For Saul, the blizzard in Chapter 10 turns a brief pit stop into a devastating detour. For Naomi, it leads to a tragic—if literal—dead-end. Seeking shelter from the snows, they rest at the Minaki train depot in what neither realizes will be a point of parting. This is an instance of pathos, or an appeal to the reader's emotions:
"We'll rest a minute," she wheezed. "Then we'll find Minoose."
I tucked my head in against her chest. She held me and we lay there in the darkness shivering. I could feel her tremble. Wrapped in the cracked canvas of an old tent, I huddled in the arms of the old woman and felt the cold freeze her in place. I understood that she had left me and I lay there crying against the empty drum of her chest.
The moment pulls at the reader's heartstrings with its emotional force. No death is ever easy to process, but never more so as the “empty drum” of Naomi’s chest falters and fades. This is the moment at which Saul gets orphaned: having lost both his parents, he must now part with the only other relation who had cared for him. The grandmother who had filled his nights with stories—and in whose wisdom had offered an answer to every problem—now leaves Saul behind to fend for himself.
Compounding the grief is the sudden turn of fortunes. Saul hardly has time to mourn before white men kidnap him and take him to St. Jerome’s. With “shouts and the clump of feet,” they whisk him to a “hell on earth” where he will suffer under the heavy hands of abusive priests and nuns. In Naomi’s death, Saul loses his family and experiences a radical rupture in his world.
Chapter 49 unspools a tangle of emotions as Saul returns to the scorched ruins of St. Jerome’s. During his trip to White River, he tugs at his layers of memories until the ugly truth comes spilling out in an instance of pathos (an appeal to the reader's emotions):
I felt revulsion rise in me. My throat was parched. Rage was a wild heat that rose out of the base of my spine and through my belly, and I punched those rotting boards until my knuckles were raw, the tears erupting out of me. I fell to the ground and buried my head in my arms. I had run to the game. Run to it and embraced it, done anything that would allow me to get to that avenue of escape.
Saul’s moment of reckoning comes with more than just pathos—grief twines with rage and shame—but its emotional impact is crippling in its surprise. Here, Saul reveals what had only previously darted along the edges of his narrative. Though he mentions the “swish of slippered feet” and “cries of distress” earlier in the novel, he had never described Father Leboutilier’s own acts—an omission that the reader could have easily interpreted as innocence. With his easygoing nature and generosity, Father Leboutilier was framed as an exception to the rule. Only now does his abuse come surfacing to light, and the reader learns that one of the kindest figures in Saul's life is actually the cruelest. As Saul openly confronts his past for the first time, this scene drives deep a sense of betrayal. It stings with the shocking truth. It hurts even more for its portrait of a character who can no longer run away from his past.