Finton Moon Read Free

gone by. No one did, which left Finton to assume that the past was irrelevant. The bare historical fact was that Darwin was an insignificant trench created by a gargantuan glacier that scraped slowly across the face of Newfoundland a thousand centuries ago on its way to the ocean. As if in recompense for its accidental and violent birth, thousands of years later Darwin found itself cradled by ocean and hugged by forest. While farming such hard, salty land was a formidable vocation, Irish and English fishermen in the 1700s pegged the low-lying flatbed as an ideal refuge from which to instigate a cottage fishery. Their descendants in the late-twentieth century would regret the choice when the cod fell away, and Darwin became a town that could sustain existences but not livelihoods. But Finton knew nothing of this history and, furthermore, was unconcerned.
    The tranquil life was tedious to some, but to a curious, young boy every tree boasted a fairy and every rock concealed a monster. Fields of tall grass were oceans to swim and the Laughing Woods teemed with bears, wolves, and Indian braves. In a secret alcove in the woods beyond the perimeter of the red schoolhouse, Finton rode a tree that was supple and strong, his getaway horse from marauding Apaches. From high above the ground, he could hear the clanging call of the teacher’s handbell, though he sometimes pretended otherwise. “Hiyo, Silver, away!” he’d cry, and he rode like the wind. In a dark thicket only minutes from home, wounded by an arrow and hiding from the Indians, he retreated to the foxhole, a bowl-shaped hollow in the forest floor, stockpiled with spruce cones and other crude weapons. The Laughing Woods concealed many enemies but gave refuge to those who knew its secrets, and Finton was one of the chosen few.
    Another favourite hiding spot was the front seat of his parents’ skyblue Valiant. On summer days, he would scrunch into the front seat, with the vehicle parked at the top of the lane a few yards from the house and no one around to disturb him. One day when he was eight, as he inhabited a hardcover of Man O’ War , a frantic thump on the driver’s window jolted him upright. His mother had placed both hands to the glass, cupped her thin lips and mouthed, “SAWYER MOON!” Before the blue-tinged half moon of her breath had faded from the window, Finton had scrambled to unlock the door.
    â€œWinnie called and said Sawyer Moon is on the go!”
    Finton slammed his book shut, clutched it to his chest, and scurried behind his mother. He glanced back only once to catch a glimpse of the familiar figure on the road, slouching towards the lane.
    â€œOh God! He’s gonna see us!” his mother hissed. “Come on, Finton!”
    Perpetually on the move, going nowhere and everywhere simultaneously, Sawyer Moon always kept his hands plunged deep into the pockets of his baggy, brown trousers, head bent forward as if fighting a cruel wind, legs reaching forward, grabbing ground in the manner of a soldier attempting to take a hill that will not be won. Sawyer didn’t have friends, though he often talked to Finton’s father. Most people skittered away, locked their doors and pulled the shades upon his approach. Tom Moon was the only one who never avoided Sawyer—a fact which made Finton question his father’s sanity, but also filled him with admiration for his remarkable kindness.
    Sawyer was hunched over like a Grimm brothers’ troll in his khakigreen Army jacket with its lamb’s wool lining that was yellowed and stained brown with tobacco, grease, and turpentine. A sprawling, dark splotch across his chest looked like Jesus on the cross, while another one on his arm resembled a map of Africa. He wore a red hunting hat, and from under his coat protruded a plaid polyester jacket over a white shirt with two buttons undone, revealing the round neck of a white t-shirt. Sawyer’s rumpled outfit had