hand guns. Derringers, snubby little detective guns, old wild west shiny six-shooters, rifles, Winchesters, German handguns, shotguns. Old double-barrelled ones mostly. He didn’t approve of shotguns in principle but he liked the sound they made going off. “Any bloody fool can shoot a duck with a shotgun. Or a goose. Who can’t hit a thing when it sprays pellets all over the sky?”
Guns, guns, and more guns. Some men made the ferry trip just to admire his guns. Phonse made his own bullets, too. Melted down old lead flashing from torn-down houses and made bullets to fit his many guns.“Something very meditative,” he said,“about pouring molten lead into bullet casings. So bright and silvery. Nothing as satisfying as lead.” He made buckshot for his shotguns as well.
And it was the gun thing, and all the general interest in his armoury, that launched his most successful financial venture. On slow days, Phonse took out a .22 rifle and shot at things. Old cars, mostly, never at animals. Everyone who came to visit was given a chance to shoot at something. They all agreed at how satisfying it was to shoot at, say, an old postal truck, or a school bus tire, or the side door of a car once owned by the local member of parliament. The feel was satisfying, the sound — kerwunk of bullet into metal — was satisfying, other men looking at you like you’d just won an Olympic sporting event. It was all satisfying.
As a result, Phonse drifted into a sideline business. With the auto parts industry going to hell in a handcart thanks to mainlanders and computers and Canadian Tire and whatnot, Phonse slowly but surely allowed his junkyard to develop into a kind of firearm entertainment centre. He referred to it in more grandiose moments as a “theme park.” Eventually, people (97 percent of them men) came over on the ferry and paid Phonse an admission charge to use his rifles, handguns, and shotguns to shoot at things. You’d be allowed to pick a vehicle and buy hand-made ammo and shoot to your heart’s content.
“It’s really more like t’erapy, if you want to look at it as such.”
And therapy it was. Satisfying kerwunks all over the place, or the blast and skrittle of windshields shattering. If a saleable car part like that was to be destroyed, a patron might offer to pay for the price of that part. Phonse didn’t ask for the extra money. It was just a code of conduct. The sort of thing men understand when they get together for noble, significant rituals like this. Maybe just the muted thunk of bullets blasting into an old sofa would do for some. Oil barrels for targets, or a washing machine worn down by years of trying to wrestle fish smells out of a man’s pants.
Men from Mutton Hill Harbour started bringing over guns of their own, but the ferry operator put an end to that. It didn’t look good and seemed dangerous. So everyone used Phonse’s rifles; not a one spoke about hunting, and the thing evolved.“She’s more successful than Upper Clements Park will ever be,” Phonse bragged, referring to the little theme park near Annapolis Royal that had cost the taxpayer millions over the years. Phonse knew that the English had stolen all that land around Annapolis Royal from his French forefathers, and he was proud that his theme park was a success and the other one was a financial black hole. “No government grant, nothing. Just a man who can devil-up an idea.”
Since they couldn’t bring over their own guns, men started bringing over things they wanted to shoot at, and that was fine for Phonse. Some brought their old buggered-up computers that had lost a year’s work inside them. Some brought television sets with complaints that their TVs only showed stupid television programs. Some unlikely people came to shoot Phonse’s guns and paid handsomely. Do-gooders, peaceniks, Greenpeacers, and aging hippies came to shoot at things. They brought flags, old magazines, portraits of politicians,VCRs, and the like.
A retired computer programmer once brought a case of computer disks. He said they were “five-and-a-quarter-inch floppies” that were no good anymore. Phonse didn’t care whether they were good or not — the money was, and that was all that mattered. The disks were tossed in the air and shot like clay pigeons. The programmer came back and donated several more cases of them, and it was a favourite in-between-snack of sorts after the main course of shooting up your old toaster or blasting your mother-in-law’s microwave.
Homemade beer was sold too, but only after the guns were locked away. Phonse made excellent “Acadian Bitter,” and it slid down the throat like liquid silk. Tree huggers and investment analysts were starting to drink warm bitter side by side after a good shoot-out session, and Phonse knew he had struck gold.
The rest of the islanders approved of Phonse’s business, and it was a source of community pride that Phonse had been so inventive and caught on to something new that worked so well and earned him cash flow while being good for the mental health of the large, often pitiable community of mainlanders.
Chapter Three
South of the island there was this: water, deep as deep there is anywhere along these Atlantic shores. One of Sylvie’s favoured haunts was the “Trough,” also known as the “Trowel” due to some pronunciation quirks locally. The Trough was a long channel of sorts between the island itself and an outer reef of rocks, a jagged shoal known as Rocky Shoal, a double whammy of a name.
The Trough had this deep and fast current that raced east to west like it was an undersea freight train to nowhere but up around Seal Point and the next piece of open Atlantic. Phonse said he could throw a quarter in there and it would travel at least a mile before it would land on sea bottom, where it might rouse a lobster or a dozing, camouflaged haddock. Sylvie knew this place, knew it from childhood. Understood the beauty of this place. But also the danger. Men had drowned here.
Of course, the North Atlantic had drowned plenty of island men. Women had lost fathers, husbands, and sons to bad luck from here to the Grand Banks and beyond. Winds that should’ve switched over from nor’west to sou’east but hung stiff in the winter and cluttered up the rails with enough ice to topple a ship and spill terrified men to cold, watery death. Boatloads of dead fish encased in steel heading back into the grey Atlantic.
There was no denying that this stretch of shore had been a powerful part of her childhood, and if it spoke of death to her, it also spoke of calm summer mornings like this: a short walk from the backyard, past the blooming crabapples and the green, mossy streams gurgling clear and bright. Sylvie, at eighty (and what of it?), could stand and look out to sea, sail away and be anywhere she wanted to be. Back then or right here. Out past the farthest waves she could see or far inside to that safe place inside her heart. Sylvie loved the world and loved life, and curses on the man who would want to alter that in any way. Despite her age, despite the deaths of four good — well, not perfect, but mostly good — husbands.
The currents of the Trough brought the whales in close to shore. Sylvie had seen her first whale here when she was ten. Alone, glinting up at the teasing sun it appeared, glistening, wet, and magnificent like out of a dream. It blew fountains of salt water up into the sky for her and showed its dark, mysterious eye. And blinked. Did that for her. Blinked as if to say hello, little Sylvie, then dazzled her with another shot of spuming sea-water way up into the morning breeze.
She told no one for years, for she knew they were killing whales back then, the men of the island, killing them and stripping their flesh and cutting it into big square chunks as if the only way to civilize a thing was to carve it into slabs with right angles. Then what did they do with the flesh they robbed from the sea? Somewhere over in Ketch Harbour they cooked it somehow, did awful things to it. She did not want any of that to happen to this one.
While Sylvie was growing up, as the island was shaping her into a dreamy, sensitive young woman, the fishermen of the island stopped killing whales and went back to harvesting mere scaly fish. It was not an act of compassion but economy. Whale oil gave way to kerosene, thanks to a Nova Scotian inventor named Abraham Gesner. He saved many, many whales, Sylvie would one day understand. If whales were in heaven, then Gesner was there with them as a hero of humankind. And Sylvie was certain, even now at eighty years into a sometimes disheartening life, that there were whales in heaven. For if there were not, then she herself did not want to take up citizenship in that celestial republic.
Heaven would also have to be an island. An island adrift in an endless sea, a sea with dark, glistening