The Orchard Keeper

Arthur Ownby is a reclusive old man. Following the departure of his wife, Ellen, he has embraced a life of solitude and asceticism. His only real companion is his dog, Scout, who is also old. Despite the lonely nature of Arthur’s existence, he takes great pride in his ability to survive alone. Arthur has turned his isolation into an identity, merging into the brutal natural order of life in the mountains. The problem with Arthur defining himself by his isolation is that the modern world is growing. Isolated communities like Red Branch are becoming increasingly connected to the outside world, and he feels The Encroachment of Modernity on the lifestyle that he has made his own. Already, he has noticed the nationwide alcohol bans that infringe on his way of life and the installation of an unexplained metal tank on the mountain. The modern world, he feels, is not just trying to change the way he lives his life, but his fundamental identity.

Arthur’s desire for isolation is built on a tragic foundation. Over the course of the novel, his relationship with his estranged wife is slowly revealed. Ellen was married to Arthur but she ran away with a Bible salesman. When Arthur tried to confront her, he was shot in the leg with birdshot. Ellen imposed isolation on Arthur by leaving him. Society imposed isolation on Arthur by threatening him with violence when he tried desperately to reconcile with his wife. The isolation that has become such a key part of his character was not necessarily a choice that he made. It was thrust upon him and he chose to embrace it. Arthur’s desire for privacy and isolation is also a protective measure. He still carries the emotional trauma of Ellen’s departure, just as he carries the birdshot in his knee. His desire to be alone is a way to protect himself from future trauma. Tellingly, his only companion is Scout, who cannot communicate with him and who provides unflinching loyalty. This does not mean that Arthur is antisocial; he is more than pleasant to John and Warn when they visit. When he tells stories, however, he keeps the more painful details and his true feelings private. He is uninterested in forging real connections based on intimacy and vulnerability, determined to protect himself from further pain.

Arthur’s tragedy is that he loses everything. After the shoot-out with the police, he is taken to a mental health institution, where he is trapped alone with his traumatic memories, no longer able to lose himself in the wilderness. His freedom is restricted and he is forced to talk to social workers about his emotions. In these moments, he confronts the fearsome edifice of modernity. His details, thoughts, and emotions are documented and bureaucratized. Arthur is not permitted to be alone, becoming part of modernity’s attempt to comprehend every individual on an administrative level. The social worker is the predator in Arthur’s life, imposing modernity on him and subjecting him to the rigors of bureaucracy after so many years in the comforting, anonymous wilderness. At the end of the novel, Arthur is not only locked away, but he is also consumed by the monster of modernity that bore so much of his ire.

Marion Sylder is a criminal. He is neither particularly clever, charming, nor immoral. Instead, he has simply embraced the identity of criminal and created an ideology that justifies his behavior and crimes. When he is jailed at the end of the novel, he explains to John that he earned his money bootlegging whiskey and that he therefore accepts his punishment. To Marion, the police and the criminals are part of a natural order; trying to justify criminal behavior is like trying to explain why a panther hunts. This ideological flourish allows Marion to abstain from form reflecting on his behavior. If he believes that he is a necessary part of a functioning world, then he has no responsibility for any of his actions. Marion’s ideology is juxtaposed against Arthur’s. Both men are alienated from institutions such as governments and laws, but Arthur’s alienation derives from his pain and his love of losing himself in the wilderness, while Marion’s alienation is a self-justifying approach to personal profit.

While Marion can excuse his bootlegging as a victimless crime, it’s hard to say the same about his other crimes. With the same fast car that he uses to run illegal crates of whiskey across the country, he picks up teenagers and hurtles along the roads to deliberately intimidate and scare them, often sexually assaulting the female passengers. His refusal to reflect on his behavior means that he cannot see these assaults as crimes. Instead, they are just part of that same natural order. Sex and intimidation are natural byproducts of an uncaring world, Marion’s ideology suggests, and he has no compunction about turning this justification to the brutal realization of his sexual urges. In moments such as these, Marion embodies the worst ideals of his era. The misogyny and the violence that he sees in the world are not to be criticized, according to Marion, but to be embraced as inevitable. He cannot ascribe a moral dimension to any of his actions, nor can he envision any way in which he might be hurting people, because he has invested himself so completely in a worldview that justifies every one of his actions.

Despite Marion’s unsympathetic amorality, he is not totally beyond redemption. His relationship with John hints at his potential for sincere and genuine affection. After John saves him from the creek, Marion takes up the mantle of father figure in the young boy’s life. Even when he is in jail, he tries to give advice to John, insisting that John not pursue any vendetta against Gifford. Marion is a violent criminal who demonstrably does not care about harming others, but he is concerned for John’s future. His concern adds nuance to his character, suggesting that—for all his attempts at justifying his own actions—he can recognize that the world does not need more Marions and that John has the potential to be something better. Marion’s ability to recognize this is a form of self-reflection, if only slight. For all his justification and his crimes, Marion can at least recognize that his behavior and his beliefs have not brought him great success or happiness.