by Mel Bossa
The moment the question leaves his lips, he feels a change in the air. The dog sniffs and tips its head, its gleaming eyes searching the trees.
When the man steps into the small clearing, McGauran stops breathing. The man wears a caped Ulster coat. A high hat. But his face. He can’t make out his face. How is that possible? The features are undecipherable. He’s at once Gédéon, and at once every other man McGauran has ever seen. He’s John Baldwin. Old man Waits. His father. Mister Callaghan. Linus. Bernard. On and on, his face morphing into these men he’s known. Even Father Hayes makes an appearance. The effect is so confusing, so terrifying, that McGauran refuses to look into the man’s face again. The dog trots up to his master and now McGauran understands.
It’s come to this. Has he always known it would? He was warned, wasn’t he? Many times, he was told that his soul was on the road to perdition. And here, at the crossroad, he’s willing to give it up. And so easily, too. Oh, but Honoré is worth eternal damnation. Will Hell be as cruel and horrifying as Father Hayes says it is? Will it feel like burning on a pyre forever and ever? In exchange for his soul, will this demon grant him a life, here on earth, with Honoré?
The man in the top hat hasn’t moved. Yet, McGauran senses that he has to make a decision or lose this chance.
A life with Honoré. Forty years. Fifty. Maybe sixty if he’s lucky.
That will be enough.
McGauran takes a step forward, and understanding what he’s about to do, puts a hand over his heart. “You want my…soul in exchange for his,” he says in a shaky voice, “you can have it. Just take me to Honoré. Tonight. Now.”
But the thing recoils a little, tilting his head, eyes turning to angry slits in the dark. At his feet, the dog barks aggressively.
He seems to have offended the demon. McGauran speaks again, but not looking directly at its face. “I’m offering you my soul in exchange for Honoré’s.” Saying the words gives him courage.
The dog growls, baring his teeth. The man retreats even further.
“What? What is it?” He hears the panic in his own voice. “What do you want, huh? That’s all I have to offer!”
The man moves back again, until he’s almost completely out of view.
“No, wait. Wait.” He searches his mind for what to say or do. What does it want? What’s the price of this ride? Then it comes to him. The dream. The nightmare…
“You want something else. Well, get me back to Montreal tonight,” he says, straightening up. “And I’ll make sure you get your ferryman.”
The man steps forward a little, tilting his head.
“But I won’t let you have Honoré.”
The man’s teeth flash and McGauran realizes that the demon grinned at him. It sends a shiver down his spine. “Now where’s this goddamn canoe?” he asks, trying to sound brave through his fear. “And how fast does it travel? I’m a hundred and thirty miles from the city.”
But the man in the top hat has vanished.
“Wait. Wait!” McGauran searches the dark cluster of trees and then something compels him to look over his shoulder at the clearing. There, the dog is running back and forth excitedly, sniffing the ground.
Slowly, the wind dies. The rustling of the needles ceases.
He wants to see, and yet is afraid to look. Vapor has begun to drift up through the snow.
He knows what will happen. What he’ll have to do.
And resigned to his fate, McGauran waits to meet it.
Chapter 30: La Chasse Galerie
The ground shakes, and instinctively, McGauran steps back a little, but keeps his attention on the vapor now turning to thick steam shooting up from the ground.
The dog whimpers and barks, then dashes back to him and sits at his feet. The snow is melting into a perfect circle, about twelve feet in diameter, forming a black sphere of dirt. The ground quakes under McGauran’s boots, so violently, that he nearly falls, but steadies himself against a tree, watching the earth cough up dirt and smoke. He looks over his shoulder at the forest—but, no, the man is still out of sight. When he looks back at the circle of steam and mud, he sees a crevasse has ripped the ground, and at that moment, the dog howls.
McGauran briefly shuts his eyes. Lord, stay with me. Be with me. Don’t abandon me.
There’s a sound, like a thunderclap, and the earth cracks open. Time seems to speed. Something is forcing its way out of the earth’s womb. He wants to look away, but his eyes remain wide and fixed to the tip of the canoe slowly emerging from the slit in the soil. The boat is straining, pushing, and ripping through dirt, while old tree roots tangle around it, and McGauran can feel the earth contract under his boots as the slit in the soil widens a little, allowing the canoe to emerge another few feet. He searches the trees ahead, but no one has come looking for him. Can’t they hear the terrible noise the earth is making as she births this evil vessel? Half of the canoe is now visible above ground. He can see its stern and stern seat. It’s an express canoe, fit for four to eight men, with a canvas-less shallow hull. Dirt and mold cover its flank, and he watches in awe as it forces its way in one last magnificent attempt to free itself from its earthly confinement. For a moment, the canoe is vertically suspended, bow pointing to the forest floor. Nothing holds it. It’s…floating.
McGauran’s mind strains to understand. He blinks and hesitates, his curiosity pulling him forward, but as he takes a shy step, the canoe suddenly—and with a great noise—flips to the horizontal position, and then suspended over the earth, begins to descend to it. This stops him in his tracks. The boat doesn’t touch the ground. It stops a few inches close to the earth and remains there, rocking gently, as though it landed on water.
McGauran stands close, with the dog at his side, and lets out a little air from his lungs. Around him, the pine needles begin to shiver again and the wind picks up. He stares at the suspended canoe. Dirt and moss fall from its sides in big wet chunks, like afterbirth, and soon, the boat is clean—not a spot of soil or snow on it. It gleams under the wan moonlight, and he can see the symbols, those very symbols he’d glimpsed in his nightmare, carved all along its sleek body. The canoe steams. It seems to be warm, hot, even. He swallows dryly. What now?
He has to get to Honoré. That’s all that matters. And this—this wicked thing—will have to take him there. Gathering his courage, McGauran steps closer. Nothing happens, so he takes another step. When he’s standing right above the vessel, he listens closely. Is that water he hears? Yes, water gently splashing against the canoe. He examines the boat. It’s a fine thing, made of birch bark.
He decides to touch it. Under his hand, the canoe feels warm and smooth. The dog has trotted up to him and now starts to circle the boat. Then the beast jumps into it, causing the canoe to rock back and forth, and McGauran steps back a little, startled. He can’t seem to make the decision.
The dog barks at him, louder this time.
“All right. All right.” He inhales sharply. It’s time. He can’t delay this infernal ride any longer. Cautiously, McGauran grips the body of the canoe, right by the bow seat, and waits. The dog jumps up on its hind legs and licks his face, causing the canoe to rock harder. “Whoa. Hey. Careful.”
The dog sniffs the air and suddenly turns quiet. It lies at the bottom of the hull with its tail tucked between its legs. Frowning, McGauran glances over his shoulder at the dark pines. He feels watched. Yes, that demon is out there, waiting. Slowly, he climbs into the canoe and kneels in it. It sways under him. He remembers the flood in April. His thoughts that day. How he’d dreamed of freedom. Of escaping.
And now here he is, in a goddamn canoe again.
He looks around for the paddle but finds none. Obviously, he won’t be in control of anything. Then the canoes creaks and tips sharply to the right. A weight settles behind him, on the stern seat. He wants to look back, but when he moves his head, a voice inside his head commands him not to.
He knows the man behind him is no longer a man. And a glimpse of his unworl
dly face would break his mind forever. Trying to hold on to his faith, his courage, his love, McGauran clutches the sides of the canoe and throws his chin up. “I’m ready,” he says in a strange voice. But is he?
Rules.
He hears the man’s voice inside his mind.
“Yes, I know the rules. No, religious things—symbols. Relics.” McGauran tries to speak more calmly. “No touching church towers. No cursing either, and I have to be back here by—” But wait, no, he can’t be back by dawn! He can’t be back here at all. Ever. Honoré needs him there, by his side. “Please, I have to ask you if—” But the canoe has begun to shake under him. “Wait! I have to ask you if we can bend one of the rules.” His voice is lost in the wind as the canoe quakes and starts to lift. “I need to break one of the rules!” he yells now, against the noise of whipping air and snow. It’s too late. Too late! The canoe is rising and rising, and McGauran hunkers down closer to the bottom of the hull, peering over the side, gripping the edge so hard it cuts the blood flow to his fingers.
Then, midway between the forest floor and the top of the pines, the canoe pauses. Hovering, it gently sways from side to side as though on an invisible current. McGauran looks down at the ground, and his heart lifts into his mouth. Before he can prepare himself, the canoe jolts and shoots up at a speed that is incomprehensible to him. His body feels heavier than it’s ever felt before and his head spins. The last branches of the tallest trees begin to whip the canoe’s sides, snapping and cracking against the outer hull, sending needles and snow into the air and on his face. McGauran shields his eyes with his arm. Can’t breathe. There’s nothing under him. The pit of his stomach is rising into his throat as he desperately tries to keep his balance and wits. He kneels lower inside the boat, hiding from the brutal wind roaring into his ears, and immediately feels warmer. The hull is wet with mist, the snow melting as soon as it touches the canoe’s magical wood.
Bowing down, he dares to open his eyes. The dog is lying near him. It appears to be sleeping soundly, unaffected by this diabolical flight, and this gives McGauran a little courage. Enough to allow himself a glimpse over the canoe’s edge. The wind whistles, and when he raises his head, just above the side, the force of the cold air slaps his skin. The canoe is moving faster than any train he’s ever been on. It must be going fifty leagues an hour. At this speed, he could be in Montreal in less than an hour! His pounding heart skips a few beats and he can’t help rejoicing at the thought. He dares to rise a little higher, and when he does, his hair is whipped back by the wind. It’s hard to breathe, but he can manage small intakes of air through his nose, and slowly, very slowly, the fear and panic begin to recede. Amazed, McGauran glances down at the sea of blackness beneath him. “Oh, Lo—” but he catches himself. Almost broke a rule. The close call makes him shudder. He must be careful. Alert. Now is not the time to make any foolish mistakes.
Gripping the side, McGauran leans his chin on his arm, and through misty eyes, watches the ground below. The tree tops are mere black dots rushing by under him. At times, flashes of white appear where the forest thins. When he spies a few flickering lights speckling in the darkness below, he knows they’re flying over the shanty store, and he tenses. Will people see? Can they see? Before he knows it, the lights are gone and the ocean of blackness washes over the world again. He looks at his hand—it’s glowing white. How? He raises his head yet a little more, and that’s when he sees her. The moon. To his left—a white crescent, a piece of glass cutting through a black velvet cape. Her milky beams paint the canoe silver and bathes his skin. McGauran’s heart begins to quiet. Even the wind seems to have died down. The beauty of this moment, this impossible moment, washes over him and he chuckles, tears welling up in his eyes.
The silence. The vastness. The purity of the air. How can this be happening to him?
No noise, no threat, no man, can reach him here. He’s never been this free. He listens to the gentle shivering of the canoe, as it glides, fast and steady, slicing the air like a sharp blade, finding no resistance in the night at all.
McGauran’s fingers loosen on the wood and as he grows calmer, the warmth of the hull rises around his calves, knees, thighs, heating his body. The snow on his coat is steaming, melting off. The frost in his hair and beard is turning to warm water that mingles with his tears. He wipes his cheeks and looks over the side of the lighted canoe. Below is the world he’s craved to see for so long. If he focuses, he can make out certain details. But they’re so far up, it’s difficult to see. Then slowly, as though it’s read his mind, the canoe begins to descend, bow first, and McGauran cringes a little, holding on tight, but the decline is so gentle that he barely feels it at all. Is that thing behind him, that demon, offering him a better view?
As the air gets warmer around him, he can make out the tree tops again. He smells the pines, and their fresh green scent envelops him. Soothes him. It’s so much like Honoré’s perfume.
Honoré! Soon. Very soon! He’ll never let him go again. He’ll give him everything. Everything!
Then below, the river. Yes, the Outaouais River is a shiny black snake slithering across the dark mass of the earth. The canoe is following it. They fly above the moonlit water and McGauran knows where this river leads. Home.
No longer scared, he takes in the view. It’s magnificent. The world, though shrouded in darkness, is the most beautiful gift to mankind. He knows it now. Feels it so deeply. There’s the forest beneath him, full of mystery and life, and there, to his left, dark boulders—mountains—rising out of the ground like the backs of giants, and below, fifty feet away, a lake, a blanket of silver and blue, hiding thousands and thousands of fish and creatures he’s never seen and probably never will. He spots a fire by the west bank of the lake and can almost smell the meat smoking on the stick. The canoe whizzes by a group of silhouettes dancing around the fire and he can’t help yelling out to them, though he knows they can’t hear him. “I’m riding with the Devil!” He laughs and grips the side tighter, leaning out of the canoe, gulping in the air greedily, laughing harder and harder, his voice getting lost in the roar of the wind. His head is splitting open like an egg shell, and great ideas, bigger thoughts than he’s ever had before, come pouring into his mind.
This is the world and it belongs to all! He can have it. He can travel it. He can go beyond the limits that have been drawn by other men.
For long minutes, McGauran is transfixed, staring at the vastness of the sky, his gaze jumping from star to star. Is that a planet out there? Jupiter or maybe Mars? This universe is infinite. He is infinite. The canoe flies, and finally he understands what that poet, that Walt Whitman poet Honoré so adores, meant when he wrote that a man was multitude. He is multitudes! His dreams are stars in his own universe. Too many to count.
The canoe gains speed and McGauran leans back, resuming his safe position inside the hull. Below, the lake starts to turn to earth and when he looks ahead, the sight of the Mount Royal, though still far away, snatches the breath out of him. They’ve reached the island and are flying south, towards the Saint-Lawrence River, but when he tries to see, the wind and snow blind him. After minutes of this race, the boat begins to slow down again and McGauran wipes his eyes, peering at the scene below. It’s the port! And there’s that church, Notre-Dame de Bon Secours, with its open armed statue welcoming him home. Before he realizes it, the canoe is whizzing over the market place where he and Honoré used to get lost on Sunday afternoons. Then as the boat maneuvers its way up the Place d’Armes Square, rushing over late-night New Year’s Eve travelers who never look up, McGauran holds his breath, his senses sharpening. Right in front of him stands the Notre-Dame Cathedral and they’re heading straight for it! “Oh, wait, wait, careful!” he screams, but the canoe goes racing between the church towers, nearly grazing the right one with its flank. The Notre-Dame Cathedral! A testament of the Catholic Church. Of its power over the city. Of its iron will over the people. And he flew right between those towers! Like a bat! How incredi
ble. Him.
Then suddenly, the canoe makes a sharp turn, heading back south. Why? This isn’t the way. “Where are you taking me?” he yells in the wind, catching his breath. But when he sees the mess of train tracks below, he understands. Right there beneath him is everything he’s ever known. McGauran can see the Lachine canal from here. The very canal that’s ruled his people’s existence ever since they dug it. And there on the horizon, are the factory chimneys spitting gray smoke that blackens his mother’s lungs. Below is the basin where he slaved away this summer for a salary that barely covered his rent. As the canoe flies over his quarter, McGauran’s throat tightens with bitterness. Those narrow dirt streets he played in as a child are nothing but a series of connecting channels barely wide enough to allow a horse buggy, and those tiny red-bricked homes, rows and rows of them, are so much alike he can’t tell them apart. Everything is small. Meek. Was that his world? Was that where he grew up? Where he toiled and lived and dreamed and hoped? He’s not going to die there. “I understand!” he screams, almost turning around to look at the demon, but stopping himself. “Now get me out of here! Take me to Honoré!”
The canoe flies over Wellington Street and slowly shifts direction, pointing its bow north. Soon, they’re far above the city again, and McGauran’s eyes widen as he takes in the view of the streets he used to walk every night to reach the Saint-Louis Square. There, a little away, are the Grand Trunk offices, and to his right, he can see all the banks and hotels, those massive edifices of stone and marble, where the rulers of the world, those self-appointed princes of finances, meet every day to decide the price of what he unloads at the docks. Understanding the order of things, McGauran looks up at the city stretching before him. It’s a tapestry of new and old buildings, of dwellings, street lamps, tram tracks, carriages, scaffolds, wires, and poles. Yes, everywhere something is being built, raised, repaired. The city is growing, pushing against the majestic mountain, and to the east, he can make out the factories looming over that new neighborhood they call Hochelaga. But above all this, he finds that on nearly every corner, in every quarter, there’s a church steeple standing, watching over everything and everyone. If every bell in every tower should ring at once, the sound could reach Heaven.