Pastoral by Andre Alexis Page A

right time? And what
would the priest make of it if he did? Lowther remembered the first time he had
seen Fox walk on water. It had been disconcerting, a little frightening even.
If it was the same for Father Pennant, why then, he – that is, Lowther – had his man.

    The gravel pit just outside Barrow was a jewel or a danger, depending. The pit
itself was hidden from view behind a bank of trees and some way along a sandy
road. It was nearly circular and some sixty feet in diameter. It had been a
long time since there’d been any digging and the water in the pit was deep. In fact, its depths had
been exactly sounded: thirty feet and seven inches deep at its deepest point
and every once in a while a young man or young woman, drunk or disoriented,
fell into the water and drowned.
    Â Â Â Â Â Lowther had left him about a mile from the pit, but Father Pennant happily
walked there on his own. He walked by the side of the road, trampling on young
thistles, dandelions, chicory and tall grasses. The smell of the weeds clung to
his walking shoes and rose up so that, although he was by the side of a
highway, it smelled as if he were in an endless field. The laneway that led to
the pit was not hidden exactly, but there were no obvious signs that this
particular path led somewhere interesting rather than to one of the many hidden
properties, abandoned farms or private houses with their snarling dogs. The
only hint of the pit’s existence was near the locked metal gate before the trees. There, on the
ground, was a rotted but still legible wooden sign that read Petersen’s Gravel.
    Â Â Â Â Â Feeling slightly foolish and vulnerable, Father Pennant climbed over the fence,
as Lowther had advised him to do, and walked the sandy road to the pit. The
trees were tall and they partially blocked out the sun, so there was a darkened
hush until he came to the clearing. Then: the return of day. The sun shone on a
landscape that had been sheared of trees. Before him were hills of reddish sand
around which the path snaked. He had rounded a second hill and could see a part
of the pit when Father Pennant realized he was not alone. He heard a voice and
then, when he rounded another hill, he saw a man, back facing him, standing
beside the water.
    Â Â Â Â Â The man was almost fully dressed: light-coloured suit jacket, matching pants.
But he held his shoes and socks in his hands. Not wishing to disturb the man or
frighten him, Father Pennant waited quietly at a polite distance, intending to
let him finish what sounded like prayers. But the prayers, which began to sound
like a strange song, continued for a while. Then, suddenly, the man stepped
into the pit and began to walk on water. Having witnessed the ‘miracle’ of the moths, Father Pennant did not believe what he was seeing. He looked
around for something that might explain the lightness of the man or the
sturdiness of the water.
    Â Â Â Â Â There was no one about. The man continued across the water, singing or reciting
as he went. The water was rigged, surely. There was almost certainly some solid
path just beneath its surface. And smiling at what he imagined to be a
wonderful illusion, Father Pennant stepped into the water at or near the very
point the man had stepped. It was deep water, though, and he sank. His clothes
and shoes weighed him down immediately. Sputtering and panic-struck, he managed
to turn himself around and pull himself out of the pit. The water was cold, but
he kicked off his shoes, grappled to safety and emerged mud-streaked, soaked
and freezing. Turning back to the pit, he was stunned to see that the man was
on the opposite side looking at him or seeming to look at him with derision.
Poised a moment on the other side, still speaking to himself or to Father
Pennant, the man now began his return across the water. If when he had thought
it a trick Father Pennant found this