The Witchin' Canoe

by Mel Bossa

  “Exactly.” McGauran clears his throat. “That isn’t a lie.” He takes a sip of his wine. “He just barged in this morning, after church. I was taking a bath and he just walked in.”

  “While you were…out of your clothes?” The vision of McGauran naked flashes through his mind and flusters him, but again, he shakes it off.

  “I heard him on the stairs. I barely had time to jump into my trousers.” McGauran frowns, looking troubled again. “He was very angry. Said you were cursed. That I was cursed, too.”

  Honoré stiffens in his seat. “He said I was cursed?”

  “It’s a lie. He doesn’t even know you.” McGauran drains his glass and a shadow moves across his features.

  Already, Honoré loathes that priest.

  McGauran sighs. “It’s not true, all right?”

  He won’t ruin this dinner. He tries to smile. “Yes, fine.”

  “You’re not cursed, Honoré. And neither am I. Now tell me, what happened with your uncle this morning? You said you’d tell me over dinner. You haven’t mentioned it yet.”

  After Bernard fetched him from the park, Honoré and his uncle had a terrible argument in the study. Harsh words were said and Honoré stormed out of the house, caught the first tram, heading straight to McGauran’s neighborhood. He waited for nearly an hour, on the corner of Ottawa and Young Street, trying to remain inconspicuous, until finally McGauran came out of his home. “Uncle wants me to go with him to our villa again this year. In Cacouna.”

  “What country is that?”

  “No, no, it’s not a country, but a little haven on the south bank of the Saint-Lawrence River, near Fraserville. All the big, self-important bankers and lawyers have a home there. Even the Molsons.”

  “You mean, like, Molson beer?”

  Honoré skims a fingertip along the edge of his crystal glass. “I told him that I’m not going with him this year. That he should have a little private holiday with his mistress and take Bernard with them. I can manage without them. Maggie and Fredeline are all the help I need. We’d have the house to ourselves for a month. Can you imagine the freedom?”

  “Oh, yes, I can imagine it, but I’m waiting to hear the rest of the story.”

  “I threw a tantrum and left before we’d reached a satisfying conclusion.”

  Finally, McGauran laughs and shakes his head at him. “Ah. I could have predicted that one pretty easily.”

  Staring at his silver cutlery, he hesitates, then says, “I don’t want to go. Because…well, because I’d miss you.” Has he said too much? He glances up.

  McGauran is staring at him, almost fiercely. “Oh, I’d miss you, too,” he whispers. “More than I can say here, with all these men watching us.”

  Honoré’s mouth drops open.

  “Honoré…”

  “Yes?”

  “Eat your bird. It’s getting cold.” McGauran winks. “Don’t worry about the rest. I’ll take care of it.”

  * * * *

  After that heavy dinner of fatty food and salty cheeses, McGauran needed to move. And the wine. He had way too much of it. The wine unties his tongue. Makes him feel amorous and carnal.

  They’ve been walking for hours, and he’s surprised at Honoré’s endurance. First, they headed south to Water Street and strolled through the old city’s cobblestone streets there. Then they went north to Craig Street and walked past the cattle market, stopping at the Viger Square, where they sat and talked for almost two hours while Honoré fed the pigeons with the bread he’d stashed away in his coat before leaving Ethier’s. They shared their thoughts on many subjects, including Honoré’s favorite: poetry and expression. After some coaxing, Honoré recited a few lines from an epic written by a blind Englishman named Milton. The poem is about Lucifer and his fall from Grace. The words were beautiful, but chilling.

  Does the Devil really exist? And if he does, is he in their hearts or not? Is what he feels for Honoré virtuous or malefic?

  They cross Papineau Road, still moving east, when Honoré slows down a little and points to the jail there, not too far away. Implacable and gray, the stone building faces the river. “That’s where they executed the patriots. De Lorimier and the others.”

  Yes, their rebellion didn’t last long. Those French and Irish men were foolish enough to believe in a cause only a few men ever truly understand. Freedom.

  “What do you think they were thinking of, that day on the gallows?” Already Honoré’s eyes glimmer with emotion. He seems to feel things so deeply all the time. “Knowing they only had a few more seconds left to live.”

  “It was February.” McGauran tries to lighten the mood. But he too, feels the tragedy of lives cut short and so unjustly. Honoré is always connecting him to his heart. Never allowing him to shrug anything off. “They were probably thinking it was cold,” he jokes, anyway.

  Honoré glances over at him and there’s a hint of reproach in his eyes. He clearly didn’t enjoy his attempt at humor.

  “I supposed they were thinking of the people they were leaving behind,” McGauran quickly adds, more seriously. “And if their cause was worth not ever seeing them again.”

  Honoré watches the prison with a pointed gaze. “I think their loved ones must have cherished them even more. For standing up. For defending their ideals.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” After a while, McGauran leans closer to Honoré’s ear. There’s something he has to say. “Those men fought for freedom. For the right to exist. For their beliefs and their language. But I can’t help but wonder if they’d ever fight for people like you and me.” There. He’s said it. He’s named what they are without saying the words. He watches for Honoré’s reaction. Will he deny it?

  Honoré moves away a little and speaks with downcast eyes. “Don’t you think that perhaps two of them…had a special friendship as we do?”

  He can’t help scoffing. Impossible. The thought alone seems ridiculous, but why? He can’t imagine soldiers or politicians committing those unnatural acts together. And yet, he’s a man like them and what he feels for Honoré isn’t unnatural to him. How he wishes he could express it. But instead, his thoughts turn to anger. “Yeah, well, whoever they were,” he says in a harsh voice, “you think they’d stand for men like us? No one has and no one ever will. So you should get you head out of your poetry books and start facing reality, Honoré.” The words are coming fast now, unleashed from his deepest fears and he can’t stop himself. “One of these days, that Wilde poet you keep telling me about, will end up in a place just like that.” He lifts his chin to the prison. “And so will you, if you don’t start thinking with your head.”

  Honoré looks up at him with wide eyes, his lips parted. He seems shocked. Hurt, too.

  McGauran has to be the stronger one. “What you and I are doing, the way we’ve been sneaking away like this, is already putting you at risk. I have nothing, so I risk nothing. If they find out about me, I’ll be excommunicated. Fair enough. I can always find religion in my heart. But you, you’ll be put away, so your family name can still carry some weight in the city.” He lowers his voice. “I don’t want to be responsible for your demise. Don’t you get it? I couldn’t take it. Couldn’t live with myself. I don’t want to bear another burden. I carry enough on my shoulders as it is.”

  Honoré is now staring at him with a painful, sorrowful expression.

  “Please,” McGauran whispers. “Go to the summer house with your uncle and I’ll leave for the camps soon, and we’ll save each other.”

  “I never touch you, not even a slight pat of my hand, unless you do first. I’ve been respectable, haven’t I?” Honoré looks away, staring down at the street. After what seems to be forever, he smooths his fine coat down and looks at him. “I don’t want to be a burden to you. I know how hard you work. How exhausted you must be. I’m sorry for keeping you up this late.” He digs into the inside of his coat. “Let me see how much I have left and I’ll pay for your ride home.” He drops a few coins on the street and quick
ly bends down to pick them up. “Here,” he stammers, fumbling. “I think that there’s ten or more sous—”

  “Oh, Honoré, wait. Wait. I’m a fool. Forgive me, please.” Why did he say such things? Heresy. All of it. McGauran takes Honoré’s hands and presses them inside his. “Please. You’re not a burden. You’re not.” He looks around to make sure no one is watching and touches Honoré’s face. “How could you ever be? You’re the most gentle, generous man I ever known. Look, I’m so sorry I said those words. I didn’t mean them. I just—I get so confused. So protective of you and—”

  “J’te comprends plus que tu penses.” Honoré throws his arms around him, letting go of the coins that go spilling around the street. “Mais, moi j’suis tellement épris de toi,” he says in French, the words coming so fast, McGauran can’t keep up, “et j’sais pu à quel saint m’vouer pour te garder près de moi, pis j’ai peur de devenir fou, pis que tu m’vois pour ce que j’suis vraiment, un fils de riche, un p’tit bourgeois mal élevé. J’suis certain qu’ils vont m’interner—”

  “Whoa. Hey. Hey. I’m not following you. Slow down.”

  “Sorry…” Honoré sniffles a little and smiles. “You want Shakespeare and I’m giving you Molière.”

  “You said something about saints and madness?” In the distance, not too far away, a horse-drawn tram is coming. McGauran squats to gather the scattered coins. “Let’s catch that tram, all right?” He stands and pushes the money back into Honoré’s hand. “Your feet must be hurting in those fancy boots.”

  “I could have walked for much longer.”

  “Well, can you run?” He takes off south.

  They hurry, side by side, running down to Saint-Antoine Street where the horse car is making its stops. Then when the tram is in sight, Honoré touches McGauran’s arm. He’s a little winded. “What I said was that I didn’t know which saint to pray to to keep you at my side.”

  “No, you don’t need to pray for that.” McGauran hails the tram. There’s no time for more words. They hop on, and after Honoré has paid the conductor, make their way to the back and sit, but not together. McGauran is seated a row behind Honoré and watches his profile move in and out of the shadows as the tram passes streetlamps. He has to tell him something true. Something kind. His heart is ready to blow.

  The French words he knows are rough working man words. Or obscenities his neighborhood friends taught him. He doesn’t know any poetry, but he’s going to try his best to string a few simple words together. He leans in to Honoré’s seat, hoping not to make too much of a fool of himself. “Honoré…” The sound of the wheels grinding against the rails will keep his words private.

  Honoré looks over his shoulder with a raised brow. “Yes?” he mouths the word.

  He’s never felt so vulnerable. “Tu es—” he stops, sucking in a breath. “No, no, wait. That’s not the right word. Not tu es. Tu as.” He feels like crying. “Tu as mon coeur dans tes belles mains…”

  Honoré turns around in his seat and looks at him with expressive eyes, soaked in moonlight. He parts his lips as if to respond, but a man coughs and he quickly sits properly again, going back to watching the street.

  Exhilarated, McGauran leans back in his own seat and remembers Father Hayes’s threats and demands for a confession. Well, tonight he did confess, and at last, unburdened his soul to someone worthy of it.

  Chapter 13: Whispers and Ladies of the Night

  Quietly, Honoré unlocks the side door, and on tiptoe, enters the dark and silent kitchen. On the clean table, a candle was left burning for him and he knows it’s Fredeline’s way of showing him that she cares. Or it could be a warning, too. When he removes his boots, he’s careful not to make any noise. Carrying them, he walks gingerly through the kitchen, and stops to blow the candle out, before entering the hallway. As he continues down the hall, avoiding those creaky planks in the floor, McGauran’s words echo through his mind. Tu as mon coeur dans tes belles mains.

  You have my heart inside your beautiful hands.

  Who does he have to thank in Heaven, if Heaven does exist, for putting McGauran O’Dowd on his path? His mother? God? All the angels and saints?

  As he ascends the staircase, his spirits rise with every step, but on the second floor, on his way to his bedroom, he slows down. Should he check on his father tonight? Tell him all about this wonderful miracle that has happened to him?

  At last, he’s found a true friend. A man who shares his own nature. A man whose strength and pride are equally matched with vulnerability and intelligence. The future is a bright star beckoning him again. They will rush to it together. With McGauran at his side, there’s nothing left to fear.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  Jostled by his uncle’s gruff voice, Honoré turns to find Gédéon standing in the hallway, clad in his magenta housecoat. His hair is wild and the light of the ornate globe on the wall cast a shadow on his face, revealing only his bloodshot eyes and narrow nose.

  “I lost track of time,” Honoré stammers, clutching his dusty boots to his chest. “I’m sorry if I woke you.” Do they have to argue tonight? Can’t it wait until morning? He yearns to be alone in the dark and think of McGauran, of his last words to him tonight. He hopes to be pierced by them, so deeply, they leave a scar on his soul.

  “You ran off and were out with O’Dowd all day and evening, weren’t you?”

  He remembers what Mark Twain said about the truth. He too, will only tell it to the people worthy of hearing it. And lately, his uncle isn’t one of those people. “I went to see a music concert at the gardens and met a—a lady there. She was with her mother and sister and they invited me to join them for dinner. I thought you’d be excited about my mingling with proper society.”

  “Honoré Louis Hippolyte, what am I going to do with you?” Gédéon stumbles up to him, his shoulder colliding with the wall, shaking the globes that keep switching on and off, plunging the hall into darkness from time to time. “My God, I should have whipped you when you were a boy and put some discipline into you, but I was soft and now look at us.”

  Outside, a dog barks aggressively, and at the sound of it, Honoré steps back into the black hall, suddenly a little fearful. There’s something unpleasant in his uncle’s eyes. Something as threatening as the mouth of a well. “You should be proud you never hurt me,” he sputters, taking another step back. “You’re a decent man.” He turns for his bedroom, hoping that’s the last of it. “Good night.”

  “I’m not a decent man, you little fool!” The globes light up and Gédéon grabs his shoulder and then forcibly turns him around. His breath smells of cognac and cigars. “There are things about me you don’t know,” he slurs, “and I can only pray that you’ll never find them out, but my prayers—” he squeezes Honoré’s shoulder harder, “—oh, God,” he yells now, “what are the prayers of a cursed man? Do you think I can ask God to help me? Do you? No, Honoré! It’s you and I here, and there’s no one else, no guardian angel, no deity, pagan or Christian who will save me—who will save you—if you don’t come to your senses and break this vile friendship off!” Gédéon runs his hands over his own face and smooths his hair back. “Have you given him what he wants?” he asks, more quietly. “Have you?”

  All these riddles. These secrets. Honoré’s head is swimming. “Given him what?”

  “Don’t play naive and coquette, please. There’s no time for that. Have you or have you not committed beastly and unnatural acts with O’Dowd?”

  For a moment, he sees himself slapping his uncle, but he stares at him instead, fiercely and proudly. “How dare you?”

  Gédéon briefly shuts his eyes and then gives him a remorseful look. “Forgive me.” Now his countenance has changed. He seems himself again. He hesitates and touches Honoré’s shoulder. “Please. I—I’ve overstepped myself. Forgive me.”

  Outside, somewhere around the house, a dog howls, and frantic to lock himself up in the safety of his room, Honoré retreats into the hall again
. “I’ve taken my piano,” he says in a shaky voice. “My mathematical and rhetoric lessons. I’ve learned my Roman history, my French literature and English poetry. Greek and Latin, I mastered, too. Uncle, for fifteen years, I’ve been nothing but docile and well-behaved.” He raises his chin. “Haven’t I? Well, I won’t lose this. I won’t give up this friendship. I just won’t. I’d rather die.”

  “Die? And what do you think will happen to your soul then?” Gédéon stares at him, tears forming in his eyes. He seems about to come undone.

  Honoré can’t help reaching out to him. “What is it, Uncle? Why are you so sad? I won’t make it public. Won’t stain our name.”

  “Damn it, boy, I don’t care so much about our name. Our blasted reputation!” He grabs Honoré’s face. “It’s you I care about, don’t you see? You. It’s always been about you. Everything I’ve done since that night. That cursed New Year’s Eve. And I can’t let him have you. I won’t let him take you. You’re too precious. Too talented to be his goddamn prize and—”

  “Who? Who is taking me anywhere? McGauran?”

  “No, not that thick-headed, hot-blooded, up-to-no-good Irishman.” Gédéon grabs his face again, more gently this time, but his eyes are gleaming with fever, or something else.

  Something Honoré can’t understand. “Then who?” he breathes, a chill running up his neck.

  “I’m afraid to name it. To conjure it.”

  “Gédéon, enough.” Fastening his green housecoat, Bernard is rushing to them. He nearly trips on his house shoes. “You’ve had too much rum and cognac.” He puts his arm around Gédéon’s shoulder. “Now, come to bed. We’ll deal with this in the morning.” He looks at Honoré. “Your uncle is overworked and in need of a vacation.”