Hi Ron; I have met you many times over the years when you were travelling around your wonderful province. My friend and I, “the two grannies” drove a motor home from Delta, BC to Newfoundland and back four times! I have returned to Newfoundland many times and last year I took my granddaughter Emily Garlough with me. We went whale watching and spent many hours/days/weeks along your beautiful coastline. I had access to a cottage in Durrell where we stayed most of the time. Emily is studying environmental studies at the university of Prince George in BC now and hopes to attend Memorial as well. Emily loved Newfoundland and the nature. When we returned home she wrote a story titled “The Dark Warden,” which I am submitting to you on her behalf. She enjoys writing and her focus is on protecting our planet, particularly our oceans. Emily also enjoys scuba diving and she is 18 years old. I am sending Emily’s story via Canada Post along with a photo of her taken in Newfoundland while we were whale watching. I hope you will enjoy her story and will consider printing it in your magazine. I am leaving for Denmark and Switzerland next week and will be taking a copy of the Downhome with me. Thank you Ron and perhaps our paths will cross again next year when I return. Take care and kind regards, Gail Nicholas The Dark Warden “Under the water, Pulling me under My heart grabs another, Nothing to hold.” His voice cut off swiftly, the only proof that he had spoken rose into the dark air, taking on the form of grey smoke, and then vanishing as if it had never been. Beneath his shifting feet the floorboards creaked, creating an eerie echoing sound in the emptiness around him. “Under the waves, A dark maiden waits, A silvery image, An iron barred cage.” Blue hands gripped the wheel, the knuckles showing through papery skin. Knuckles that whispered their age. The crescent moon shed its light upon the ocean; its uneven waves shattered the light into small shards no bigger than a pin point. “Under the light, No further fright, My heart clouding over, Releasing my order.” It was quiet now. Thick silence where a symphony of voices used to be. He had told them to go, but now he wished just one had offered to stay, being a presence beside him, comforting and whole. But then he would not be singing. He would have no use for this song of mourning. The song would not be for him. “Nothing sets in, Forgotten and grim, As my heart sinks below, The frozen flow.” He was glad they left. They were young and he was old. He had no one left who wanted to repeat his name. He hadn’t seen his children for 15 years. He had never seen his grandchildren; he didn’t know if he had any. What kind of life was his? When compared with the lives of his crew, his life was transparent and hung heavily on the pegs that held it up. It was grey and pocked with holes. The lives of his crew members, strung out beside his were whole and thick by contrast. They held colour and didn’t need pegs to hold themselves up. He was always solitary, but when did he become alone? “Under the water, Pulling me under, My heart grabs another, Nothing to hold.” He had nothing but the wheel beneath his hands. Cold, hard wood. That was the only thing he needed. The only thing he held on to. He could see the surface of the water rising and falling in a rhythm that did not match the tune of his song. It was an odd setting but it was all too familiar to this man. Wiping clammy hands over his grubby sailor’s pants, he felt the glacial sea breeze scratch his grizzled face. He tilted his chin higher, seeing his father do the same in his mind’s eye. Stupid pride. But he was a noble man; he had it in his blood. He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Annoying salty things that burned and blurred his vision. He wanted to see. He wanted to see the briny waters that he loved rise over the deck, the dark liquid spread quickly across the worn wood and wash away the mess of his men. Wash away the stench of fish, blood and salty sweat. This was his home. This was all he ever wanted. One saw a molding boat, paint peeling and lines fraying, one would think that it could not last much longer. One saw his brown face, puckered and lined, his dull eyes, one would think that he could not last much longer. United by age. In the peeling paint he saw the patterns of labour, the long hours his men put in each day, scratched into every surface and twisted into every knot, he saw life. He started dying when the water invaded his home. He felt the freezing cold as his own. There was a hole in him, and the water he once loved was murdering him. Even if he had gone with his men, paddled away in the one little orange lifeboat, it would make no difference. He would be dying all the same. Cold hands gripped the wheel tighter, he would not let go. He was married to the sea and the sea would decide how he left the world. He would take what his love threw at him. Water lapped at his feet, a humourless mocking of the calm serenity the movement usually brought. His bulky sihouette, reflected in the dark liquid, was shaking, and moving with the waves. He cracked open salty, weathered lips and murmured, as the water rose and as he felt his body prepare to embrace the ocean floor, the last lines of the song. “Going under, Spreading over, You held my heart, Now you hold it under.”   Submitted By: NULL