Tintinabulation

Waking to church bells rather than the factory whistle meant it was Sunday, the only true day of rest for the small fishing village where we spent our summers from each Memorial Day to each Labor Day.  The curtains at the window fluttered in the early morning breeze, carrying the sound of the gulls and the tides into my slanted roofed room - the sun was already warm and bright and there were no traffic sounds, no motors, no shouts from the men laying out dried fish on the slatted tables - just the church bells ringing clearly and steadily.  They could be heard all over the village and if the wind was right, the bells from Brier Island's small church would join in and it became a sweet symphony.


The bell ringer, mostly deaf and slightly malformed after so many Sundays of bells and ropes,was a former lobsterman, not terribly bright but dedicated to his art.  It's no simple thing, James had said once, it takes precision and strength and focus to ring the bells.  He and Lydia had offered Slocum room and board in exchange for his services on Sundays and during the week he acted as an extra pair of hands, helping Lydia make her calls and assisting James with the church's upkeep, running errands and sometimes helping Miss Clara tend the cemetery.  He was a cheerful man with a bent but muscle bound back and gnarled, misshapen hands usually kept hidden by work gloves.  Never having learned to read or write and not trusting his own speech which he had so much difficulty hearing, he communicated primarily with signs and gestures, but his greatest asset was his love of the bells and his loyalty to them.  I think, Lydia had once told our Sunday School class, It's how he talks to God.  On the morning that Slocum fell into the well, the general opinion was that God had been listening.


There were abandoned wells all over the island, mostly boarded up and fenced off to keep people away.  They were deathtraps in disguise, some said, no one knew precisely where they all were and they were only filled as they were found.  Slocum, on his way back from chopping wood and anxious to start the ritual of the bells, sidestepped a fallen tree and wandered a few paces away from his normal route - one quick misstep was all it took and he fell feet first, twelve feet down to a hard landing, a broken ankle and unconsciousness.  But for the fact that it was a Sunday, he very well might've perished where he'd fallen, possibly never even been found - but as luck or fate would have it, the morning was crisp and clear, perfect for squirrel hunting - and Gene and Buttons had been prowling the back woods above the bay since dawn.  Buttons, an able, well trained and experienced old hunting dog, instinctively followed the sound of the fall and led an exasperated Gene directly to the well.  Within the hour, the bellringer had been roped up and hauled out, Rowena had arrived to poultice and splint the shattered ankle, and Gene had made a litter out of branches - Buttons consented to being harnessed to it, proudly dragging a still unconscious Slocum through the woods and back to the church.  With the aid of Lydia's spirits of ammonia, the bellringer woke abruptly, secure in his own room and his own bed, with no memory of the fall or the well.  


James had been going to preach about forgiveness that Sunday morning, but at the last minute he hastily improvised a lesson about God's eye being on the sparrow and delivered it with quiet passion.  I didn't understand it all then, I just knew it was the only Sunday that I could remember when the church bells had been silent.  God was paying attention even without them.