Alison reached for a peanut in its shell and placed it on the ground near her tent. Before long, she saw a grey-furred form, the gleam of obsidian eyes, tiny claws, a scaly, pink tail. Eat, she thought. You are not long for this world. The rat scurried off with the nut. A few moments later, she heard it rustling the leaves. She put another nut in the palm of her hand, then let it roll to the ground. Take it and eat, poor thing. You’re here to feed the owl.

  She saw no reason not to feed the rats — creatures so lowly and despised.

  The rodent gripped the nut and ran.

  Bitter Wine

  ALISON BECAME AWARE THAT HER COMPANIONS thought she was crazy. Sometimes she talked out loud to herself, mentioning the owl, offering food to the squirrels that gathered near her tent. They’ve never been close to nature, that’s why they think I’m crazy. Yet she was also aware that both her youth and her strangeness protected her, as if she possessed a kind of innocence that the others admired.

  At the end of the day, people would gather outside her tent for evening prayers. They seemed to find some consolation in the gentle sound of her voice because they began to write out their intentions, scribbled in pencil by shaking hands on the backs of government envelopes that once held social assistance cheques, and they would ask her to read them out loud. “Let us pray for Frank, that he will find work; let us pray for Bob, that he’ll receive the money stolen from his tent; let us pray for Frieda, that her children will take her in,” and everyone would murmur, “Lord, hear our prayer,” because one or two of them had been Catholics once and through the dimming pathways of memory, that old response meandered until it found its way to their lips. The others copied them.

  Afterwards, they would scatter, returning to their tents and bedrolls, but one evening Frieda said, “Why don’t we share a nightcap,” and she pulled out a bottle and some paper cups she’d filched from a library washroom, filled them, and passed them around. Alison took a cup. She wasn’t used to drinking, and she didn’t like whatever it was, but she didn’t want to look like a snob, so she swigged it down, as the others did. It tasted terrible.

  “Sweet Miss Innocence drinks like a sailor, well fucking shit,” said Frieda. She held out the bottle. “Come on, sweetheart, drink up.”

  Alison shook her head, no.

  “Whisper sweet prayers into my ear. Come and warm up my bed.”

  “Get lost, Frieda,” said Mike.

  “I’m in love with Alison,” said Frieda as she wandered off.

  “Ignore that old whore,” said Charlie.

  “I thought Frieda had kids,” Alison said.

  “Two. Doesn’t know who the fathers are. Too ugly now to turn tricks.”

  Alison returned to her tent and closed the flap. She had to find a way to make the best of this. She had chosen to live here, after all.

  Meat Locker

  ALISON TRIED TO GIVE SHAPE TO HER NEW LIFE. Yet it seemed that she lived under an enormous wave of gravity, a force that was pulling her skin into shapelessness, tugging at her fragile bones until they felt ready to break. It was the place, the ravine, the encampment. It did not enjoy the rules of time or the clarity of space; it forced her to enter the wilderness of her body, to disassemble everything, to be restored to wholeness. Yet she’d wanted this.

  It was also the drinking at night that did it.

  Besides, she did not eat much.

  At dawn, she awoke and tried to meditate on one of the readings in her father’s prayer book. She did not speak out loud, mindful of those who were sleeping off a bad night.

  There was a community centre about a kilometre to the north where she went each morning to wash herself. Afterwards, she would buy a cheese sandwich and an apple, eat the sandwich and save the fruit for lunch. She was not hungry; she could not eat without feeling ill.

  She never left the tent without her backpack. Close to Bloor Street, the Lower Don area offered access to her bank. She kept both her card and her PIN number in the Velcro-tabbed secret compartment of a zippered jacket pocket, so that once a week, she could go to the bank to make a small withdrawal from the money that was supposed to pay her rent. The first time she ventured out of the ravine, she went to the Central Library to check her email. Her mother had written her. “Just wondering what’s going on, Alison. I happen to know that you are not in school. Please send your address.” She answered, “I will return to school when I’m ready. I’m eighteen years old now, and I must learn to make decisions for myself. For now, I’d prefer not to give my address. I would like to be alone to think about my life. Please don’t worry. I am not in any kind of trouble. I am safe.”

  Returning to her tent, she fed the squirrels, then greeted Mike, an older, bearded man who wore his grey hair in a ponytail, who wrote poetry on paper napkins and birchbark. Then, she would retreat to her tent to read and meditate. If I survive, I will live as a hermit, she thought.

  I want to be good, as I once was.

  The world her father had given her was blessed, even if she was not.

  Hung in a meat locker, dangling from a hook, was how she felt.

  Sometimes, it hurt too much to eat. The alcohol eased the pain of the hook at night.

  She cast the weight of its pain aside by reading and feeding the squirrels, by naming the autumn birds.

  The Hawk That Had Frightened Her

  ALISON SHARED HER PAST WITH NO ONE in Boston, including her falcon. When she fell into the grip of memory, she knew enough not to frighten herself, to entice Daisy to the glove with a treat, to take her walking through the dark veil of time and forgetting. Yet first came remembering, an early morning in the ravine, the day when she got up, bundled in the old padded jacket that kept her warm at night. As she stepped out of the tent, she could hear a fierce beating of wings against the chill dawn air. It was more of a commotion than usual, even for a large bird, but when she looked up, she caught a glimpse of an unmistakable hawk: brown-backed, flame-coloured tail, heavy dark streaking on its underside as it dove down from the sky, an inattentive squirrel in its sights. Its talons sank into the plump, grey creature, the great raptor crushing it with a rhythmic pulverizing motion, squeezing out the last remains of the animal’s life. Satisfied that the squirrel was dead, the hawk scooped it up, then settled on a thick branch to skin and eat its meal. I bet I fed that squirrel peanuts, thought Alison.

  Then she remembered Princess, the hawk that had frightened her years ago. Dad, she thought, did you send me a red-tailed hawk? A sign that she could redeem herself.

  She watched the hawk devour the squirrel, then lick the blood and stringy flesh off her claws. Don’t make like you’re squeamish. Sex with Wendell, the things she did to make him happy, her mouth full of slime. “Enjoy it,” he whispered. And she had.

  Wild animal.

  She imagined it and tasted blood.

  At that moment, the hawk flew down from the tree and landed on her arm. Grateful for the padded jacket, Alison felt the lightness of the great bird, then looked into the depth of its eyes, sure that dwelling in the raptor was mystery lit by a spark of awareness; a creature designed for survival and procreation, for some larger end that she could not discern. In spring, the hawk would brood on her eggs, would keep her hatchlings warm.

  She wished she could tell her father what she felt. So, she spoke out loud to him, unaware of footsteps approaching her tent. Surprised, Mike looked down at her. “Who ya talking to?”

  “My dad.”

  “Don’t see no phone.”

  “Don’t need one. He’s always with me.”

  Mike told her that he understood.

  “Where’d you get that hawk?” he asked.

  She told him it had stopped by for breakfast.

  “Maybe bring you luck, eh?”

  “My father sent her. She’s a good hawk. She’ll protect us.”

  Mike looked sad. “Hope so,” he said.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “Maybe I’ll write a hawk poem,” he said, and then he looked hard at Alison. “Take care now,” he said, then left.

  The hawk lifted her wings, stood tall, then flew away.

  Alison noticed bloodstains on her jacket sleeve. The hawk, she felt sure, would be back.

  Every night, Alison fed peanuts to the rodents, and every morning, the hawk returned to prey on the creatures that Alison had fed the night before. One day the earth will feed on all of us, she’d think. She wondered about the afterlife, if the soul outlived its suffering. Or, if it were blessing enough to decompose, to rest in the peace of the earth.

  In the morning, the hawk lit on her arm, and with great gentleness, she stroked the feathers on its breast with the back of her hand. I’m making up for the way I hated Princess.

  At night, she made sure to sleep in her oldest padded jacket, to protect her arm from the great hawk’s talons when she came to perch in the early morning.

  Alison told Mike and Frieda and anyone who would listen that she was fattening up the rats to feed the hawk. She was aware that if it hadn’t been for Mike — and even with his confirmation — the others would have found it hard to believe the story of her feathered visitation, much less her efforts at keeping it fed. They would wonder what junk she was popping as they looked at her with pity.

  Her Father’s Voice

  “YOU SHOULD GO TO MASS, ALISON,” her father said in her dream. “That will help you sort things out.” His voice was so loud that it woke her up, and she could not get back to sleep. Not knowing what else to do, she noticed the copy of The Varsity lying underneath her backpack — the university paper she’d received from the man at the subway entrance, his kind response to the toonie she had given him. She glanced at the newspaper’s date — noting that it was still autumn, 2003. In fact, she kept a pocket calendar, and, for the most part, took care to cross off passing dates. It pleased her to find an article about a philosophical symposium of some kind being held at the east end of the campus because it turned out that St. Basil’s Church would host a Mass for both the attendants and the student body — not just for Catholics, but for anyone of any faith. Today. On the St. Mike’s campus, she thought. It’s not that far.

  The place will be crawling with priests, she thought.

  One of them should say a Mass down here. In the ravine.

  She remembered the man who looked like her dad, the one she’d followed, the one she thought was an Anglican priest. He’ll be there for sure. Doesn’t matter what religion he is.

  She had an idea. From her backpack, she pulled out a notebook and pen and wrote: “Dear Father, I would like to thank whoever the priest was who kindly gave me a subway token and change for coffee. Maybe it was you. Even if it was not, I want to tell you that I live in the Don Valley Ravine. There are many people here who pray and who need your blessing. Would you (or one of your brothers) come here to say Mass for us? We are at the first underpass south of the Bloor Viaduct. We have nothing to give you, only our gratitude. Thank you. Alison.”

  She asked Mike to keep an eye on her tent, telling him that she was off to Mass, that she planned to find a priest, and that she wanted to invite him here.

  “Good luck,” said Mike.

  “You don’t think someone’ll come?”

  “Why would they?”

  She saw what his eyes said. Nutbar.

  He’d asked her once or twice if she were taking drugs, warning her that there was some bad stuff going around.

  No, she wasn’t taking drugs; she’d be all right. Alison strapped on her backpack, then made her way out of the ravine, to a bus downtown.

  Sunt Lacrimae Rerum

  ST. BASIL’S CHURCH WAS ENORMOUS, and, she thought, soot-stained and rather ugly. Yet inside it was brightly lit and filling up with academics and clergy. With relief, she noticed that there were a great many students in pullovers and jeans, young people not much older than herself, their Mass marking the start of the 2003 fall term. She edged her way into the church, aware that she was drawing stares, fearful that her large backpack would bump and jostle her fellow worshippers, wondering if she’d managed to scrub herself clean enough, fearful that she might reek of accumulated garbage and rancid food. Maybe she’d grown used to the unwashed scent of the homeless that made people frown and turn away, but she wasn’t one to judge this. She had caught a glimpse of her unkempt, bristled hair as she’d walked past Tim Hortons on her way down Bay Street. Cropped short like a convict’s, she thought.

  She remembered that her father had replied, “God loves us all. No matter who we are or what we’ve done.”

  Alison didn’t dare drag her backpack into a pew, fearing it would take up too much space. Instead, she went to the rear of the church, put her pack behind the last pew and used it as a seat.

  It was then that she became aware that a man was watching her. He was seated in one of a few extra chairs placed behind the pew across from her. The man was young, dark-haired, wearing a V-necked sweater-vest, crisp shirt, silk tie, and slacks. His clothes were fresh and new, and not casual student attire. All at once she felt shabby, too thin, her getup of worn jeans and sweatshirt unfit for this place. Embarrassed, she could feel his eyes idly toying with her body, and when she looked up, she saw vague disgust in them as if he had imagined holding her at arm’s-length and removing her putrid clothes with a pair of surgical forceps. Ashamed of these thoughts, she knelt on the stone floor, bowed her head and prayed to be relieved of them. Then she sat up and joined in the opening prayers of the Mass. Yet she could feel the man’s eyes, hard at work at the unpleasant task of undressing her.

  Then up ahead, she noticed the man she had followed on the subway some weeks back. He was not wearing a Roman collar, but he was seated with some priests, so she assumed he was an Anglican.

  She tried to forget both these men, to stay focused on the Mass, hoping that God had forgiven her for the terrible mistake she had made with Wendell. She prayed to her father for help and guidance. She prayed for her new friends, Mike and Willie and crazy Frieda and the owl who hooted in the night and the red-tailed hawk who came to sit on her arm and the squirrels that scurried through the trees above her tent, and the rats and mice that she fed for the hawks. And she prayed for healing. She went to Communion. Afterwards, she remembered to pray for Edward, the kind man who vanished from her father’s life. Feeling in need of help, she prayed for everything and everyone, as if — despite what her father had taught her — prayers could reach God more effectively in church than whispered at night, on her knees, to the stars.

  Yet her prayers at night were larger than herself. They also embraced the trees and the sky.

  Such a sorrowful place, this world was. She still missed her dad.

  “Sunt lacrimae rerum,” wrote Virgil.

  There are tears at the heart of things.

  Seated at the back of the church, Alison was among the first to leave when Mass was over. She stood near the foot of the stairs, watching the congregants exit until she saw the man with a kind and intelligent look, so very much like her father’s. Yet she was distressed to see that he was talking with two distinguished-looking gentlemen, along with the young man who had eyed her in the church. She edged over to the priest whom she’d recognized, so he’d know she was there.

  She caught his eye, and he turned away. “I have something I would like to give you,” she said.

  He turned to look at her. She saw no sign of recognition in his face.

  “It’s a thank you,” she said. “And a request.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “You gave me a token last week. And a toonie.” His look of sudden recognition faded into one of suspicion, and she saw it in his eyes. What does she want now?

  “Prayers,” she said. “That’s all.”

  She handed him the note. She was about to leave when the young man took out his digital camera, aimed it in her direction and startled her by taking her picture. Why did he do that? she wondered as the men moved away from her. The young man turned and spoke to the man she thought of as a priest, and the two of them eyed her, as if she were a road sign pointing in the wrong direction. The priest whispered something in the young man’s ear as she walked away.

  “Well, that took guts.” It was that irritating man, following her down the path. Alison looked at him, perplexed. “That priest is world-renowned. He’s a guest of the college president and my dad, and they were on their way to lunch at Sassafraz.”

  “So I should care?” She’d never heard of Sassafraz.

  “You could always chase them down.” Maybe shake them down, while you’re at it, his look said.

  “I don’t need to,” she said.

  “Okay, so he might invite you. Corporal work of mercy.”

  I guess I must look pretty bad, she thought. Then she recovered her composure. “I have lunch in my pack,” she said as she left.

  Alison strode north up Bay Street, then east on Bloor to the big library, where she parked herself in the lobby and dug into her backpack for her peanut butter sandwich. Having gone to Mass, she had felt calmed by the ritual, by the words of blessing. Then, this priest turned his back on her and this snotty showoff came along and smacked her down. I’m not hungry anyway. Her stomach hurt, and she started to cry.

  There’s no point crying, she thought. You’re here to sort things out.

  “I’m here to help you,” said her dad. “I know it’s hard.”

  She dried her eyes.

  Splinter

  IF SHE SEES A LEAF FALL, she prays in thanksgiving for its life. If she sees a migrating thrush, she prays for its safety. Whenever she can, she prays for the hawk and the owl and the mice they eat, and so she feels that the least she can do is to pray for this unkind man, whoever he was, so that he might learn compassion.

 

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