Creation by Katherine Govier Page A

does it.”
    “And Mr. John Audubon Junior?” says Bowen, emphasizing the American way of naming. He has not yet relinquished his attack. Hecan only be a few years older than Johnny, who is intimidated into silence.
    “Johnny is my right hand. A very fine shot and a fine painter too,” says his father.
    Bayfield takes charge. “A toast. To Labrador. To the birds that brought you here, Mr. Audubon. Shall we say grace? There is much to thank God for.”
    “May I?” says Audubon.
    Johnny hides a smile.
    On the table is a basket of eggs. Audubon lifts one and holds it to the lamplight. The egg is an oval perhaps three inches by two inches, its shell a cloudy blue green with pale green crusting and reddish blotches which are closer together toward the narrow end.
    “Let us give thanks for this. Do you know what this is?” Audubon asks.
    “The egg of a large waterfowl, I warrant. A Foolish Guillemot?” says Bowen.
    “Yes, it is. A miraculous sort of egg. This guillemot, which is not foolish at all, mind you, nests high on the cliffs, on narrow ledges. Its egg, as you see, would be in danger of rolling and falling off into the sea, were it nudged, or blown by the wind. But the clever bird has adapted the shape. One end is more narrow than the other. See how it moves when pushed?” He pushes the egg. It rolls around its narrow end in a circle.
    “Look,” says Bayfield, delighted. “It is a compass.”
    Kelly murmurs in appreciation.
    “You speak of grace and God. To the bird, indeed to me, the egg is god.”
    “You are bold, sir,” chokes Bowen.
    “Bold? Of course I am. And yet what I say is absolutely true. The egg before it is laid — that is, the instinct for the egg — brings the bird here. It forces these delicate sojourners made of cartilage and feather to fly thousands and thousands of miles, guided by we know not what, to this lonely place, in order that their lives should be renewed. Do you not think it is miraculous?”
    “Yes,” says Bayfield, “I do.”

    “This is our grace.” Audubon puts the egg up against his eye. “This is the moon and the stars and the wind. It is the compass, the sextant if you like, and the calendar.”
    “Amen.”
    Bowen nudges Kelly. His godfather had said the painter was a showman.
    A SAILOR WAITS ON THE TABLE , starting them out with glasses of grog. After the soup they eat cod, pan-fried, and then the flesh of four eider ducks, which have been skinned and torn apart and put on a fire. When they finish they are all heavy with food. The fat of the duck has congealed on the heavy white china plates and the juice has stained their chins. The men wipe their beards on napkins that are washed only when there is sun to dry them.
    Now Bowen begins.
    “I’ve been told that three hundred fishing vessels work this coast, averaging seventy-five tons each, and manned by fifty men to each six vessels,” he says. “If you do the mathematics, that equals two thousand five hundred men. About one half of them are French and the other two quarters British and American. Each vessel when it leaves carries fifteen hundred quintals of codfish. Using the equivalent of one hundred twelve pounds per quintal, I get the figure of sixty million and four hundred thousand pounds of fish per season. Of course the fish are small on this coast, and weigh an average of four pounds each — we are talking of somewhere in the neighbourhood of twelve millions of fish.” He smiles as he arrives at his figure. “It is a fine harvest.”
    “A great deal too fine,” says Audubon. “When you understand that it has been going on for at least two hundred years and probably more. It cannot go on forever. They may just as well make a clean sweep of it and rid the seas of all fish forever!”
    “But that would not be possible. Not by any chance at all. The fish are so numerous.”
    “On the contrary, it is entirely possible. And that is to say nothing of what these Eggers are doing to the wild birds!