. But the fact is, I didn’t realize it myself until after she had gone.

In my second year working for Dave, war had broken out. The newspapers were constantly printing ads for young men to answer the call to arms. I was torn between my loyalty to Dave Sellers and the Intrepid, and my perceived duty to my country, Canada.

One day when The Intrepid was tied up in port, I went in the truck with my father to Birkeville with a load of iced shrimp. While he unloaded at the packinghouse and reloaded with ice, I went to the naval recruiting office. They made a pretty convincing appeal, and so in an unguarded moment, with patriotism running wild in my breast, I agreed to join the Canadian navy. My seagoing experience, they told me, would be a great asset to the service. With a cursory medical exam and the paperwork completed, I was inducted into the Royal Canadian Navy.

“We will let you know in due course when and where you are to report for duty,” they told me. Father was shocked when I told him what I had done. My mother broke down and cried, which surprised me. Dave Sellers congratulated me on my patriotism and thanked me for my service aboard Intrepid.

It was a week before my orders arrived in the mail. I was able to spend some time with my brother Ted, before I left the village with Dad to catch the bus from Birkeville to boot camp.