Aurora Crusade is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The political opinions and opinions of certain public figures are the author's own.
My thanks, as always, to my editor, Peter, who does a sterling job and deserves more credit than he gets.
The usual caveats and prohibitions apply.
Copyright 2006 By John Ellison
Aurora Crusade
Chapter Four
The undertaker waited patiently for the prayers to end. Behind, as they had from almost the first moment he had wheeled the bronze coffin into the chapel, he could hear the mourners droning through their tears:
"Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grace.
Le Seigneur est avec vous.
Vous etes benie entre toutes les femmes,
et Jesus, le fruit de vos entrailles, est beni."
The small chapel was filled to capacity with the relatives of the deceased young man (although the undertaker much preferred to refer to him either by name, Sylvain, or as "The Loved One"). There was Maman, of course, dressed in black and heavily veiled; Papa, wearing a black suit and looking stern and strong, as became a man who had lost a son. There were brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins, all lost in grief, and all praying that Le Bon Dieu would take Sylvain into His palm. There was also The Loved One's uncle who, when he was not strutting around, dressed in the sickly green uniform of a Canadian Forces general, and trying to impress everyone with his power and importance, had at least made himself useful.
Le General had demanded only the finest for his nephew. He had arranged for the grand funeral in the Basilica, something that had been, until now, unheard of. The undertaker wondered how much the general had paid for the privilege. Last night, when the priests had come to close the chapel for the night, the general had growled and the priests had cowered and then fled, their cassocks in a flap and the ancient custom was observed: Sylvain had not spent any of his last nights on earth alone.
Still . . .
"Sainte Marie, Mere de Dieu,
Priez pour nous, pauvres pecheurs,
maintenant et a l'heure de notre mort."
At last the final Hail Mary had been said and now they could get on with the rest of the program!
The undertaker turned and saw that the mourners were still kneeling. He glanced toward the rear of the chapel and saw Le General standing in the wide doorway, looking grim and tapping his watch. The undertaker shrugged. He knew that the Basilica was filling with invited guests, the Prime Minister and Premier included. He knew that the Cardinal was parked in the sacristy, wearing new robes (provided specifically for this occasion by the generosity of Le General). The undertaker was only too well aware of the time constraints the priests had imposed. The Basilica was a shrine to a much-loved saint, and the pilgrims expected the services to be held on time!
Yet what could he do? There was still the final viewing of the Loved One, and the undertaker needed to repair some minor damages inflicted on the poor corpse! Sylvain's hair was in disarray from weeping mourners stroking it. Maman, all but overcome with grief, had spent much of the time kneeling before the open coffin, stroking her dead son's face, her work-worn, wrinkled hand stroking away the carefully applied makeup. Now the bruise that marred Sylvain's chin line and descended down his neck and into the stiffly starched shirt he wore, was showing, a dull purple mark spoiling the beauty of the boy's face.
Frowning slightly, the undertaker sighed and began to mentally tick off the list of things that had yet to be done. Moving the coffin from the small chapel to the main church was not a problem. There was a side door and the hearse was parked just outside. It was only a very short distance from the side of the church to the front, and the family would walk behind the hearse. What bothered the undertaker was the floral blanket, a particularly taxing example of the florist's art, complete with an excruciatingly purple ribbon adorned with stapled gold letters spelling out "Nephew". There had been two horrible rows over that! Papa had objected that it was not proper; that the simple wreaths ordered by Maman and him should be relegated to second place. Le General had insisted and the damned thing remained. Then the priests had stuck in their noses! While the blanket was quite acceptable for the viewing, it was not allowed at the funeral mass. Church law forbade anything on the coffin but a pall, white or purple, with a gold cross. The general had protested, long and loudly, but Canon Law was Canon Law and if M. le General did not like it he could take his funeral elsewhere!
Mon Dieu! The general had puffed up like a toad and his face had turned bright red and for a moment the undertaker thought he might have a new "client" to take care of. Unfortunately (from a business point of view) the general had not dropped dead and the Superior General of the Redemptorists became one of the few men who had ever won an argument with the smug, self-appointed "power behind the throne in Quebec"!
The undertaker congratulated himself on his foresight in leaving the coffin on the church truck (which was hidden behind a wall of wreaths and arrangements); this would fold into a neat package and could be carried in the front of the hearse, beside the driver. He was wondering if he could enlist the aid of some of the Basilica staff to help him move the massive amount of floral tributes from the chapel to the main church when a loud "Non!" resounded throughout the small chapel.
Hercule Beauharnais was a simple farmer. He lived on a plot of land that demanded much work, and every day he prayed that the right combination of rain and sun would bring the crops he planted to fruition. His life revolved around his farm, his family and his church. He was an honest, if blunt to the point of rudeness, man. In his simplicity Hercule knew that certain things were done certain ways, as they had been for generations, and he knew when he was being used, just as he knew that this funeral was nothing more than a self-promoting scheme on the part of his brother-in-law, whom he detested.
Sylvain did not belong here! He should be at home, laid out in the parlour, where his friends and cousins could mourn him the way he should be mourned. There should be no long, black hearse waiting to carry him away! He should be carried from the house to the church by his brothers, as was proper! Sylvain should depart this world in the simple stone church that had stood in the village for 200 years, a church that reflected the simple lives of its parishioners, not this travesty, filled with gold and silver and marble saints, the Latin words of the ritual of death chanted not by some modernist in French, clad in silk and satin, but by Pere Martine, wearing the robes woven and embroidered by the village women. Pere Martine was old, and creaky in his movements, but he knew the ways of his people and kept to the old ways, despite what Rome, and the bishop, said.
The church should be filled with the people who truly knew Sylvain, the farmers and villagers who had known him from birth - indeed, three of the village women had been Sylvain's midwives. The people would truly mourn him, and be sad for his death. Not like the . . . leeches and parasites that were filling the main church!
Being a simple man did not mean that Hercule was a fool. He was far from it and he did not appreciate Le General inviting men that he, Hercule Beauharnais, would not allow to muck out his cowshed! What rankled was that not one of the batards in their silk suits and with their fancy motorcars had known Sylvain. They were here not to mourn but to score points, to look sad for the newspaper cameras, to bask in the limelight for the fools who elected them over and over again!
Hercule loathed all politicians. They were liars and thieves, men who would steal the pennies from a dead man's eyes, and who spent more time in lining their pockets than in doing any good for their constituents. He reserved a special loathing for the slim, rat-faced Prime Minister in his fancy suits and with his wilting rose in the lapel of his jacket! Not only was the man a poseur, who clung to power as a drowning man might cling to a rope, he was a coward who declared himself to be a "Conscientious Objector" the minute the government changed the rules of engagement during World War II. Hercule, who considered himself a Canadian first, had joined up to do his bit, and volunteered to go overseas. He had fought his war, as many had not, and Hercule believed that such a man should be driven from the village, and spat upon by those who had offered their lives in the defence of their country. To Hercule such cowardice could never be forgiven!
Then there was his brother-in-law, he with his green uniform and Staff Aiguillettes, which he was not entitled to wear as he had been retired from the military for years. He with his airs, his pretensions, and his arrogance! Le General strutted about in his green uniform, yet he had never seen a minute of combat. He had fought wars with paper, with guile and stealth, and a knife ever ready in his hand to stab his opponents in the back, ever ready to destroy a man's career, and sometimes his life, with a sneer of disdain.
As he looked sadly at the sweet, bruised face of his wonderful Sylvain, Hercule began to weep softly. As he wept, Hercule's gaze fell on the gold and amber rosary entwined in Sylvain's lifeless hands and he shook his head. The rosary had come from Le General, yet another gift, and Hercule wondered what cost to Sylvain's honour had come with the rosary. With his bother-in-law, Hercule knew that there was always a cost, a price to be paid.
Struggling with the anger that raged through his body, Hercule tried to remain calm. He was the patriarch, and he could not give rein to his anger, or allow his suspicions to cloud his judgement, suspicions that were a chancre on the depth of his soul. Hercule knew the price that Sylvain had paid for his uncle's patronage, knew the price that he himself had paid for all the lavish gifts and golden stream of money that had flowed from Montreal to the small farm outside of Chicoutimi.
First had come the matter of Sylvain's education. Le General was without an heir, for his wife had proved barren, which was surprising considering that her sister, Hercule's own dear wife, had been particularly fecund, had produced a brood of 14, eight strapping boys and six girls, all of whom, except for Sylvain, favoured Hercule and were black haired, and swarthy! Sylvain, as chosen heir to an important Seigneur, could not attend the village school, taught his letters and numbers by a decrepit old priest and three nuns, each of whom was nearly as old as the priest and almost as creaky and set in their ways as the priest! Nothing would do but for Sylvain to go to Montreal, and be enrolled in the Jesuit College. Le General of course paid for all tuition fees, books and uniforms.
When the old tractor had coughed and belched black smoke, stopping dead in the middle of the field, Hercule had despaired of replacing it. Tractors were expensive and he could not go to the bank, for the mortgage was high, too high, as it was. Then . . . suddenly, there was no mortgage, and the dealer from Rimouski appeared with a new John Deere! A magnificent machine that had not, as yet, decided to die in the field! Le General . . .
When Nature proved unkind, and the rains did not come, it had been Le General who insisted that there was no need to go to a banker! Presently, bags of seeds - hybrids more suited to unforgiving soil - and fertilizers had been delivered. Le General . . .
There had been trips to Montreal and Quebec City, to Lourdes when Grandmere was so ill. Nothing had been denied Hercule, or Maman, or it seemed, Sylvain. Le General . . .
The red Corvette that had been the instrument of Sylvain's death! Le General . . .
The prayers started again and Hercule's eyes once again looked upon the face of his son. His soul seemed to die within him for he had paid a heavy price. He had given his fils d'or, his golden son into the hands of the fiend, a creature that never did anything unless sure beyond all surety that his investment would return ten-fold!
In his anguish Hercule did not at first hear the angry, rasping voice demanding that the prayers come to end, nor did he feel the slight shake of his shoulder. When the shaking became more insistent, and the voice louder, Hercule had turned to see the face of the man who had stolen Sylvain's boyhood, his innocence, the man who had given Sylvain the instrument of death, the man who had taken away his light and joy.
Sylvain was dead. Hercule looked into the face of the man who had killed him, and rose slightly in his seat. He would not allow this creature to dictate any more. He would take back his son. Sylvain would go home, to God, and to his brothers and sisters, and to Maman. Sylvain would go home in Hercule's own good time!
His eyes filled with grief, yet fiery with anger, Hercule spat, "Non!"
Constable Brendan Lascelles knew nothing of the storm that raged briefly in the side chapel of the Basilica. He, along with the Staff Sergeant, was much more concerned with the storm that had flared at the entrance to the Basilica. Both he and the Staff were busy trying to calm down some very angry old men!
The arrival of the Prime Minister had started it. He was not a man that Brendan admired, or had voted for. In fact, Brendan thought the Prime Minister to be a shallow, arrogant, self-serving Frog who should have been strangled at birth, like a three-legged cat! It was an opinion shared by the contingent from the local Branch of the Royal Canadian Legion.
As Sylvain had been one of their own, albeit a Sea Cadet, the Legion, as it always did in such cases, sent a contingent of flag bearers to render proper honours to the dead boy. They, together with the RCMP contingent, would form a Guard of Honour leading from the roadway to the church door. What they, and Brendan, had not known was that Le General had decreed that there would be as few military honours rendered as possible.
This decision had at first puzzled Brendan, and then he remembered the type of man Le General had invited to the funeral. The Prime Minister, who professed to be a Canadian Nationalist, had done everything and anything to eradicate the British traditions of the military, a man who along with his toady of a Minister of National Defence had ripped the heart out of the once proud Canadian military, leaving only a green-uniformed, soulless husk, the laughing stock of NATO.
The Legionnaires knew what the Prime Minister had done, and no one should have been surprised when the limousine pulled to halt and muted growls of "Coward" and "Conchie" rose from the small group of bemedalled veterans. When the man stepped from his car, many of the old gentlemen turned their backs on him. His security guards had looked worried, afraid that their charge would be stabbed with a flagpole and hurried the Prime Minister into the church. Le General, miffed that the old men would dare to stage such a demonstration at his carefully planned pageant, had remonstrated with the veterans only to be told that it was a free country and if he didn't fuck off he would end up with a flagpole shoved up his ass! Le General retreated in good order and flounced into the Basilica.
Once order had been restored, Brendan had returned to crowd control and parking duties. With a fixed smile on his face he directed traffic, all the while sweating like a pig in his heavy, wool uniform. He had been busily trying to explain to a German pilgrim why the main church was closed when out of the corner of his eye he saw yet another convoy approaching, this one consisting of two cars and a long, yellow school bus. At first he paid the vehicles no attention. When they stopped in front of the basilica it was apparent that the cars and bus contained a small contingent of Sea Cadets and their minders. There were about twenty boys, all dressed in their blue uniforms, together with their uniformed minders, and three ladies dressed in black, probably, Brendan thought, chaperones. His attention was diverted by yet another pilgrim looking for directions and when he turned back to look at the small group of Sea Cadets he saw that they were being lined up by a huge, white-uniformed old man in front of two of the Legionnaires.
Brendan knew without paying too much attention that the Legionnaires were handing each Sea Cadet a poppy, a red pressed cloth flower that was, in Canada, a traditional sign of mourning at every military funeral. Brendan watched as the first cadets removed their distinctive, round white caps and pinned the poppy over the bow of the cap tally. Also traditionally, these paper flowers would be, if there were an open coffin, pinned to the satin lining. If the coffin were closed, and draped with a flag, the poppies would be pinned to the flag. Brendan did not know that the viewing was private, and that there was no flag-draped coffin.
At first Brendan paid little attention. Then he noticed that one of the cadets, after receiving his poppy from the wizened Legionnaire, stepped back and saluted smartly, a mark of respect that Brendan had never seen before. Obviously the young cadet, who seemed vaguely familiar to Brendan, had seen something that warranted the honour.
Brendan watched as the young cadet took a further step back and removed his cap, prepatory to pinning the poppy on his cap tally. Brendan started and his eyes bulged slightly. He could not be, Brendan thought wildly. He saw the face, the trim body in the clinging blue uniform and shook his head, not wanting to believe his eyes. He wasn't in the Sea Cadets! It could not be he!
But it was, and when The Phantom turned to regard Chef, who was busily shooing the other cadets into the church, he saw the tall, stocky figure of a Mountie looking at him. Their eyes met and for the first time in two years The Phantom saw his brother.
Brendan started forward but saw Philip being hustled into the church by the fat old man. He saw his brother looking back, surprise registered in his emerald eyes.
"How could it be?" Brendan asked himself as he continued to move forward. "How, why was Philip here? And when had he joined the Sea Cadets?" His mother had said nothing when he had last seen her. She had to have known but then again she had been very upset at the fiasco of a wedding and perhaps she had better things to think about.
Brendan stopped abruptly. Philip had disappeared into the dark maw of the Basilica, as had all the other mourners, including the Legionnaires - and not before time. A movement at the side of the church caught Brendan's eye and he saw a formally dressed man, the undertaker, or one of his assistants, walk briskly to the back of the hearse and open the rear door in readiness to receive the coffin. Almost immediately a priest, dressed in black robes, stepped into the harsh sunlight. A long, bronze-coloured coffin, carried by six strapping young men, followed him. Another formally dressed man followed the coffin and the pallbearers and at his direction the coffin was slid smoothly into the hearse.
Next came the family, the women dressed in black, the men in dark suits, carrying wreaths and bouquets of flowers. They formed themselves loosely behind the hearse and watched as the undertaker gently closed the door to the vehicle.
Then the Staff Sergeant was growling, urging Brendan to hurry to the main entrance and form part of the Honour Guard. As he took up his position, and still in confusion over his brother being here, Brendan saw that waiting in the doorway was the Cardinal, six or so priests, a Crucifer, and two altar boys bearing tall candlesticks. To one side stood two acolytes, one holding the white pall that the Church decreed was all that could ever drape a good Catholic's coffin.
Presently the black and chrome nose of the hearse appeared from around the corner of the church. The long car drove slowly and then stopped until the back door was just forward of the doors of the church. The undertaker left the vehicle and opened the back of the hearse. The pallbearers stepped forward and their thick, heavy hands grasped the handles as the coffin was rolled back. Sylvain's funeral was, at long last, about to begin.
After Sylvain's coffin had been positioned on the church truck, sprinkled with holy water, and the pall draped over it, the procession into the church began. The great organ of the Basilica echoed through the church, the notes of Cesar Franck's "Panis Angelicum" soaring upward to the high, gold mosaic vault as the Crucifer started the long march down the aisle toward the High Altar dominated by a life-size white marble Christus.
The anthem was unknown to the Protestant cadets and only vaguely familiar to the Roman Catholics, but it was a beautiful piece of music and Chef settled back in his pew with eyes closed, enjoying the glorious notes of the organ.
The young knights were seated at the rear of the other mourners. Chef had noted, somewhat caustically, that while the Basilica could seat perhaps 2,000 or more people, there were only perhaps 200 mourners, not including Sylvain's large family, but including the Prime Minister, his entourage, and the Lieutenant Governor and his people. But then, Sylvain was only a boy, and how many mourners could he attract. His brothers in spirit were there, and that, in Chef's opinion was all that mattered.
Beside Chef, The Phantom squirmed and turned his head, looking toward the rear of the church. He saw the procession entering but was not looking, really. Brendan! Brendan was out there as part of the Honour Guard!
This The Phantom could not understand at all. What was he doing here, dressed in full fig, Smokey the Bear hat and all? He was supposed to be, The Phantom assumed, on his honeymoon! What further added to The Phantom's confusion was that Brendan could not speak a word of French, so why was he here? The Phantom knew that the RCMP had a policy of not posting their constables to their native provinces, thus avoiding the perception of conflict of interests. Brendan, being unilingual English should have been, if anything, in a small town or village in say, Manitoba, or Ontario. Once again, The Phantom craned his neck, hoping to catch sight of his brother, and in the process annoying the hell out of Colin, who was sitting beside him.
"What in the hell is the matter with you?" demanded Colin in a harsh whisper. "Have you got ants in your pants?"
"My brother, Brendan, is here," whispered The Phantom back. "And there's only me in my pants, thank you very much!"
Colin stifled a giggle. Then he gave The Phantom a nudge with his elbow. "Maybe you can hook up with him later. Now you have to settle down." Colin's voice took on a sombre tone. "The family . . ."
The Phantom looked to his right and saw the coffin, flanked on each side by three tall, stocky, black-suited pallbearers, roll by. Next came a stern, sad-faced man, with a woman, weeping into a handkerchief, at his side. "Mom and Dad," The Phantom deduced correctly. Behind Sylvain's parents came more family members, sisters, The Phantom thought, and more men, all tight-lipped, clutching the arms of their female partners. At the rear of the procession, walking three or four steps behind the other mourners, a general officer, his gold Staff Aiguillettes draped over the right shoulder of his bilious green uniform and all but hiding the one medal pinned to his chest. The Phantom had no idea who the general was. Chef did.
As the general passed down the aisle Chef grasped his chest and growled, "Holy Mary and all the Saints! 'Tis him! God preserve us, 'tis him!" He then proceeded to have one of the finest fits of histrionics the cadets had seen in weeks.
Chef groaned, Chef bulged his eyes, Chef sputtered and muttered, giving those near him a very good rendition of what he had always called a fit of cadet distemper. He so alarmed the others that Ray and Kevin turned in their seats and blanched. The Phantom reached out take Chef's arm, his eyes wide as Chef muttered his imprecations.
"The vile creature! In the holy house of the Lord! The thief! How dare he show his puling face in the House of God!" For the first time he seemed to notice The Phantom's anxious face, and the terrified looks in Ray and Kevin's eyes. "'Tis him, Phantom darlin'!"
Colin, who had no idea who "him" was - neither did the others - decided that the old man had finally lost what little sense he had (in Colin's opinion) and took charge. "Phantom, Ray, Kevin, help me get him out of here."
As the notes of the organ drowned Chef's mutterings, and the eyes of the mourners in front of the cadets were focussed on the coffin being positioned in front of the altar, few noticed as the cadets helped Chef to his feet and led him away. Mrs. Arundel, who had noticed what was going on behind her, looked questioningly at Colin, who gave her an "It's all right," gesture and followed the others from the church. He did not see Randy, and Joey, Jeremie Cher and Peter Race, who had been sharing the pew, rise quickly and hurry after him.
With The Phantom supporting him on one side, and Kevin on the other, and with Ray trailing, wringing his hands, Chef was led across the stone place in front of the Basilica, down the steps that led to the driveway, and across to a bench under a huge, towering oak tree. Once Chef was settled on the bench, The Phantom, Randy and Joey, took off their caps and began flapping and fanning Chef. Chef, who seemed to have recovered somewhat, growled, "Go away with ye! 'Tis like the sound of the wings of the Angel of Death!"
"Chef, are you all right?" Ray asked anxiously as he sat beside his "Papa Chef". "You look so pale. Please, Chef, are you all right?" he finished, clutching at the old man's arm.
"Ah, Ray, me darlin' boy, so good of you to take concern for a troubled old man. I'm that shocked, so I am. 'Tis as if the Golam of Craigmalam trampled across me grave, so it is!"
The Phantom stared. He had no idea what "The Golam of Craigmalam" was, or even a "golam". Colin however did.
Years ago, when he was doing an all nighter, studying for a very important Grade 13 Physics exam, Colin had been in the basement television room. Well, if the truth were told, he was in the television room, but he was not studying. He was stretched out on the sofa, wearing only his briefs, fiddling with the end of his dick through the white cotton fabric, switching channels on the television. He had chanced across a very old, more or less anti-Semitic, black and white, silent film called "The Golam of Prague". According to the movie sub-titles, a golam was a manlike creature created by the rabbis to do special errands, and was brought to life by their whispering God's special name. Colin was not sure of the whole plot of the movie, but he did recall that the Golam for some reason decided to run amok and rampaged through the Prague Ghetto, killing and destroying.
Colin was aware that Chef, for reasons best known to Chef, was given to fits of madness, calling on, amongst other things, besoms, banshees, Leprechauns, and little people no one had ever heard of! All had improbable names and most of the time had little to do with what Chef was actually on about. Colin therefore could not understand what a Jewish creature was doing trampling across graves in Ireland - he assumed "Craigmalam" was in Ireland, where most of Chef's creatures, imaginary or otherwise, always seemed to be! Colin was about to take Chef to task when the old man reached out and grasped The Phantom's hand.
"'Tis him, Phantom darlin'! 'Tis him, the spalpeen, the spawn of the Divil!" Chef spat.
"Who is him?" asked The Phantom. He was still trying to get over the "Golam of Craigmalam"!
"Him!" Chef muttered. "Him who was Henry John Delamer and is now Henri Jean de Lamer!"
The Phantom's eyes widened. "General Delamer?" he squeaked. "The one who took Admiral Sturdee's china and silver?"
"The very same," replied Chef, an angry tone to his voice. "And what that gnat-brained, viperous piece of bilge waste is doing here I should like to know!"
Before anyone could reply two large shadows loomed over the group of cadets huddled around Chef. Staff Sergeant Farquarson, and Constable Brendan Lascelles, attracted by the commotion under the trees, had hurried over to see what was going on.
"Is the old gentleman all right?" asked the Staff Sergeant as he leaned over Chef, looking for signs of a heart attack, or perhaps heat prostration.
Randy and Joey giggled at Chef's being called an "old gentleman". Peter and Jeremie took a step back and even Colin, normally unimpressed by the old cook's bluster and thunder, paled slightly.
"The old gentleman is fine," growled Chef, offering the Staff Sergeant a look that would freeze blood. "He would be even finer if he had a wee drop of something." He smiled weakly at the Staff Sergeant. "I've a bad chest, so I have, and I did not take my medicine this morning. Me own fault, so it is." He fixed both Randy and Joey with a dark look. "It seems that some well-meaning sprog of a Sea Cadet forgot to pack me medicine!"
Joey and Randy looked at each other. They hadn't touched Chef's "medicine", and in fact had seen him pocket several of the bottles the steward passed out on the plane into his uniform.
"You had your medicine," said Randy. "At least you did. It was in the pocket of your uniform!"
Chef, caught out, quickly recovered. "Ah yes, so I did," he replied innocently. "I took it on the bus, so I did." Then he said slyly, "But not the proper dosage." He again regarded the Staff Sergeant. "Would you be after having a flask with you, laddy?"
The Staff Sergeant considered himself a knowledgeable man who knew a fiddle when he saw one. Still, the old man sitting on the bench was someone of importance, or at least of Naval importance, judging by the Chief's uniform he wore, and the stricken looks on the faces of the young cadets and officer tending to him. Knowing that he was being conned, but still enjoying the old man's gall, he reached into the pocket of his red wool tunic and brought forth a large, silver flask. "Glenfiddich," he said as he handed the flask to Chef.
As Chef raised the flask to his lips, and after he had taken a long pull of the Scottish wine, he noticed that The Phantom was staring at the young RCMP constable who had accompanied the Staff Sergeant. Chef lowered the flask and asked The Phantom. "You'll be knowing each other, then?"
The Phantom nodded. "He's my brother," came his whispered reply.
Chef saw the strange, heart-wrenching look on the young constable's face. "Ah, well then, it would seem that you have issues to settle, so it does," he said, with more perception and understanding that most people would give him credit for.
Staff Sergeant Farquarson stared first at Chef, and then at Brendan. Farquarson had no idea what was going on, but he saw the strange look that had come over his young colleague's face.
Brendan returned the Staff Sergeant's look and sighed, as his eyes clouded with tears, "He's my baby brother."
While not as perceptive as Chef, the Staff Sergeant immediately knew that something had happened between the two brothers. There seemed to be a wound between them, a wound that needed to be healed. "Well then, if that's the case, why don't you take a break and have a family reunion?" the Staff asked Brendan. "I won't be needing you for a while. They've only started and the Romans do like to put on a good show. They'll be at least an hour, probably more."
Jeremie Cher and Joey, who were "Roman", gave the Staff Sergeant a dark look, but said nothing.
"Yes, Phantom darlin', off you go and be with your brother." He saw The Phantom about to protest and waved him aside. "It's to be done, Phantom," he said sternly. "You know it, so you do. And so does the brawny lad glaring at me," he chuckled. "Off you go. I'll be fine, so I will, if the good Staff Sergeant joins me in discussing this truly delectable libation." He held up the flask and then noticed the others. "And off you go, the whole of you. There's mourning to be done! What are you doing out here anyway?" he demanded. "You're supposed to be attending a funeral!"
"It's in French!" whined Randy. "Nobody can understand a word!"
"Well, that is what comes of modernism and schism," returned Chef. "But no matter. Back to the church you go!"
Peter Race, who had no tearing great desire to return to the church, spoke up. "Chef, I need to pee. Can I go to the heads?"
Chef rolled his eyes. "Did your mother never tell you to always wear clean pants and go before you leave?" he asked in mock anger.
Peter, who actually did have to go, squirmed and pressed his legs together. "Please, Chef, I really do have to go!" he wheedled.
"The heads are in the Blessing House," the Staff Sergeant said helpfully, and pointing past the bulky expanse of the Basilica. He winked at Chef and then told Peter, "I hope you make it."
Chef stifled his humour and coughed. "Right then. Phantom, go be with your brother. Randy, Joey, back to the church with you."
Before Chef could continue, Jeremie piped up, "I need to go too, Chef."
"Blessed Mary, 'tis a sad day when a sailor cannot control his plumbing, so it is!" sniped Chef. "Go then, and be off with ye all!" He regarded Randy and Joey, "And I suppose that you brats have bladders that need draining?"
Both boys nodded.
Chef did not really think that either boy was desperate for the heads, but let it pass and said with a growl, "Well, go then, and behave! No flashing of the fundamentals, if you catch my meaning! And no peeking!"
Joey gave Chef a sour look. "We don't plan to!" he protested.
"Liar," Chef muttered under his breath. He noticed that The Phantom and his brother had walked off down the path, toward another bench a good distance away. He gave Colin a slight nod of his head.
Colin knew what Chef was telling him and returned the nod. He began to follow the two brothers.
While Chef looked reflectively at the Lascelles brothers, Peter took the opportunity to do what he needed to do. "Come on then," he said to Randy and Joey. "If you gotta go, let's do it." He squared his cap on his head. "I don't know about you, Jeremie, but I gotta piss like a race horse!"
The young men turned and began to walk briskly toward the Blessing House. Staff Sergeant Farquarson smiled when he heard Randy's high-pitched, sniggering voice. "Race horse? More like a Shetland pony, if you ask me!"
"I didn't," returned Peter as he gave Randy's stomach a poke.
"Don't do that!" yelped Randy. "I really do have to pee!"
As they settled themselves onto the bench, Brendan did not know how to begin. He so desperately wanted to take his brother into his arms, but did not dare. Philip would never understand, nor would the Staff Sergeant, nor would the young, handsome officer standing a short distance away. Wondering what was going on, Brendan removed his hat and carefully placed it on the bench beside him.
The Phantom too remained silent. He also took off his cap and twirled it idly, waiting for Brendan to speak.
Brendan, his hands clasped together, looked into the distance and then said quietly, "You look good, Philip." He smiled tightly and looked at his brother out of the corner of his eye and asked, "Or perhaps I should call you 'Phantom'?"
For the first time The Phantom smiled. "It's what the other guys call me." He looked at Brendan. "It could be worse. Our last name could be 'Clark' and then they'd call me 'Knobby'!"
Brendan laughed and shook his head. "So, why 'Phantom'?" he asked.
The Phantom paused. Brendan was his brother, but they were not close, and never had been. He also did not truly know his brother and could not bring himself to tell Brendan the whole truth. He took a breath and said, "Oh, well, when I first started working in Aurora I was in the galley, bussing tables, cleaning up, you know."
Brendan had a good idea of what a busboy did, and nodded.
"Anyway, as I was Civilian Staff, they sort of well, they basically ignored me. I wasn't one of them, and while I was there, they didn't really see me. I was a familiar figure, but like Father Brown's postman I was invisible."
"You must have become visible," countered Brendan. He waved his hand slightly, indicating The Phantom's uniform. He smiled. "It looks good on you," he all but whispered.
A look of confusion came into The Phantom's eyes. He could not remember the last time his brother had said anything nice to him. Usually Brendan complained and insulted. This was a new Brendan, and The Phantom wondered what had caused his brother to change.
"You look pretty good yourself," The Phantom procrastinated, delaying any questioning about his uniform. "But then, it's something you always wanted and . . . damn it, Brendan, what in the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be on your honeymoon!"
Brendan looked up to see his brother's emerald eyes staring into his. "It's a long story, and not important," he said coldly.
The Phantom drew back. This was the old Brendan, the cold Brendan, the mind your own business and fuck off Brendan. His eyes grew dark. "Suit yourself," he said, his tone as cold as his brother's.
Brendan saw the coldness, and begged, "Please, Philip, don't . . . don't freeze me, Phantom. Not again!"
The Phantom felt no anger toward his brother. But he remembered . . . "Why not?" he asked, his voice low. "You did it to me for years!"
Faced with the blunt truth, Brendan suddenly buried his face in his hands and bitter sobs wracked his body. "I know!" came his muffled admission. "Please Phantom, I know!"
Taken aback, The Phantom reached out and touched his brother's arm. "Brendan, don't."
"Why not?" demanded Brendan. "I treated you like shit! I did things to turn you away! I . . . wasn't your brother! I was your tormenter. I did it deliberately!" He lowered his hands and his tear-rimmed eyes looked at The Phantom. "I don't deserve to have you for a brother." He started to rise. "Maybe I'd better go."
The Phantom immediately pushed his brother back. "No. Chef was right. We have issues." He reached into the pocket of his bell-bottoms and drew out a handkerchief. As he handed the folded square of white linen to his brother he asked, grinning slightly, "Didn't Mom always tell us to wear clean pants and carry a fresh handkerchief?"
"Is that one of our issues," asked Brendan, drying his eyes and trying to smile.
"No, that would be between you and Mom." The Phantom regarded Brendan a moment, and then he spoke softly, his voice calmer now. He was not angry, for that had disappeared long ago. He did, however, feel that he deserved an explanation. Brendan had loved him, once. Why had his brother changed? "We were brothers, once," The Phantom began. "Then we were . . . strangers. One day we were brothers and the next I was an object of your ridicule. I couldn't do anything right so far as you were concerned! You made fun of me and you ignored me!" The Phantom's voice rose with emotion. "I loved you Brendan! Hell and sheeit, I wanted you to love me! But you didn't! I used to be so proud of you when you played football! I used to think, 'Hey, that's my brother!' But when I went to the games you ignored me! It was like I wasn't even there! You locked me out of your life!" The Phantom paused, trying to keep control of his emotions. He did not want his brother to think him a whiny kid. But Brendan's coldness had hurt him emotionally. That coldness still hurt. He took a deep breath and asked, "Why did you stop loving me, Brendan?"
Brendan looked at The Phantom, his eyes once again clouding with tears. "I never stopped loving you," he whispered, a stricken look on his face.
"But . . ." The Phantom began, not understanding his brother's answer.
Twisting the handkerchief he held into knots Brendan took a deep breath. "When you were born, and mom brought you home from the hospital, God, Phantom, I was so fucking happy! I had a baby brother! Gosh, you were so tiny, but you were beautiful! Mom used to let me hold you and you looked at me with those damned green eyes of yours and . . . Phantom I would melt! You'd go goo gaw at me, and smile, and I'd nuzzle your little belly and you'd laugh and . . ." His voice trailed away.
"You were six years old," The Phantom said kindly.
"Yeah, but then I became seven, and eight, and I still never stopped loving you!" replied Brendan firmly. "We both got older and as you were growing I was still your big brother. Mom used to let me change you and you loved it when I gave you a bath. Once you peed on me!" He laughed at the memory. "You just fixed those eyes on me and let loose!"
"You weren't mad?" asked The Phantom.
"Naw," replied Brendan with a firm shake of his head. "It's what baby brothers did to their big brothers. I wasn't angry then, and I really wasn't angry when you squealed on me when you told dad that you saw me beating off."
"Or when I told the parish priest that you had hair around your dick?" asked The Phantom, remembering.
"Or then," replied Brendan. "You were being a brat, and baby brothers were expected to be brats. I wanted you to be a brat just as much as I wanted to be your big brother. I wanted to hold you, cuddle you, and protect you. I wanted to teach you the things that only a big brother can teach a little brother. I wanted to help you learn how to play ball - not football 'cause you never had the frame or the weight - but you know what I mean."
"Yeah. I never cared for football, playing it I mean," said The Phantom. "I liked playing baseball, and soccer, and swimming." He sniggered. "To be honest, the idea of being pummelled and run over by 11 overweight lummoxes didn't appeal to me."
"It never appealed to me, either," admitted Brendan.
"But you . . . I thought . . ."
Brendan shook his had slowly. "It was Dad, it always Dad! I was the firstborn son, I would be an extension of him, I would play football, I would be a jock! I would be Tom Lascelles' 'golden boy'; everything he couldn't be, I would become!"
The Phantom temporized. "Brendan, you know that Dad had a rough time after his parents were killed in the fire. He had nothing but the clothes on his back! He had no money. He joined the army out desperation." Shrugging, The Phantom continued. "Besides, wanting your son to be better than you were, wanting him to be something, is a natural desire. Dad loved football and he couldn't play so he taught you how to."
Snorting loudly, Brendan shook his head in disgust. "Yeah. Almost from the moment I could hold one he shoved a football in my hands! He never asked me if I wanted to play, he just assumed I would want to. He signed me up for the Boys Junior Football League when I was eight! I didn't have a choice. I was going to be a God Damned football player and that was all there was to it!"
"Like I said, he wanted to play, but couldn't. You were his son. He wanted you to be like him," responded The Phantom, his heart going out to his brother.
Brendan's eyes grew dark and cold. "Well, if I ever do have a son I'll get down on my knees every day and pray to God that he's not like me."
A quizzical look came over The Phantom's face. "I don't understand," he said, because he didn't understand at all.
Brendan's level gaze never wavered. He had to tell his brother the truth. He did not want The Phantom to hate him, but the secret that had lain hidden, deep within the depths of Brendan's soul, had to be revealed.
"Phantom, you want to know why I avoided you, why I made you think I hated you." Brendan stated a fact, and was not asking a question. He saw his brother about to respond and held up his hand. "Let me finish. If I don't do it now, I'll never do it and you have to know."
The Phantom nodded and remained silent.
"Phantom, I loved you more than a brother should," Brendan stated simply. "I was in love with you."
The Phantom heard the inflection in Brendan's tones and his eyes widened. "You mean, uh, do you mean what I think you mean?"
"Yes."
"You . . . you wanted me?" breathed The Phantom, not believing what his brother was saying.
"Very much," said Brendan, his voice low. "I wanted to make love to you, and I wanted you to make love to me." He smiled a soft, tiny smile. "So, now you know."
The Phantom was at first too stunned to respond to his brother's admission. His mind reeled. Brendan had revealed something that The Phantom could not bring himself to believe. "But Brendan . . . you play football . . . the girls . . . you never said anything, you never . . ." The Phantom realized that he was babbling, and finished with, "You were a stud! Everybody said so!"
Brendan could not help laughing caustically. "Yeah, Phantom, I was stud!" His voice was steady as he once again looked into the distance. "Let's just say that I had all the sex I wanted, but not with girls."
The Phantom's mouth dropped open. He closed it quickly and asked, his voice low, "You had sex . . . with guys?" Then something twigged and he remembered the smutty laughter and the sniggering comments. "You had sex with Kenton Fowler?" His voice rose as he spoke the boy's last name. "The rumours were true!" He declared.
"They weren't rumours, Phantom," replied Brendan with a shrug. "Kenton liked guys, and he put out. The girls sure as hell wouldn't!" He smiled reflectively. "Remember where we live. A girl's virginity is guarded closer than a dog with a bone! The closest I ever got was a hand job!"
"But Brendan," began The Phantom.
"Don't Phantom," said Brendan without rancour. "Kenton and I had a lot of sex together. He wasn't the only one."
Once again The Phantom's face registered his shock. "There were . . . others?"
"Yeah, Phantom, there were others," admitted Brendan frankly. He would not name any other names, and he would not tell his brother about Joe Hobbes. "When Kenton wasn't around there was always a buddy to help me out."
"Well, Hell and Sheeit!" spat The Phantom. "You sure kept that part of your life secret!"
"Who was I going to tell?" demanded Brendan. "Do you really think that I was going to let people know that I was plowing into Kenton every chance I got? Or that I was first in line when Kenton went down on his knees after a game and serviced anyone who wanted it? Come on, Phantom, you know what would have happened to me!"
The Phantom nodded. "Dad would have killed you."
Brendan returned his brother's nod. "Yeah. I heard things, I saw things, things that you don't know about. Dad . . ."
"Went down to Harkness Beach with Harry Jenson and rousted the gays," said The Phantom, finishing Brendan's sentence. "That all that booze in the cellar came from the gay bars in Courtenay? I might have been a kid in your eyes, Brendan, but I have ears, and I know what Dad was doing."
"Do you know about the 'Special Interrogation Room' that Harry Jenson has in the basement of the jail back home?" Brendan asked. "Do you know that's where Dad and Harry used to take the gays who wouldn't come across with the cash?"
The Phantom shook his head. "No. I mean, I know Dad wasn't keen on gays, but he couldn't do much about them. He always said that so long as they behaved themselves he didn't care."
"Bull . . . shit!" drawled Brendan. "Dad's got a mean streak in him that he hides very well. He's also got a reputation as a no-nonsense, law and order cop! He kept the gays in line with a billy club and a rolled-up telephone book." Brendan looked disgusted. "You can imagine what he would have done to me if he found out that I was boffing guys." He regarded his brother a moment. "If he found out that I liked boffing guys."
"Wow," The Phantom breathed slowly.
"Yeah, wow," returned Brendan. "The old bastard would have been real pissed that his boy was queer."
"Don't say that!" snapped The Phantom. "Don't ever say that! My brother is not queer!"
Brendan did not waver. "Even if he wanted to be with you? Even if he was so in love with you that he beat off every night thinking about you?"
"It wouldn't have mattered! You are not queer!" exploded The Phantom.
Suddenly Brendan began to blush. "Phantom, sometimes I . . . sometimes . . . I would sneak into your room and watch you sleep," he confessed slowly. "I would sit there and look at you, and you'd be lying there in your white briefs and be looking so peaceful, so beautiful, and I'd just sit there, wishing I could crawl into bed with you, and hold you . . . touch you."
"Brendan . . ."
He did not hear The Phantom. "Sometimes you'd get a bone on, and the front of your tightys would pooch out and God, Phantom, how I wanted to reach over and touch you." The pain he felt rose to the fore. "That would have been wrong, and I knew it. Loving you was wrong, and I knew that too. I didn't want you to hate me for being a . . . for being gay, for perving on you. I didn't know how to handle the way I felt, so I pushed you away." Once again a caustic laugh rose in his throat. "But you ended up hating me anyway."
This time The Phantom shook his head violently. "I told you, I never hated you! I couldn't understand why you wouldn't let me love you, I couldn't understand why you made fun of me, ridiculed me, why you never came to any of my games! Maybe if you had said something . . ."
The Phantom's voice grew silent. "Maybe I might not have crossed the causeway," he thought. But then he thought, no, he had crossed the causeway, and for a reason. He had finally accepted his destiny and knew that even if he and Brendan had been together, somehow, someway, he would still have dreamed of the Tapestry, still would have ended up here.
" . . . I couldn't say anything, Phantom!" Brendan was saying. "What I felt for you was horribly wrong! What I was doing with Kenton and the other guys was just sex. I didn't love him, or them! I loved you! Brothers don't love brothers that way! I couldn't, and wouldn't allow myself to take advantage of you. You were sweet, and innocent, and I wasn't going to take that away. I loved you too much."
The Phantom reached out his hand and placed it on his brother's. "I would have understood Brendan. There were times when I needed you, when I wanted to be with you."
"I wanted to be with you," whispered Brendan. He looked softly at his brother. "You said that I never went to your games?"
The Phantom nodded.
"Well, I did."
"You did?"
Nodding his head, Brendan continued, his voice gentle and warm. "I would hide under the bleaches at your baseball games. You never saw me. But I saw you. I saw you when you won and you and the other guys on the team would jump up and down, and hug each other and laugh and pump their arms in the air. God, how I wanted to run out onto the field and hug you and share in your joy! But I didn't, because I was afraid it might lead to something neither of us wanted it to lead to. I was at your last swim meet, when you lost and I saw the look on your face. How sad you looked, and I wanted to run over and hold you, and comfort you and tell you that it was all right, that you'd given it your best and that's all that counted."
"But you didn't," murmured The Phantom.
"No. You were standing there wearing that damned Speedo racing suit you always wore and it was too . . . to be honest, too damned tempting! I knew that if I had run out of the doorway where I was hiding and taken you in my arms . . ."
"You would have told me that you loved me," supplied The Phantom. He gave his brother's hand a squeeze. "And I would have let you."
Brendan drew back, his face clouded with confusion. "What are you saying?" he asked slowly.
"Brendan, there's no way to put a spin on what I'm going to tell you, so I'll just tell you the truth." The Phantom nodded his chin toward Colin, who was standing under a tree about 10 or so yards away. "His name is Colin Arnott. He's not only my friend, he's . . ." The Phantom took a deep breathe of air. "I love him, Brendan, I'm in love with him. And he's in love with me."
Brendan looked closely at his brother. "You mean, you and he?" he asked.
"Yes, Brendan, we're lovers." The Phantom took another breath of air. "I wasn't the sweet little brother you thought I was. I . . . I've been with guys." His eyes filled with tears. "The details aren't important. Colin wasn't my first. When I was in Aurora I thought I was in love with a man named Steve Winslow. He was strong, and handsome, and damn it, Brendan, I thought he was in love with me."
"But he wasn't?" questioned Brendan.
The Phantom shook his head. "He loved me, in his own way. He cared for me, in his own way, but he wasn't in love with me. He marches to the beat of a different drum." He looked at Brendan and smiled. "I don't regret having been with him. In a strange way I shall always love him deeply. But it wasn't to be. I know that now. He went away because he was called to do something much more important than I could ever be."
Brendan refused to believe that anyone could give up such a wonderful person as his brother. "Then he was a fool," he snapped.
"No, Brendan. We were not meant to be and I've accepted that. One day soon I will tell you all about him, how I met him, how I came to be a Sea Cadet." He impulsively leaned forward and embraced Brendan. "You should have told me," he wept softly. "You should have told me how you felt because I love you. You're my brother and I love you so much."
"Oh, God, Phantom, I am so, so sorry," whispered Brendan as he ran his fingers through The Phantom's hair. "So, so sorry."
"Don't be," came The Phantom's whispered reply. "Maybe it wasn't meant to be but oh, Brendan, just once I would have liked to have been with you. Just once!"
Brendan laid his head against The Phantom's and smiled. "But it isn't meant to be. What is meant to be is that we've found each other again." He drew back. "And who in the hell would have thought it would take a funeral to do it!"
"Hell and sheeit!" yelped The Phantom as he drew back. "Sylvain!"
"He's the dead kid," said Brendan.
"Yes. We came here because of him! Oh God, Brendan I . . ." The Phantom stopped speaking abruptly. "De Lamer, what's he doing here?"
"The general? He's the kid's uncle. He's very important and full of shit, but he has clout," replied Brendan. "What's he got to do with anything?"
"Brendan, that's it!" exclaimed The Phantom. "Sylvain called to me, wanted me to come here. I couldn't understand why, but now I think I do. General de Lamer is somehow involved! Sylvain knew something and he was coming to tell me when he got killed."
Brendan stared at his brother. "What are you involved with?" he asked.
The Phantom ran his hand across his face. "I'm going to tell you something, and then you'll understand," he said excitedly. "Sylvain served with us in Aurora. He green sheeted, left early and came here, to Ste. Anne de Beaupre. He must have found out something about his uncle, something so bad that he jumped in his car and headed for the airport. That's when he had his accident and . . ."
Before The Phantom could continue he heard his name being called. He looked across the plaza and saw Jeremie Cher and Peter Race hurrying toward him. Between them, holding their hands was a young boy dressed in a black suit with short trousers. The boy was chattering away in French. Behind them Randy and Joey, white-faced, followed.
The Phantom rose, waiting, and heard Peter Race's high-pitched voice. "Phantom! Phantom you won't believe what this kid just told us!"