Sanctuary Line - Couverture souple

Look out the window.
 
The cultivated landscape of this farm has decayed so completely now, it is difficult to believe that the fields and orchards ever existed outside of my own memories, my own imagination. Even by the time I was in my early twenties, the terrain had already altered – almost beyond recognition – what with the bunkhouses deteriorating and the trees left unpruned and therefore bearing scant fruit. But that was during the period when my aunt was beginning to sever parts of the property so that it could be sold to developers; a step, I believed then, in the march toward some kind of future, or at least a financial future for her, and for my mother, who had just begun to live here as well. Now my aunt is dead and my mother lives at a place called The Golden Field, an ironic moniker if there ever was one, especially in relation to the one remaining field at this location, its greyness in the fading light.
 
It’s true, certain vestiges of the past remained for a while: the rail fences built by one of the old great- greats and the odd cairn of stones the great- greats had hauled out of the fields. “The first harvest every year is boulders,” was the news they passed down to us, their lazy descendants. My uncle repeated this statement often, though there was little enough ploughing in his life. In the end, he told us, many of the fieldstones had gone into the building of this capacious farmhouse that has stood in place, firm and strong, since the middle of the prosperous nineteenth century, when it was built.
 
What’s more, according to my uncle, the very first harvest would have been the slaughter of acres of forest in order that a field, any field, boulder- filled or golden, could be seeded at all. I seem to recall that during my childhood, there was a trace of the shallow foundation of the original log house in which those pioneer tree- choppers must have lived. Evidence was so faint, however, that only someone like my uncle could find it, point to it, and insist that you look at it. I remember him showing the few scattered stones to Teo, who stood at his side gazing obediently at the ground, then turning to me with a quizzical glance, trying, I suppose, to fit me, a spoiled girl from the city, into the rough stories my uncle was telling him about the spot. Dead babies, young men lost in blizzards, horses stumbling through storms. Teo listened politely, his brown eyes coming to rest on my uncle’s handsome face, but during the moist heat of those summers of the 1980s, when the farm was a flourishing business, those tales must have been almost impossible for a child like him to believe.
 
Sometimes in the evening after I have washed my few dishes, I find myself examining the splendid furniture of this old house, a collection of cold artifacts. In spite of my intimacy with each table, every chair, and the knowledge that the hands that either purchased or constructed them – and the bodies that touched them – made me what I am, they seem to come from a culture so brief and fragile that no one can name its properties, never mind care about its persistence. These solid shapes, so esteemed by my uncle and his wife, so carefully maintained, so talked about in the development of family tales, now stand in one corner or another as dead as the grandfather or great- aunt or distant relation who gave them a story and a meaning. Now there are nights when I wonder who I am keeping the clocks wound for, or why I continue to remove dust from the pictures and mirrors. Like someone of uncertain lineage in an undiscovered tomb, I have all the furnishings and comforts I will need for the afterlife carefully arranged around me. Except I am alive and forty years old. And, unlike you, I do not believe in any kind of afterlife.
 
Another thing. Because my aunt was fond of glass and, by extension, indoor light, this house is filled with reflections. Images of the great lake, therefore, swing into sight where you least expect them. North windows that face south windows reproduce and scramble marine views, mirrors refract lake light, and now and then poplars from the lakeside flicker on the old painted landscapes framed under glass and hanging on the parlour wall. Glass doors open to rooms where shutters are flung wide to a view of water. The stone walls that once surrounded my aunt’s rose garden are mirrored in the round looking- glass over her dressing table. At certain times of the day, if you pull open one of the glass doors leading from her room to the patio, the view of those garden walls will be overlaid by a series of waves chasing one another toward an unseen shore. In August the monarchs rise against blue lake water on the glass of a storm door, and surf often feathers the face of the wall clock. I never noticed these reflections when I was in my teens and the house was merely a place one entered unwillingly after the action of the day was finished. But all this confusion, this uncertain, changing imagery, is mine now. There is no one else who needs it.
 
 
As you know so well, it is one year after Mandy’s burial, a full year since those of us who remain went to the air base to attend the repatriation ceremony, then drove in the slow cortege down the highway renamed to honour the heroes of the current war. It felt like a lengthy journey, though Toronto, where the military autopsy was performed, is only ninety miles west of the air base. As we moved toward that city, we passed beneath dozens of overpasses filled with onlookers respectfully holding flags and yellow ribbons. I had read that crowds always lined the route when a soldier was brought home. Still my mother and I, and the boys too, were surprised and moved by the sheer size of the turnout. “Poor Mandy,” my mother kept saying each time we approached an overpass. “Who would have thought it?” At the air base she had said, “Poor little Amanda . . . she always called me auntie, even when she was a senior officer.” Then she had begun to weep, and I could feel my own eyes filling as I put my arm around her. The words improvised explosive device kept repeating in my mind, the sound of them coming out of the mouth of the official who had delivered this impossible news a few days before. There was something too surprising and playful about that phrase – a jack- in- the- box, fireworks – and if I couldn’t erase it altogether, I wanted to reshape it, slow it down, give it more dignity.
 
The whole town of Kingsville came out to meet us two days later, once we arrived here in the deep south of this northern province: all of Mandy’s high- school friends, the women who had helped my mother look after my aunt during her last illness, the mayor and council, and the people who had known my uncle when he was still in the vicinity.
 
Various attempts had been made to find him on this terrible occasion. Don was on the Internet day and night, and Shane contacted Interpol; messages were sent off to embassies – all to no avail. He has been gone, after all, for well over twenty years. He must be dead, Don said, during one of our booze- soaked evenings that week or the week after, or he would have come home for this. He may very well be dead, I thought, but I wondered if he would come back even if he were alive and in any condition to travel. Neither Don nor Shane had been caught in the drama the night their father disappeared. And Mandy hadn’t either, thankfully, though they all were witnesses to the coda of that drama.
 
But I had been there, right on the spot, at the wrong time.
 
What would there have been for him to return to anyway, even if he’d been able to do so? All his older relatives were gone, his wife as well, his dead daughter so changed by military glory even his memories of her would have felt unreliable. His sister, my mother, is still nearby, but after all this time she does not really resemble the woman he knew. And then there is me. And the farm, well, it barely exists.
 
Except for this house, now inhabited by me.
 
During the course of that long- ago summer when there were still many of us and the days walked slowly across the calendar, more or less in the way they always had, my uncle’s farm felt as certain and as established as a time- honoured empire – he, the famous Lake Erie orchardist, the agricultural king of the oldest part of southwestern Ontario, his territory and its lore delivered to us on a regular basis at dinner tables or beside campfires on the beach. Even now, when I wake on summer mornings and look out over the two remaining meadows filled with stumps, dead branches, and milkweed, I am startled by the disarray of the orchards, briefly surprised that there are neither ancestors nor Mexicans busy in the fields and trees – although, as I said, everything has been gone now for a considerable period of time.
 
I know something about orchards in a way that I never did before. Being the summer cousin, I wasn’t born to it, as Mandy was. By the time she was ten years old she could sort a basket of produce blindfolded: the ripest fruit on top, the too- soon harvested lining the bottom. I would watch her as she did this, a faint wrinkle of preoccupation on her smooth forehead, her busy hands assessing the firmness or softness of each fruit. Later, I would think she looked something like a blackjack professional dealing cards when she was sorting apples or pears. But when we were children, these quick, confident movements were to my mind a magical skill, made more magical by my uncle’s nod of approval when she had completed the job. She could also climb trees and shake cherries into the lap of the waiting apron of a tarpaulin, while my role was to stay earthbound and collect the few pieces of fruit that had rolled into the grass. Not that either of us had an official job as children, as Teo did. Teo, the picker. He could give Mandy a run for her money, his sm...

Praise for Jane Urquhart:

"The most compelling depiction of the sense of place in human lives."—Alice Munro

"Urquhart has a great gift for the historical novel, for the melding of ideas, events and individuals into a significant whole." —Claire Messud

Praise for Sanctuary Line:

“Captures very deftly the sense of a disappearing world, created with such personal sacrifice by the first settlers . . . Urquhart handles the layers of narrative with lyrical aplomb.” —Susan Elderkin,The Financial Times

“A lovely reverie from its first sentence.” —More magazine
 
“The payoff in Sanctuary Line is . . . spectacular—a multiple detonation that reverberates back to many earlier events and phrases.” —David Grylls, Sunday Times

"Urquhart tells many smaller stories with quiet, understated writing, using the contemplative Liz as a narrator enough of an insider to know all the details, but enough of an outsider to see through to the truth, and now, grown up enough to give some perspective . . . what she shares is worth examining." —Lisa McLendon, The Wichita Eagle

“Urquhart’s writing is poetic, in the sense that it is beautifully compact and restrained when describing the most powerful emotions.” —Kate Saunders, The Times

“Sanctuary Line is delicately balanced, powerful and purposeful, and is Urquhart at her best, a storyteller and stylist of the first rank.” —Gary Curtis, Hamilton Spectator
 
“Urquhart’s style is reminiscent of that of the Pulitzer-winner Marilynne Robinson . . .The real delight in Urquhart’s story is the language she uses to weave it. She’s a poet, even when she’s writing novels.” —Mary Morrissy, Irish Times
 
“Haunting . . . and the ending, when it comes, is well worth the wait, revealing the answers to mysteries we didn’t even know existed.” —Donna Bailey Nurse, The Globe and Mail
 
“Urquhart builds up a picture of a vanished idyll . . . Urquhart’s prose brims with . . . emotional sensitivity.” —Susanna Rustin, The Guardian
 
“Powerful . . . Urquhart knows love and longing, knows life and its many permutations. She has given us a multifaceted novel bursting with all of that.” —James MacGowan, The Ottawa Citizen
 
“Urquhart builds stories like an architect . . . the brilliance of [the] powerful ending is that it makes us want to start again from the beginning.” —Emily Donaldson, Toronto Star

“Measured, dignified, calm on the surface but containing as much thematic richness and plain literary pleasure as a reader could care to dig for.”—Montreal Gazette
 
“I’m grateful to have spent time with Sanctuary Line and soaked up Urquhart's nuanced wisdom.”—Vancouver Sun

“In precise yet passionate prose, acclaimed Canadian writer Urquhart poignantly explores the ephemeral and transitory nature of love and family duty, offering a melancholy meditation on these gossamer but powerful ties.” —Carol Haggas, Booklist
 
“[A] finely tuned read.”—Kirkus Reviews

"Quietly moving . . . Another stately, thoughtful work from award-winning Canadian author Urquhart." —Barbara Hoffert, Library Journal

"A novel of the mind and heart. . . intriguing reading." —Bookviews.com

"Readers will want to return to this novel several times, drawn into the story by the age-old question of why humans do what they do. The Canadian Urquhart is a writer of international stature."—Alibi.com
From the Hardcover edition.