7

The gates of the forest. The phrase comes immediately to mind, but Edwin’s not sure where he picked it up. It sounds like something from a book he might have read as a boy. The trees here are old, and enormous. It’s like stepping into a cathedral, except the underbrush is so thick that he has to fight his way through. He stops a few paces in. He sees a maple tree just ahead, large enough that it’s created its own clearing, and that seems like a pleasant destination—he’ll walk to the maple tree, he decides, he’ll step out of the underbrush and linger a moment, then he’ll go back to the beach immediately and never enter the forest again. This is an adventure, he tells himself, but it doesn’t feel like an adventure. Mostly it feels like being slapped in the face with salal branches.

He fights his way through to the maple. It’s quiet here, and he has a sudden certainty that he’s being watched. He turns, and there—as incongruous as an apparition—is a priest, standing no more than a dozen yards away. He’s older than Edwin, perhaps in his early thirties, and has very short black hair.

“Good morning,” Edwin says.

“Good morning,” the priest says, “and forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you. I like to walk here on occasion.” There’s something about his accent that eludes Edwin—it’s not quite British, but not quite anything else. He wonders if the man’s from Newfoundland, like his landlady back in Halifax.

“It does seem a peaceful destination,” Edwin says.

“Quite so. I won’t intrude on your contemplation, I was just on my way back to the church. Perhaps you’ll stop in later.”

“The church at Caiette? But you’re not the usual priest,” Edwin says.

“I’m Roberts. Filling in for Father Pike.”

“Edwin St. Andrew. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise. Good day.”

The priest seems no more practiced at walking through underbrush than Edwin. He crashes away between the trees, and within minutes Edwin is alone again, gazing up at the branches. He steps forward—