‘You can do anything with a conch shell, you know,’ Wilson repeated his father’s words to his younger brother, who held a skin-coloured conch shell in his tiny white fingers. ‘You can hear the ocean or crack open periwinkles or make noises like a trumpet! You can do anything with a conch shell, Joe.’

            Wilson stood on a wind-whipped beach, surrounded by a group of younger boys with yellowing suspenders and shaggy blonde hair. Most were missing more than a few teeth from fist fights or tumbles. The boys had rolled their pant-legs up to their knees, revealing an array of colourful bruises. They sat in a semi-circle around Wilson and listened quietly, imperceptibly, to his harangue. Wilson thought they looked like islands amidst a sea of sand. He paused his speech to name them:

Sam would be Greenland, he thought. Sam would be Greenland because he has a huge belly! Jason would be Cuba ‘cause everyone always fights with him. Daddy says everyone likes to fight with Cuba.

            A forest of beach grass surrounded the boys. The large, lank stalks of the sharp grass quivered in the wind and mirrored the black tide which churned and bubbled in the distance. The sand was a dirty tan colour and housed clams that the boys dug up in the summer, and mussels that they collected in the spring. Sometimes the smaller boys would climb to the summit of beach rocks and throw smooth, eroded stones at the resting seagulls. The pungent smell of sea salt pervaded the air, and the kelp and seaweed that littered the beach made for a decorative gang ‘headquarters.’

            ‘We heard this a million times, Wilson,’ Sam, a dark-haired boy with freckles and a large, round belly, whined to the speaker. ‘We heard you say we can do anything with a conch shell, but we sure ain’t seen it!’

            All the boys nodded their heads in unanimous agreement, and Wilson’s face metamorphosed to a scarlet hue. He lowered his head to the ground and hid his watery eyes. Tears gathered on his cheeks and a small moan escaped his thin lips. He stamped past the semi-circle of boys and stopped at the edge, his back to the pack of boisterous youths.

‘You can’t do nothin’ with a conch shell, Wilson! Why don’t you go play with Elisabeth and her dresses instead of tryin’ to tell us we can do anything we want with a conch shell!’ Sam said. The boys laughed again.

‘Don’t you cry, Wil! You ain’t no girl, are you?’ Jason added to the taunting.

Wilson pushed past the group of six-year-olds who were huddled in a small, tight pack, and ran toward Jason. He threw his body into Jason’s stomach and heaved the boy to the ground. Sand exploded upward like a mushroom cloud. Jason flung his arms to his face and cupped his hands to his eyes. Wilson recovered himself from the shock of impaling Jason’s belly, and sat down on the boy’s stiff, prostrate legs.

‘Tell me I’m a girl, Jason!’ Wilson screamed as he launched his fists into Jason’s face. He pummeled the boy with his hands, like rough weapons. His hands collided and melded with the boy’s raw, pink skin. ‘Tell me I’m a girl, Jason!’

The boys crowded around the two fighting tyrants and screeched cries of support. Their voices rang out like a sharp barrage of bullets in an empty sky:

‘Hit ‘im, Jase!’ Some cried, or ‘Go Jason!’ More of the boys, though, were shouting for Wil. They pounded the air and screamed his name:

‘Pummel ‘im in the nose, Wil!’

Jason really is like the Cubans, Wilson thought as he rose from the boy’s supine body. I don’t really like them Cubans and awful lot, now, ‘cause I don’t like that Jason!.

Grinning, Wilson meandered through the intricate path of gawking, jealous boys. He trudged the length of the beach as the other boys stared in awe. The soles of his muddy, white shoes left imprints in the sand and the blood that dripped from his nose slowly slid down his face to the beach, where it seeped through the million particles of sand.

 

The next day was a Saturday, and the gang of boys was back at the beach. The atmosphere of the gang was different, though, and more restricted and quiet: Jason was quiet and submissive and Sam made less jokes. After seeing Jason’s brutal beating, the boys decided to remain as slaves to Wilson. They weren’t rowdy and barely spoke. Wilson took this as a sign to begin another speech.

‘You can do anything with a conch shell,’ the boy harangued monotonously. This time he smiled as he spoke and paced pretentiously at the front of the growing group of boys, though, and everyone paid—or pretended to pay—close attention.

Jason stood at the back of the group with a dreamy, blank look on his face. His nostrils were encrusted in a case of brown-red blood and his voice was distorted by this clog. His white undershirt was still stained a rusty hue around the collar, and his arms were trembling slightly.

‘How ya doin’, Jase?’ The boys mocked.

‘Oh I’b tooing jus fibe,’ Jase replied, grinning and pretending he thought their joke was funny. His eyes were stained with tears, though.

‘You can do anything with a conch shell,’ Wilson said louder, disrupting the fun of the boys at the back of the group. They turned around and smiled at him innocently.

The group needed Wilson, and they liked him despite their playful hostility toward him. He was their leader and kept them organised and articulated. The boys basked in the glow of his male power because, when Wilson was around, no other boys dared to fight them or barge in on their fun. His speeches were dull, they all agreed, but Wilson was the strongest boy and the best fighter. He was the only one they’d ever seen who owned a conch shell. He might be the only person in the world!

‘What can you do with a conch, though, Wil?’ Sam asked.

‘Well, Sam, you can do anything with a conch shell,’ Wilson replied gravely. ‘You can listen to the ocean, or crack periwinkles—’

‘We know that, Wil,’ Joe interrupted. ‘What else can you do with a conch shell?’

‘Well—’ Wilson began.

‘Can you scare girls with a conch shell, Wil?’

‘I want to put one in Lizzie’s bed!’

‘No, men! You can’t do none of that!’ Wilson said. ‘Conchs ain’t for takin’ lightly. They can cut through stone, you know.’

Wilson demonstrated this by scraping the protruding, horny part of the shell against a soft, gray rock. A white, chalky line followed the point of the shell and all the boys laughed jocularly. Wilson kicked sand to hide the large flakes of shell from view.

‘I bet it can even go through glass!’ JT said zealously.

‘Oh it can definitely go through class. Most anything can go through glass, JT.’ Wilson said. ‘That’s a fact, men!’ He added.

‘Prove it, prove it!’ JT began chanting.

Suddenly a chorus of voices arose. The small boys’ voices were heard above the deep, booming basses of the older boys, and sounded like the soft cheeping of baby seagulls. The yelling of the older boys boomed and droned like the calm, profound voice of the ocean. Wilson stood on his tiptoes and shouted to the group. ‘I can prove it!’

The group of boys looked to him and their chanting ceased. They all listened intently.

‘I can prove it, men! You know that Cuban that lives up there on that hill?’ Wilson asked, pointing toward a small, barren hill that blocked the sun. (The boys nodded.) ‘Well we’re going to go up there, climb that big hill, and smash that poor bugger’s window out!’

The boys cheered joyously at the notion of this treacherous vandalism. They leapt about, slapping hands and hugging each other. Even Jason joined in the merriment. He kicked sand about and threw his wet hat into the air. The wind carried it into the ocean and it drifted softly upon the waves.

‘Smash the glass!’ The boys sang tribally.

 

An hour later the festivities came to a halt as Wilson called a meeting. He rounded up the younger boys and sat them down in front. The older boys stood carefully on guard at the back.

The guards made a distorted circle around the group of younger boys. They held their hands behind their backs—an homage to a monotone television show that Wilson had seen with his father—and held their heads high, proud to be defenders of the little gang.

‘No one ever comes to this beach anyway,’ Sam said. ‘Why do we need seatinals?’

‘We need some seatinals!’ Wilson said, and that was final. They would have sentinels to guard them from the phantom spies whose espionage could impede their plans.

 ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday,’ Wilson said, ‘and that means that dirty old Cuban’s gonna be at church in his dirty Cuban suit and his dirty Cuban hat! We’re going to—all of us—skip church,’ a few gasps of horror escaped the mouths of the younger boys, ‘and throw this conch right through one of the windows of his dirty shack!’

The boys whooped enthusiastically and smiles broke the glumness of their faces.

‘We ain’t going to do nothin’ else, men. We’re just gonna throw that conch right through his window!’

‘We ain’t gonna kick the planks on his house, or steal his mailbox or nothin’?’ Sam asked.

‘Nothing like that! We just want to get that conch through his window.’ Wilson said. None of the boys argued.

The boys prepared a meeting place for their excursion, and a time that they would begin their destructive plan. After the meeting, they all broke out and walked away in different directions, most slapping each other on the back or dancing lackadaisically. Only Joe and Wilson remained on the beach. They sat on a rock that, to Wilson, resembled the spiky back of a huge, lanky dinosaur.

In the tide pool beneath the rock was an assortment of mollusks and kelp. Tiny ripples circled the pool as Joe circled his naked feet through the cool water. The shrimp were startled by these invaders and shot away.

‘We probly shouldn’t do this, Wil,’ Joe said concernedly. His countenance bore a look of disappointment. ‘We probly shouldn’t break that Cuban’s windows with the conch.’

‘It ain’t nothin’,’ Wilson said. ‘We’re just gonna break his window. He can sell a few of them fancy see-gars if he wants to get a new window, Joe. He can sell some of them fancy white leather coats, too, Joe!’

‘It ain’t right, though,’ Joe said. He cleaned the dirty lenses of his glasses with his even dirtier shirtsleeve. His freckles were hidden beneath a layer of rough, itchy sand.

‘Sucks to you, then, Joe’ Wilson said angrily. He ran after Sam, hauling up on his overalls and kicking sand with his shoes as he traced Sam’s giant footsteps.

Joe sat for a moment before following Wilson slowly.

 

Sunday morning proved a dismal, dreary day, though the sun shone brightly and seemed to create a white, liquid road when it hit the ebbing water of the ocean. The clouds were swiftly passing through the clear sky and the (sickly) sweet fragrance of quivering Mayflower alleviated the tension and horror felt by Wilson. The wind was gently blowing and the clothesline was swaying seductively in the breeze, like a tavern dancer swinging her hips and thrusting her bosom. The post office’s distant Nova Scotia flag was rippling in the wind, and the fishing boats were sailing on the calm, fruitful sea of the harbour.

In his room, Wilson hastily clothed himself with his fancy church suit. He jumped into his black slacks and hauled his already-buttoned shirt onto his body. He fiddled with his tie for a moment before deciding it didn’t matter at all, and he threw it into his closet. In a gunny sack, Wilson stored a collection of mismatched clothing and his precious conch. He put a brass whistle around his neck and then ran to the kitchen.

The kitchen was a dirty, little room. Unwashed dishes lay upon the counter and a smell of must impregnated the cabin with an acrid smell. Four mismatching chairs surrounded a small table. Graffiti had been scratched into its wooden surface, and small amounts of food still clung to the nooks and crannies.

Joe sat at the table, along with Wilson’s mother, Rhoda. Rhoda was a plump woman in, at the present, an ugly flowered gown. The flowers were supposed to be roses, she said, but they were a bit more like wilted dandelions. Her breasts were clearly visible through the slight folds in the garment and her tired, wrinkly legs poked out through the slit in her gown.

‘Bacon or cereal?’ Rhoda asked warmly. Wilson grabbed the bacon and wolfed the strips of greasy meat down quickly. He grabbed Joe’s clammy, nervous hand and ran out of the house. The grease trickled down Wilson’s face and gave him a barbaric, African look.

‘Don’t forget we got church today, Wil. Don’t you dirty that suit!’ Rhoda said sternly from the frame of the quaint little house. Her tarnished dress contrasted the pristine white paint. ‘Don’t you let Joe dirty his nice, new suit neither!’

‘I ain’t gonna forget church, Ma, and neither is Joe. We’ll be there!’ Wilson turned around and yelled, smiling.

Wilson and Joe began their walk to the meeting place. Wilson had, in his gunny sack, a brown, woolen shirt and a pair of gray pants. He commanded Joe to guard the road as he hid behind a bush. A few groans were heard as Wilson pulled the distinguished church clothes from his body and replaced them with the pallid clothes in his gunny sack.

Wilson came out of the bush looking like a member of a wild African tribe. His hair was hidden by the multitude of thin, finger-like twigs and leaves that covered his head. His pockets concealed a number of tiny stones and piles of dead bark from evergreen trees. Nettles and tiny, sharp tree spills clung to the thick fabric of his slacks and hair.

Wilson banged his imaginary, weightless African drum as he marched down the dirt and pebble road to the Cuban’s hill. He ran through the bushes near the road, which twisted and contorted like a fluid serpent, pretending to be a cannibal. He threw tiny stones at Joe and pounced him.

‘Finally, everyone’ll know that you can do anything with a conch shell,’ he said with conviction. ‘We’ll smash that Cuban’s window like it ain’t nothin’!’ Wilson laughed maniacally.

The two boys rounded a corner in the road and approached the ominous hill. A sense of foreboding plagued Joe.

‘I still don’t think this is right, Wil,’ he said. Wilson, though, ignored him and blew his brass whistle. The sharp, ear-splitting screech that emanated from the whistle summoned the rest of the boys from their hiding places.

As planned, the boys were dressed like cannibals with twigs in their hair and leaves in their coat pockets. Some of the more creative youths had even painted their chubby faces with dark, rusty mud and clay. They were all dressed in dull, blanched colours. The smaller boys held pine boughs in their hands and had placed them in their pants, like rabbit tails. Their hands were dirty with sap and mud and they smiled as they slowly picked the adhesive liquid from their hands.

The larger boys had decorated their bodies with whole bushes and had covered their clothes with sand for camouflage. Their faces were heavily laden with brown and black mud, drizzled in thick bands. Their hair was wild and disheveled because of the sap their hair had collected when they had rummaged through the coastal undergrowth.

‘Okay, men, the Cuban’s in church and so are our parents. We just gotta throw this conch through that window.’ Wilson said.

‘Break the window! Smash the glass!’ Sam said. The boys maintained the chant as they ascended the hill to the Cuban’s shack.

‘Break the window!—’

Their steps seemed thunderous in the silence of the morning placidity. They sounded like Wilson’s imaginary, echoing tribal drums.

‘Smash the glass!’

The boys passed slowly over the rocky hill. What little grass that had existed on the east of the hill was matted by their careless stomping. They purposely took their time climbing so that, if the Cuban was home, he would notice them and banish them from the property. After ten minutes of their blood-lusting war cry, though, the Cuban had not appeared.

‘Okay, men, when we get to the top of the hill, I’ll throw the conch in.’

‘Break the glass!’

‘Yes, break the glass! Shatter the glass and break the window!’ A few boys shouted as they continued their march. All of the boys remained behind Wilson, who stopped every ten paces to sound the deep, bellowing conch. He tried to play war songs like he’d heard on the radio but found it difficult. Instead, he made the conch bleat like a dying calf three times every ten steps.

When the boys reached the top of the hill, they glanced around suspiciously. Wilson peered into the shack but saw only the warm glow of a burning oil lamp and a few puddles of what he thought was alcohol. Whiskey, maybe—or some other expensive liqueur imported from France or Japan or wherever they get them, Wilson thought.

‘Well men, the shack is empty. I’ll sound the conch three last times and then we’ll break the window.’ Wilson said.

The boys were silent while the three blasts on the conch were sounded. Wilson adorned the lackluster song with his own words:

The horn blasted the first time:

‘Break the windows!’ He screeched.

The horn blasted the second time:

‘Shatter the glass!’

When the horn blasted the third time, Wilson threw the conch, with all his might, into the shack. The boys cheered uproariously when they heard the clunk of the conch landing on the floor. The window shattered into large, jagged chunks of glass and exploded into the Cuban’s yard like fusillade from a shotgun. The tiny chunks of glass stung the trembling grass.

The boys joined arms and danced about, singing about breaking the window and about cannibals. The younger boys sang their favourite jigs and their light, fruity voices drifted on the wind. The larger boys were hugging and jumping, proud of their work. Joe, though, stood glaring at the shack.

‘Look, Wilson, look!’ He yelled to Wilson, who was singing on the other side of the hill. ‘Look at the shack!’

Wilson stopped his singing and glanced at the shack. The other boys followed his gaze and screamed as the ghastly flickering of large flames consumed the building. The spiteful fire ate the shack from the inside out, like a greedy earwig gnawing away at a ripe, rotten plum. Tiny burning fragments shot from the shack like crackling meteors penetrating the atmosphere.

Joe continued staring at the fire and began crying. The other boys tore the leaves and twigs from their hair and pockets and threw them into the woods. They ran swiftly down the small hill, this time taking seconds instead of minutes. They had forgotten about the conch and about their celebration. They huddled in a large crowd near a gray rock, and yelled for Joe to join them.

‘Get outta there, Joe!’ Wilson screamed. He saw only Joe’s inky silhouette; the sun was hidden by the churning smoke billowing up from the burning shack.

‘I don’t think we shoulda done this,’ Joe said slowly to himself. ‘It ain’t right.’



(iii.html)