OUT OF THE DARKNESS CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 4
Conon Lee
The well- worn path they used to walk along no longer existed. It had been taken over by the long grasses that were still wearing their brown stems, having suffered through the long, hard winter. It seemed time had erased or changed everything that had existed when he had first come to this town in 1919. The town had been a boom town back then, but like the path that no longer existed, it now lay mostly forgotten by the world, wearing only the remnants of a time gone by.
It was a day in March of 1919 when he first met Annabelle. He had arrived in this town after a storm at sea had damaged the merchant ship on which he was stationed, and the ship had been brought into the shipyard for repairs. In the meantime, he, the captain and the rest of the crew were lodged at the Ottawa house.
The next morning, after the crew had settled in, the captain advised them they could have the day off, as it would take a couple of days for the shipyard's shipbuilders to assess the damage to the ship and lay out a plan for the repairs needed to make it sea-worthy again. Hearing that, Conon decided he would venture out and explore the town.
With the Ottawa House approximately two miles from the town, he concluded it would be a good walk, with maybe some good sightseeing. The wind was at his back as he began his walk on White Hall Road, better known as the captain’s quarters, as this was the region where most of the town’s captains and seamen had built their homes.
Small houses owned by the seamen and the men who worked in the shipyard dotted the land that ran down to the banks overlooking the Minas Basin on the right-hand side of the road. The captain's mansions sat high on the hills on the other side of the road.
The Great Atlantic was restless that day. Its grey skin rose in white-capped waves, driven by a furious, cold wind. Conon loved the sound of the ocean’s din on days like that. It seemed to fill him with energy.
It wasn’t long before his brisk steps brought him to the downward slope of the land to the bridge that covered the inlet, where tall sea grasses huddled together in the dank marshland. Across the bridge sat the town.
A long string of attached buildings ran on both sides of the street, each one distinguished from the others by its storefront signage and window dressing. Woolworth’s — better known as the five-and-ten-cent store— was the one most familiar to Conon. The post office was the tallest structure, with a clock that displayed the time on its huge, round face for miles around. At the end of Main Street lay a park with a white Victorian Band Stand in its center. From the park, tree-lined streets branched out in all directions. Colourful clapboard houses rested on them, most of which were surrounded by white picket fences with stepping stones leading to their verandas and front doors.
Yes, a man could fall in love with a town like this, Conon thought— his mind immediately envisioning the big city of Boston from which he had come. It was an exciting city, but much too big for his liking. He longed for a simpler way of life.
“Yes indeed, a man could fall in love with this town,” he said out loud as he climbed the incline to its entrance.
By now, the wind had died down, and the sun had burned its way through the grey clouds, shedding light on the little town and the face of the big clock that chimed out the twelfth hour.
Off to his right, looking out at the ocean, he could see the wharf and the shipyard, which was a buzz with activity—new ships being built, others being repaired, and others being loaded with cargo.
The muted sounds of activity from the town, the shipyard and the overhead cries of the seagulls were nearly lost in the overpowering screams of the approaching train from Spring Hill, bringing coal, a major cargo to be loaded aboard the schooners for distribution to customers all along the Eastern Seaboard as Conon neared the top of the incline.
The air carried a pleasant aroma of salt water, mixed with tar and burning wood from the shipyard, and, from a café somewhere on the street ahead, the aroma of bacon and eggs and fish and chips called to him. He was hungry after his brisk walk and quickly made his way to find the source of that tantalizing aroma.
There were people milling about on the main street ahead, stopping to look at the displays in the store windows. Others were in a hurry. Ladies, in pairs or clusters, sauntered along, chattering to one another. Men, probably from the shipyard, judging by the tar-and-turpentine smell on their attire, walked ahead. Further up the street, he saw an overhead sign that spelled out, "Grandma’s Café—All-day breakfast." His steps quickened as he headed there.
Up ahead, he noticed what appeared to be a girl step out of a hardware store and come his way. A cluster of women stopped and stared at her as she passed by. They huddled together and continued watching her as she continued on her way.
As she approached him, he could see she was actually a young woman of small stature, barely five feet tall, with a petite build and fine features. But the most striking thing about her was her grey eyes, so full of light they appeared silver. He felt his heartbeat quicken as she nodded “good morning” while going in the opposite direction.
“Yes indeed,” he replied. Who was she, he wondered?
The cluster of women who had been standing outside the Hardware store was now on the move, coming toward him. They were chattering amongst themselves. When they came within a few feet of him, he overheard one of them say, “Did you see those eyes—eyes of the devil—Yes! She is without a doubt a bad seed”.
Were they talking about that lovely creature he had just passed minutes before? “Jealous, gossiping old biddies,” he thought to himself and continued on his way to Grandma’s café.
The café was everything he thought it would be—clean, bright and homey. Well-worn barn board floors creaked beneath his feet as he entered. Most of the tables were already taken, and as he didn’t want to sit alone in one of the few remaining, he opted to join the patrons sitting at the counter instead.
He ordered a coffee and then perused the menu on the blackboard. He decided on the Captain's Special, which was the biggest breakfast on the menu. While he waited for the food, the man beside him introduced himself as Cecil Meyers. Soon, the two of them were engaged in a friendly conversation— Conon, wanting to learn more about the town, and the other wanting to know who this stranger was. They continued their conversation while they ate.
As Conon suspected, the man beside him was a local who worked in the shipyard. His lineage went back several generations in this town. Conon told him he was a junior engineer aboard the Castalia, a merchant ship that had been brought in for repairs, and that he would be in town until the repairs were completed.
Conon, who had not been able to put the girl with the silver eyes out of his mind, decided he would ask Cecil if he knew her.
“You'd best stay away from her,” Cecil told him. “She’ll bring you nothing but sorrow.” then paid his bill and left.
Conon was shocked by Cecil’s response. What had this young woman done that had turned what appeared to be the consensus of both the men and women of this town against her?
He left soon after. The sun was now high in the sky. The Ocean that had earlier been grey was now cobalt blue. Leaving the bustle of the town behind, he slowly meandered back down White Hall Road into a serene atmosphere that stayed with him until broken by the cackle of a crow from somewhere above.
Seeing a road that branched off of White Hall Road—Jack’s Road, which led to the banks of the Bay of Fundy, he decided to go down it and walk along the shoreline, which he knew would also take him back to the Ottawa House, which was situated on the bank that ran above that shoreline.
Within minutes, he stood on the rocky shoreline, looking in amazement at the miles of glistening rocks, ranging in size from robin's eggs to ostrich eggs, each worn as smooth as glass from millennia of being tumbled about by the ocean. They wobbled beneath his feet with every step he took, making his journey difficult.
He could smell wood burning. In the distance, he saw someone with their back to him sitting around a campfire. As he drew closer, he saw what appeared to be remnants of a shipwreck. He passed pieces of waterlogged timber and rusty metal, half-buried in the rocks. Ahead, he could see a broken mast mostly impaled beneath the rocks. The part still exposed clung to a tattered, ripped sail that flapped in the breeze.
Further along, he heard the snapping and crackling of the burning wood on the campfire. Off to the side of the campfire, close to the bank, he could see the battered hull of the ship, turned upside down. With the sound of rocks clacking beneath his well-worn leather boots, he carried on—each step bringing him closer to the person sitting around the campfire. Annabelle, hearing his approach, abruptly turned to him, looking at him with those hauntingly beautiful silvery-grey eyes.
From that day until the repairs to the Castalia were complete, they had met in secrecy, late at night beneath the overturned hull of the shipwreck, or in the fields on the banks above, both of them committing the unforgivable sin of fornication without the sacred vows of marriage, and the forbidden sin of a Protestant and a Catholic union. But their passion and love for each other had no boundaries. It was all-consuming of mind, body and soul.
He was aware of Annabelle’s father’s hatred of Catholics. She had told him everything one evening when they walked along the path in the fields above the Bay. It was the end of April, and the field that skirted the path was beginning to come alive after the long, hard winter. Green grass mingled with brown, and in the midst of it, a single daisy bloomed. The excitement Annabelle displayed in that moment melted his heart, so like a child seeing the beauty of nature for the first time. In that moment, he loved her more than any words could express.
Bending down, she plucked it from the ground, telling him that they were her favourite flower and how, as a child, when the fields were green and dotted with white daisies, she would pick them and scatter their petals into the wind and watch them fly away. And on that day, while telling him this, she plucked the petals of that flower, one by one and cast them to the wind while reciting, “he loves me, he loves me not”. A vision that still replayed in his mind's eye thirty years later.
He was so in love with Annabelle back then and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Wanted her to be his wife. Wanted her to bear his children. He couldn’t imagine living life without her. Somehow, he would persuade her father to give them his blessing.
He had signed a binding contract with the Merchant Company under the Merchant Company agreement to fulfill his duties and remain commissioned aboard the Castalia until the ship returned to Boston. Otherwise, he would surrender his agreed-upon payment.
Annabelle knew all this and agreed that he would return thereafter, and that they would marry, with or without her father’s blessing, who was due to return in early July to take Marion to Saint John. They were hoping the Castalia would still be in the shipyard then, so Conon could confront her father before he had to leave, but that was not to be.
On a day bathed in sunlight and cool ocean breezes on the 8th day of May 1919—Annabelle’s birthday— Conon and she stood on the wharf and kissed, not knowing it would be their last kiss, neither one knowing it would be the last time they would ever see each other again.
He had called Annabelle from every port the Castalia docked after his departure, assuring her he would return as soon as possible. It was in early July that his calls went unanswered. In a panic about why, he wrote, then he sent telegrams, but they went unanswered. Then, one day in the middle of July, her father answered, confused about who was calling and why. This was not the way Conon had planned on confronting her father, but he had no choice. He told her father of his love for his daughter and his desire to marry her.
Her father, seeming very confused, said he had heard nothing of any such thing, asked Conon if he was sure he had called the right number, then told Conon that his daughter was away taking studies in Ireland and hung up.
Canon called back day after day, trying to find out where in Ireland Annabelle had gone. He knew Marion was from Ireland and, from what Annabelle had told him, was planning to go back. That was all he knew about Marion, aside from the fact that she had been a teacher at a university there, but he didn’t know which one. He was hoping Annabelle’s father would give him Annabelle’s address, and where she was attending school, Marion’s address, or the name of the University she had taught at before she came to Canada. Was that the University Annabelle was attending? But every time her father answered the phone and heard his voice, he hung up.
In the days and weeks that followed, he contacted every University in Ireland to see whether Annabelle was attending, whether Marion was teaching there, or had ever taught there. In the end, he found out that Marion had taught at Galway University years before, but no one had heard from her since, and none of the universities had ever heard of Annabelle James.
He also knew Annabelle had a great-uncle who was the Harbour Master in Saint John. He contacted the harbour master station and explained, as simply as possible, to a very nice man named Conrad, ‘Annabelle’s Great Uncle’, why he was calling and hoped he would help. And he did. He told Conor that his wife had last seen Annabelle when she, with her father and Marion were in Saint John in early July, but they didn’t have time to talk as they were in a hurry, and from what his wife told him, Marion was in a hurry to board a passenger ship back to Ireland. Then he told him he'd seen George a month or so later, when he had come to Saint John on business and at that time, told him that Annabelle had also gone to Ireland to attend some studies she had been accepted for through a scholarship and wouldn’t be back for months.
In that moment, he knew something was wrong. He had called every university in Ireland, and they had confirmed that no one by the name of Annabelle James was registered there. Someone was lying! His mind immediately thought of her father and his hatred of Catholics, and he knew in his heart that her father had somehow found out about them and had done something to prevent them from marrying.
His contract with the merchant company was about to end, and when it did, he would confront her father face-to-face and threaten to expose everything to the townfolk unless he told him where Annabelle was. Somehow, someway, he would find her and take her away from all the suffering she had endured because of humanity's intolerance of cultural and religious differences. He, at that moment of clarity, realized how insane it was. “We are all children of God,” he thought. “And in the light of God, we are all meant to love each other. Hate is of Satan!”
In early September, his contract completed, Conon walked off the Castalia and went home to visit his mother and father for a few days. It had been a long time since he had seen them. They knew of Annabelle and his plans to marry her from the calls and letters he had sent. They, in return, had expressed concerns about her being a Protestant and suggested he should give it more time before making such a major commitment to marriage. After all, he hadn’t really known her that long, and how much did he really know about her and her family? And even if she converted to Catholicism, she wouldn’t be a true Catholic, they lamented.
For all his life, they had been his guiding light, but now he suddenly saw them and his entire life and belief system in a different light. They were his parents, and he loved them, but he was a man now and would make his own way in life and be his own counsel. And what he wanted was Annabelle. The thought of living a life without her was unbearable.
He had gone back in September, as promised to Annabelle, to confront her father, but no one was home. After a visit to Grandma’s café, he found out Captain James was not due back in town until November. It was a grey day in November, after many trips to the captain's house, that he finally found the captain home, and the confrontation that took place might as well have been a bullet to the heart.
“Yes! You bloody Catholic bastard,” the captain said. “I know all about what you did to my daughter. You killed her! She died in a house for wayward mothers across the border after giving birth to a premature, stillborn bastard child. The townfolk know nothing of the mortal sin you and she committed; they think she went to Ireland with her aunt and died there. That's what I told them. You want to know where she is? She is buried with your bastard child in the family cemetery. You can go see for yourself. Now get the hell out of my house and never blacken my doorstep again. Rot in hell, you bastard,” he screamed.
In a trance, Conon walked down White Hall Road to the train station. On the way, he ran into Cecil Meyers— the acquaintance from Grandma’s Café whom he had met when he first came to this town.
“Hey Conon, I hear you were looking for the captain. I guess ya know about Annabelle, I told ya she‘d bring ya nothin but sorrow. Ah! Do ya think the whole town didn’t know what was goin on? What kinda fools do ya take us fur anyhow? Ya best furget about her and get on with your life. Good luck to ya mate.”
Eventually, he did get on with his life, but he was a wounded soul that wandered as aimlessly as a cloud for years, but like the old saying goes, ‘time heals all wounds,’ even if you have to limp through life, finding joy only in memories of the past, as was the case on a day bathed in sunlight and cool ocean breezes on the 8th day of May, in the year 1949. There on the banks, overlooking the same shoreline where they had met all those years ago, Conon threw daisy petals to the wind and watched them fly out to sea, then placed the bouquet of daisies at the base of the headstone that bore her name and the poem she had written as a child—
When I die
I pray that I
Will lie in fields
Where pretty daisy
Petals fly
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5
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