July 13, 1851. There is a belief in the Old Country that “a year and a day” is the spell of time necessary for the working of a “cure” or the lifting of a curse. A year and a day have passed since that fateful occurrence in the forest near Galloway’s farm. Still I tarry in this place, unwilling to leave. What happened has marked me. I am a changed man. I cannot but look back on that day with awe and wonder. Was it a dream? A madness or delusion brought on by too much sunshine and whiskey? Though doubt assails me, in my heart I choose to believe that the events were real. For if they were, then all hopes and dreams are real and to know this is to be the most fortunate of men.
• • •
Dana and Jean stared at the next entry in disbelief. Holding their breaths, heads bent so close to the page they might have dived in, they found themselves reading a series of poems. The rhyming couplets were short and sentimental, conveying old-fashioned notions of romance.
“Câlisse! What this is?” said Jean, exasperated.
The poems were followed by an entry dated in the year 1876.
“There is no fool like an old fool,” my dear sister said to me today in a teasing but not unkind manner. I do not feel old, though perhaps I do feel a little foolish. A suitor cannot help but feel so, especially when he is courting a lady much younger than himself. Miss Harriet Steed has let me know that she is more than happy to encourage my attentions. I expect we shall be married before the year is out. I may be fifty-three years old, but truth to tell I feel as young as I did at thirty. I wonder sometimes if this youthfulness might not have been a gift that was bestowed upon me for the part I played that day.
Many years have passed since the Galloway picnic and I have lived a life of quiet and contentment. It seems to me, and I do not believe I am being too fanciful, that whatever once drove me in my ceaseless search for I-know-not-what was satisfied that day in the Canadian woods. Peace of mind and heart was granted to me. I have been blessed with good friends and neighbors as well as my family and I have helped to build this settlement into a thriving village. Whether big or small, we each have our part to play in the history of this nation as it unfolds in time. While I had thought to be a bachelor to my dying day, leaving the preservation of the Gowan name to my brothers, it seems not to be. I look forward to raising a family with my beloved Harriet.
Another poem followed called “Our Wedding Day.” Dana thought it was sweet and the best of the lot, but Jean snorted with impatience. They continued to read.
The shivaree for my beloved Harriet and me went not as badly as I had feared. The usual ruffians were strangely absent. Those who sang so sweetly beyond our window had the voices of angels. While it may have been my own imagining, I thought I also heard the sound of silver bells, like those one hears on sleighs in the wintertime. Truly we both felt blessed that night.
“What’s a shivaree?” Dana wondered.
“Charivari,” Jean told her. “They make the word English. When the peoples marry, their friends come outside the house on that night and they make a lot noise. It can be not so good if they drink too much. They do it still now in Québec in the countryside. It’s an old thing, a tradition.”
• • •
“This is it,” said Dana. “We’re coming to the last page.”
Born March 17, 1878 William Patrick Gowan.
“That’s Gran Gowan’s dad,” said Dana. “My great-grandfather.”
Born April 1, 1880 Harriet Frances Gowan.
Born June 23, 1882 Caroline Maisy Gowan.
Born February 16, 1885 Thomas Robert Gowan.
“ What?” Dana cried. She turned the page over and stared at the blank sheet. “There’s got to be more! Where’s the secret? What happened in the woods?”
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream or cry. How could they come so close and find nothing at all?
“Is this some joke?” said Jean, stunned. “This is the Book of Dreams we look for, non?”
“It must be,” Dana said, trying to calm down. “Look, something happened to him that day in the forest. It made him stay in Creemore. Maybe even gave him youth and long life, as he said himself. The secret’s here. Somewhere in this book. It’s got to be!”
Frantically she rifled through the pages of the journal.
Then she noticed that the endpaper at the back was thicker than that at the front.
“Hey, wait a minute, what’s this? Under the lining!”
“There is something there,” said Jean, excited.
He took a penknife out of his pocket. At Dana’s raised eyebrows, he shrugged. “In the bush it’s good. In the city maybe too.”
He slit the lining of the back cover and there they were, tucked away as if in an envelope, several sheets of folded paper.
The writing was still that of Thomas Gowan but it was scrawled and shaky; the hand of an old man.
In the Year of Our Lord 1901, I enclose this addendum to my Book of Dreams for the sake of posterity, and the one in the future who will come to read this.
“Oh.” Dana shivered. “A goose just walked over my grave.”
Before I set to paper the record of events which did happen on that day, I must duly confess. There have been times these past many years when I have doubted the substance and reality of that extraordinary day. Indeed I have often wondered if such fancies were not the inevitable result of plenteous sunshine and the imbibition of homemade liquor. The sun did shine gloriously upon that day and it must be said I had taken more than my usual glass of strong whiskey. Perhaps it was these doubts which stayed my hand from putting pen to paper till now. What then do I credit for the peculiar reluctance I have suffered at each attempt to broach the matter with my dearest Harriet? For not one small part of my life save this have I kept privy from my beloved helpmeet. In truth I am more inclined to believe that the thing itself has commanded my silence through the years, even as now it insists that I write.
I remember that day as if it were but yesterday. It has a place in my memory as rich and as vivid as anything that has happened to me before or since. I have called my journal the Book of Dreams in honor of that which has brightened my life. Herein lies the tale of the brightest dream of all.
It was the 12th day of July in the Year of Our Lord 1850, that day when Orangemen everywhere celebrate the Battle of the Boyne. I was not a member of the Purple Hill Lodge nor had I any interest in it, but I was happy to walk through the forest with my father and brothers to the Galloway farm. There we feasted and drank well into the day.
What was it that called me away from my companions and into the woods? There was something in the quality of the light that I remember. It was not yet twilight but I had noticed a change, a faint glimmering in the trees that impressed my eye. Then I heard the drumming, low and quick like a heartbeat. I turned to my brother seated beside me and asked him, “Do you hear the drums?” He laughed and did accuse me of consuming too much whiskey. I had taken a few glasses but not as many as the others. It was soon apparent to me that no one could hear the drums but I.
Here I will explain why it was with no great surprise or difficulty that I answered the call from the woods. In my childhood back home in Ireland, there were times when I heard a sweet music rise from the old spinney behind our house. I would follow the high piping sounds into the tangle of trees and there I would see swift darting shapes dance amongst the leaves. I knew better than to remark upon these strange occurrences. I accepted them as part of my own converse with Nature. Such moments came to me also in my new land. One time I stood on the shore of a dark lake far in the northern woods of Ontario, and I heard a loon cry my name. No matter where I have traveled, wherever I have gone, be it deep in the forests or high on the mountain tops or alone on the windy plains, I have heard the Voice which speaks in a tongue above that of mortal men.
So it was on this day that I recognized the call and I left the picnic and walked into the woods. The talk and laughter of my companions faded behind me and then disappeared. I was soon
lost in the forest of ancient white pine. The trees were like pillars in a great cathedral. The surge of wind in the branches was like the blast of an organ. I saw a deer leap ahead of me through the trees. Ravens cawed in the boughs overhead. When I heard the cry of wolves I grew anxious but still I continued on my way, following the drums.
It was not a wolf that awaited me on the forest path but an old Indian. He was a Chief, I knew, for he wore a fine blanket over his shoulders. At that time the Ojibway tribe still made their summer camp on the ridge south of Cashtown Corners. His blanket was a crimson red with various designs in black, depicting wolf and raven. His countenance was noble, but I knew by his pallor and the dullness of his eyes that a sickness was upon him. I sensed that he had not long to live.
Unlike many of my race, I am not repelled or frightened by the natives of this land. They are a proud and decent people, laid low by their encounter with us. It is the tragedy of human history that whenever two races meet, it must inevitably mean the downfall of one. The curse of Cain and Abel. Will we never meet as brothers and share the Earth?
I bowed my head to honor him, for he was a leader amongst his people and deserving of my respect.
“I do not speak your language,” I told him, with regret. “I know words of some of the northern and western tongues, but I have not dwelled long in these parts.”
The Chief raised his hand to end my apologia and replied in perfect and mellifluous English.
“I know your language. I have traveled a long way to meet you. You must do something for one of your family who is to come.”
On mature reflection, I remark with what readiness I accepted his words. No doubt or contest entered my mind, for deep in my heart I knew he spoke the truth. A profound silence had fallen over the woods, as if the moment were of such gravity it weighed upon the very trees. In that holy quiet there came to me a sudden and steadfast belief that it was not by chance or without purpose that I was born into the world. Whatever else I may have done or yet might do in the course of my life, this day would be the cornerstone. I had no doubt that it was ordained in that other Existence which I had experienced from time to time, that I was meant to meet this man and do his bidding.
I nodded my head to show my assent, for I seemed to have lost the power of speech. The Chief opened his arms wide, enfolding me in his blanket. To my utter astonishment and by some miracle or magic, his cloak had sprouted feathers to become the dark wings of a raven! How it came to be I cannot know, but we were then of a sudden transported from that place. Indeed we flew through the air as witches are said to do, and it took all my concentration not to swoon with terror.
Happily we did not traverse any great distance and soon alighted in a field. Despite my wonderment and the weak state of my mind, I recognized the place to which I was brought. I knew it at first glance to be one of Edward Webster’s allotments. On a low rise of land, it overlooked the hills that surrounded Creemore. Yet at the same time it was not Edward’s land. Upon it lay the shadow of something greater, a wide plain that shone with the lustrous light of the gloaming. At the heart of this plain stood the greatest marvel of all: a stone monument of stern grandeur. I had never seen its like in this country before, though they are numerous in my homeland. Yet not even the Old Country could boast one of this colossal stature. With its awesome pillars and capstone overhead, it looked for all the world like a giant’s doorway.
“I had a dream,” the old Chief said to me. “Listen, for this is sacred. With your blood you will seal the door today, so that only one of your kin may ever open it again.”
I do confess I was quite fearful when he produced a knife. I steeled myself for some dreadful sacrifice, but his eyes were mild and he looked kindly upon me. In the most gentlest of tones, he bade me make a cut in my finger and mark the stone.
This I did with little pain to myself.
There was a moment before I touched the stone doorway that I peered into its depths. What words could I use to describe what I saw? Only those from the Holy Book could do the scene justice. A fountain of gardens. A well of living waters. In that brightest of moments I stood at the threshold of a world so beauteous that it awoke in me the highest emotions of reverence and delight. Here was a Kingdom that revived the spirits and nourished the soul.
Alas, it was but a glimpse that I caught of that Land, for I had no sooner placed my injured finger upon the monument than the whole disappeared from sight.
Once more the old Chief wrapped his blanket around me and I was again engulfed in the softness of wings. When at last he set me back down in the Galloway woods, these were his parting words.
“There is one who will come many years from now, blood of your blood and blood of the Summer Country. She will follow your trail across the land. She will look in many places to find this secret and she will gain knowledge and power. If she proves true, the spirits will speak to her and they will give her many teachings. She will be a wind-walker, a dream-speaker, and the key to the door. All this you will tell her and a final message: ‘On the Plain of the Great Heart, where the living meet the dead, you will find the portal that will take you home.’”
Dazed and confounded, I made my way back to the picnic, but I soon left the festivities. At first I repeated in my mind all that I had seen and heard lest I forget. For no matter how often I attempted to record the events on paper, I proved unable to do so. As time passed my mind rested easy as I came to understand there was no fear of my forgetting. That day was burned upon my memory for all eternity.
And now here at last, as I sense permission and even persuasion, I do make my record for the one to come.
As a final note, I will add that before I took my leave of the Chief, I could not restrain myself from asking a question. He had come to meet me despite his grave illness. Why would he help those who were not of his tribe or people? Again I was struck by the kindness in his eyes, and I found his response most touching.
“We are all family.”
Thomas William Gowan
July 12, 1901
By the time they had finished reading, both Dana and Jean were dumbstruck.
Jean let out a low whistle.
“The Old Man! C’est certain!”
Dana nodded mutely. She couldn’t find her voice. Yet it wasn’t Grandfather’s presence in the past that left her speechless, but the meaning of his visit to her ancestor and the message he had left for her.
There was a portal that couldn’t be destroyed. A portal only she could open. And it was right here in Creemore!
“A portal in Creemore!”
Dana was in a daze. The news was almost too great to absorb. To think that her ancestor had recorded the secret for her all those years ago! A secret hidden in the past to protect the future, as if time meant nothing at all. The thought made her dizzy.
“Why don’t the Old Man tell us?” Jean wondered.
“Maybe he doesn’t know in this life,” Dana reflected. “Or maybe he felt I wasn’t ready to hear it. Because I didn’t belong to the land.”
Jean nodded thoughtfully. “These things are a mystère, n’est-ce pas? I hear him say, ‘It’s best I don’t tell and you learn for yourself.’”
They both laughed. Both were flushed and excited. They knew they were close to the heart of the quest.
“It is a mystery,” Dana agreed, “but we’re very close to solving it. Where do you think ‘the living would meet the dead’ in Creemore?”
They shouted the answer together.
“The graveyard!”
• • •
The Creemore cemetery was at the south end of the village, in a hilly wooded area beyond Collingwood Street. The site was sheltered on all sides by tall stands of pine. A bone-white pathway meandered through the rolling grounds. Tombstones of pink and white granite were scattered over the clipped grass. The view from the height took in the hills that cupped the valley in which Creemore nestled.
Hand in hand, Dana and Jean wandered through the cemetery,
looking for any sign that might indicate a portal or something magical.
Dana noticed immediately how many Gowans were there. Separation is our sorrow. To meet again our hope. Granda Faolan was buried among them. Gabriel Patrick Faolan 1931–1981. Fifty years old when he died. A terrible tragedy for his wife and children. Till the day break and the shadows flee away. Dana thought of her own father. Gabe was just her age when he lost his dad, while her aunts were only eleven and nine. It must have been so hard for them. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. For thou art with me.
Standing amid her ancestors, Dana felt something nag at the back of her mind. Something she was overlooking. In his journal, her great-great-grandfather said he recognized the place where the portal stood, yet he didn’t call it a graveyard. He said it was land belonging to Edward Webster, the village founder. Perhaps it wasn’t yet a cemetery at the time? But when it did become one … wouldn’t Thomas have chosen where he would be buried?
“Look for his grave!” she said suddenly to Jean. “Where Thomas is buried! That’s where the portal will be!”
She broke away and ran through the tombstones, checking the dates. According to Gran Gowan, Thomas had lived to a ripe old age. After building his new house at the age of seventy-seven, he had enjoyed it for more than a decade, dying at eighty-nine years old in 1913. The oldest graves held the oldest names, the pioneer families whose descendants still lived in the village. Along with the many Gowans were Giffens, Galloways, Kellys, Hoggs, Caseys, McDonalds, and Langtrys. When Dana finally found her great-great-grandfather’s grave, she knew she was right.
His memorial was striking and unusual, quite unlike any other. Instead of the customary square shape with a cross, it was an obelisk of white marble crowned with the sculpture of a bird in flight. Words from Psalm 91 were carved on the stone in curlicue lettering. He shall cover thee with his feathers and under his wings shalt thou trust. The names on the gravestone included Thomas Gowan and his beloved Harriet, as well as some of their children and grandchildren.
The Book of Dreams Page 38