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582 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2006
And that's how it started, Miss Fielding, the very serious but entertaining game of inventing synonyms for God and imagining what it was like after he cast out his fraternal twins and paradise was deserted but for him. The “hermit of paradise” we called him. “The recluse of paradise.” Even “the charlatan of paradise,” because we could not shake the notion that the fall was “fixed”. My favourite was “the custodian of paradise.” “We are all three of us, you and I and Miss Fielding, custodians,” I said, “withdrawn from the world to preserve, to keep inviolate, something that would otherwise be lost.”
I wrote those words when I was half Sarah's age. A girl. Seventeen and soon to meet the man I fear has followed me to Loreburn. Fear it, yet fear even more that I have hidden too well for him to find me.
Some day, Miss Fielding, I will ask your forgiveness for three transgressions, two of which have yet to be committed.
Now and again, Sheilagh’s wit saves a scene. (“You reduce everything to comedy,” her father says. “Elevate,” she retorts.) Occasionally, Johnston’s prose shifts skillfully into the present tense, as if dropping into a lower gear for power. But by the time Sheilagh limps from a sanitarium, her right leg withered by tuberculosis, even he seems to have lost patience with his twice-told story. Without a strong countervailing voice to balance hers, Sheilagh Fielding, so alive at the beginning of the novel, becomes merely a collection of forced and unlikely eccentricities, and the characters around her little more than silhouettes.
In choosing to dig up his own site, to unearth settlements and gardens lodged within the archaeo-logical record, Johnston is going about the business of the major novelist in mid-career: custodianship of his own properties. Asserting that a spit of rock in the Atlantic Ocean is a snowbound Eden is not so strange if your spadework has revealed the layers underneath. Chip away at connections, sift through stories and metaphors, especially of the sort you have been digging away at for years, and conclusions become inevitable, as do perfect truths and perfect paradoxes.
By the book’s end, many mysteries have been laid to rest, only to be replaced with new ones. This raises the happy possibility that Johnston intends to return to the scene again.