by Mel Bossa
Those words give him strength. Yes, he must be brave for McGauran. He carefully moves from under McGauran and Bernard helps him out of bed. Strangely enough, there’s no dizziness. As a matter-of-fact, he doesn’t feel weak at all. His head is clear. He’s neither thirsty nor hungry. “I can walk,” he whispers, taking a few steps. “Quite easily, too.”
“Yes, there you are. Good as new.” Holding his elbow, Bernard leads him into the hallway. As they step out of the room, the ornate globes on the walls light up all at once. Bernard clutches his arm and looks around with a dazzled expression. “The house…”
“What’s happened? The wiring has been fixed then?” He tries to remember, but all that emerges from the recesses of his mind, is a long cold night that seemed to stretch forever.
“No, Honoré, look!” Bernard points to the hardwood floor under Honoré’s sock-clad foot. “Take another step.”
He obeys Bernard, and watches in awe, as everywhere his feet touch, the wood regains his luster. He and Bernard lock eyes, and thrilled, Honoré laughs. He hesitates and then presses his hand to the wall. Under his fingers, the dull, torn paper is returning to its original clean egg-white color. Incredulous and excited, Honoré goes from wall to wall, pressing his hand to the paper, touching the curved-legged hall table as he passes it, grazing each golden frame on the walls, while behind him, Bernard sputters exclamations. At the top of the stairs, Honoré pauses to gaze down at the dark landing below, a shiver of remembrance crawling up his back. His plants. The piano. Could it have been real? He turns to look at Bernard.
Bernard raises his chin to the grand staircase. “Keep going,” he whispers.
Solemnly, Honoré begins to descend the stairs. At each step, the worn red carpet turns soft and lush under his feet. “Look,” he says, now running down. At the bottom of the stairs, above his head, the chandelier bulbs flicker. He stares up, and all at once, the chandelier’s many lights turn on, illuminating the long hall all the way to the vestibule.
“Oh, Honoré.” Bernard clutches his shoulders. “The curse has been lifted.”
“How?” But he doesn’t wait for an answer. Feeling warm and pumped with new life, Honoré dashes from room to room, and everywhere he enters, lights turn on, yes, before his very eyes, furniture, rugs, couches, drapes and trinkets, are being restored. It happens all so quickly, he can barely take it in before the transformation is completed. In the main parlor, a fire burns in the hearth once more. He runs off into the hall, but when he reaches the music room, stops short in the doorway, afraid to face the devastation.
Behind him, Bernard is catching his breath.
Snow still covers the piano’s high polished top. The keys are frozen, some heavily damaged. All the plants have wilted and died. When Honoré steps forward, the ice in the rug cracks. “I thought I’d dreamed it.” He slowly walks in, but nothing happens. “Can it be saved?” he asks, glancing back at Bernard.
“This is the heart of the house. Yours.” Bernard points to the piano. “Play…”
On the corner of a couch, Honoré spots his uncle’s magenta housecoat and his heart twists into a tight fist inside his chest. “Where is he?”
Bernard slowly walks into the damp and dark room. His eyes brim with tears again. “He will be back. Have faith. Please.”
“But where is he?” Honoré searches Bernard’s face.
“Honoré, there was a price to pay.” Bernard steps closer and tries for his hand. “And he paid—”
“No, what?” He looks around the room and back at Bernard. “What do you mean?”
“It was you or him, Honoré.” Bernard grabs his face and makes him look at him. “Listen to me.”
“No, no—”
“Listen to me. Please. Your uncle is alive, but must fulfill his contract, do you understand? And his soul—” Bernard sighs out and releases him, “—well, his soul could be saved. Perhaps. One day. Who knows these things, but God?” He gazes out into space for a moment and looks back at Honoré. “Father Hayes heard his confession. Administered the last rites.”
“My uncle agreed to see a priest?” His uncle had made his life difficult, very difficult, in the last year, but before that, he’d been…his friend and guardian. “Did he confess to—”
“He confessed to everything. Everything, Honoré.” Bernard touches his face again. “Including the pain and torment he’d caused you in the last year.”
Thoughts spiral around his mind and contrasting emotions of relief and guilt wrestle inside his heart. “What happened last night?” Honoré finally asks, shivering from the cold air still lingering in the room.
“After it had been decided you were to be saved at whatever the cost, your uncle spent an hour with Father Hayes, and I was excluded from that room. When he came out, he was no longer…himself.”
“No,” Honoré pleads, though he knows it’s too late. He remembers his uncle’s words that night, in the hall. Gédéon had told him he was precious to him. Precious. “Oh, God,” he moans, covering his face. “I’ve sent him to hell.”
“No, Honoré, no. Not you.” Bernard pulls his hands off his face. “In the end, you may have saved his soul. Only time will tell. But please, please have faith. God reunites those who love one another.”
That thought comforts him a little and he nods, looking into Bernard’s eyes. “You came back for me,” he whispers. “Your sister…died.”
“Not my sister, my boy.” Bernard fights back a sob and squeezes Honoré’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you one day soon. And of course I came back. I love—” But Bernard stops, obviously too emotional to go on.
Honoré looks around at the room. What happened here last night? What sorcery?
“I don’t recall anything of that night,” Bernard says, reading his mind. “Only waking up at first light. There, on that chair.”
“And the priest?”
“Father Hayes asked your uncle for his forgiveness. He felt responsible for what happened that night, at the shanties all those years ago. He believed he could have stopped Gédéon from summoning that wicked canoe.” Bernard shakes his head as though trying to extract a memory. “This morning, I rushed up the stairs and found you sound asleep. With McGauran lying as he was when you woke.”
McGauran.
A wave of heat rolls over Honoré and he stares over Bernard’s shoulder. McGauran never wrote him, as he promised he would. So why did he come back?
“I sent McGauran an urgent message. Do you understand? I told him you were going to be interned and it’s my fault he rode that bewitched boat.”
“He wanted to get to me before the morning? He gambled his soul for me? For me?”
“Why, yes.” Bernard smiles a little. “Yes.”
“But he never wrote me. Not a word. He knew his silence would send me into despair.”
“He wrote you.” Bernard takes his hand. “Many letters. Long letters.”
Honoré briefly shuts his eyes, a flash of anger warming his chest. “Uncle?” He stares at the piano. “How could he do that to me?”
“Honoré.” Bernard squeezes his shoulder. “There’s nothing left to be said or done. But that man upstairs, asleep in your bed, risked eternal damnation to hear your music once more.” He tosses his chin up at the piano. “So, please, for him, for me…Play.”
McGauran wrote to him. He kept his promise. He wrote to him.
“Then in that case,” Honoré whispers, the emotion rising inside him like the tide, “I think this will do.” He sits on the icy bench and the wood begins to warm under him. “Oh,” he cries out, looking over his shoulder at Bernard. “That’s pleasant enough.” His hands hover over the keys, and soon, his flexed fingers descend. The first notes are slightly discordant and he stops, then tries again. “Rusty, I think.”
“Play!” Bernard orders, shaking him gently. “Now!”
And he does, the melody coming back to him note by note, chord by chord. His fingers remember everything, and he watches them, almost in awe, a
s they dance across the ivory keys. The piano has never been better tuned, its sound so profound and vibrant, and as Honoré plays, the temperature in the room rises. Colors begin to burst, everything glittering again, and when he raises his eyes, he can’t help crying out, “My plants! They’re alive!” But still, he plays Tchaikovsky’s beautiful, heart wrenching music, the notes filling the renewed room—appeasing his bruised heart. He glances at the repaired oval mirror on the piano top. Behind him, the room is empty. Bernard has left him.
Alone, Honoré continues to play, throwing everything he feels into the recital. From grief to alleviation, he expresses it all, and with time, the music opens a door inside him. He runs into that space, that space only he can enter, and safe inside himself, forgets reality. Now, he is elsewhere. Nothing can reach him here, save for beauty and truth.
But after minutes of this wonderful fugue, he feels watched. Something is pulling him back to earth. Fearful, he flicks his gaze to the mirror on the piano and his hands fumble across the keys, wrecking the melody.
Resting his wide shoulder on the door jamb, McGauran watches him with fiery dark eyes and a devilish smile.
Chapter 33: Blessed Are the Ones…
“Lean back a little more.” Bernard rinses the blade in the warm water in the porcelain basin and presses it to McGauran’s foamy cheeks again. “Ah, finally, your face is emerging out of all that red hair.”
They’re in Bernard’s modest room and McGauran shifts in the chair, leaning his head back as Bernard asked. He must admit it. This shave feels great. Almost as good as that hot bath full of scented oils he regretfully had to leave. Maybe now Honoré will kiss him, or at least, let him near him. Maybe it was his scruffy appearance that caused Honoré to stay away.
“Would you like me to cut your hair?” Bernard gently pats McGauran’s clean-shaven face with a cold linen wash cloth. “It’s gotten long around the ears and in the back.”
McGauran sits up, the chair creaking under his weight. A hair cut would be nice. “All right,” he says in a low voice. He checks the doorway behind Bernard. He’s only been away from Honoré for an hour, but already, his nerves dance. They haven’t…touched since his return.
“He’s fine,” Bernard says, reading his mind. He drapes a soft towelette around McGauran’s shoulders. “He hasn’t composed in months, that’s all.”
McGauran glances at the door again and can’t help saying a quick prayer. Lord, please, please, make him love me as he did before.
“This is how he copes. This is how he’s always coped.” Bernard briskly runs a comb through his hair, parting it. “With music and poetry. And remember, he’s been very ill in the last months, on the brink of death.” He looks into McGauran’s eyes. “He thought he’d lost you.”
McGauran tries to relax, but his muscles won’t cooperate. At times, that sensation of emptiness beneath him returns, and that ride, that incredible, indescribable ride, seems to be happening all over again. In his sleep. In moments of quietude. It’s been two days since his landing, and yet, he hasn’t quite landed.
“Now, have you thought of what I proposed?” Bernard begins to cut his red locks with small scissors. “Have you gotten an answer from him?”
Honoré has inherited the Latendresse estate and accounts. The house is his to sell or keep. All the family businesses, too.
“I think he’ll follow me out west.” McGauran gets a little thrill simply thinking about it. After what he witnessed that night, he could never remain in the city. No, he wants vastness again. But Honoré has to be at his side. Has to.
“Well, you’ll have all the money in the world, if that’s what you choose to do. You’ll have more land than you ever dreamed of.” Bernard steps back to assess his work. His eyes are veiled with sadness. “And it will be good for him.” He nods. “Very good,” he repeats, his voice dimming.
“It’ll be good for all of us,” McGauran says, without hesitation. He already knows Honoré secretly wishes what he’s about to ask Bernard. “You’d come with us, right?”
For a moment, Bernard studies his face as though the words were spoken in a language he doesn’t understand. “What do you mean?” he asks, putting the scissors down on the silver platter on his desk.
McGauran cracks a smile. “You know what I mean, old man.”
“But—you’d—I—”
“Bernard.”
“Surely, you don’t mean—”
“Don’t you know how much he needs you? You’re the closest thing to a father he’s ever had.” McGauran knows this is what Honoré needs. What he’s been afraid to ask. “And I’m gonna be busy, away a lot. Honoré will be lonely. Don’t you think he’s been lonely enough?”
“Yes, I—I agree.”
“Besides,” McGauran adds with a wink, “I can’t cook.”
Bernard frowns, his expression going from confused to ecstatic. “I—I would be—Oh, McGauran, you’ve made me very happy.” He turns away, hiding his flushed face. He fumbles around and then picks up the gray double-breasted coat hanging on the chair. “Your jacket, sir.”
“Right.” McGauran stands and fastens the last top buttons of his white shirt.
Bernard helps him into the coat, but his eyes remain cast down. “Thank you.”
Spontaneously, McGauran leans in and kisses Bernard’s forehead. “No, thank you,” he says quietly. “You saved us.”
Clearly flustered, Bernard moves away, busying himself with tidying up the room.
McGauran can’t wait any longer. He needs to be in Honoré’s presence again or his heart will blow. He doesn’t bother with a shirt collar or a tie. He runs a quick hand through his damp and freshly cut hair, and passing the mirror, pauses, surprised at the man he sees in the reflection. He looks like a gentleman again. His confidence slowly resurfaces. Maybe Honoré will find him handsome. As he steps out, Bernard calls his name, and McGauran stops, looking back at him. “Yes?”
With his head tipped, Bernard gives him a long appraising look. “Tell me, what did it feel like to ride that canoe?”
What did it feel like?
No, he can’t answer that question, maybe not even to himself. The temptation to do it again would prove to be too much.
“Will you tell him one day? Really explain it to Honoré?”
McGauran shakes his head, stepping back into the hall. “He doesn’t need me to. He knows what it’s like to soar. He has his piano.”
* * * *
At Honoré’s bedroom door, McGauran clears his throat to announce his presence. When Honoré turns around, the sight of his enchanting face snatches the breath out of him. “Uh, am I disturbing you?” he stammers, losing the confident composure he had only moments ago.
Honoré sets his pen down and slowly rises. A slight blush stains his cheeks. The afternoon light catches in his black-blue hair, and as he walks up to him, his eyes sparkle with emotion. “You never disturb me.”
“I just, well, I wanted to see you.” Words. Why can’t he find the words?
Honoré steps a little closer. “No more beard.”
McGauran can’t help grabbing Honoré’s hand and pressing it harder to his face. He peers into Honoré’s eyes, his heart thudding against his ribs. “Do you like it better?”
But Honoré slips out of his hands again, returning to his desk. “I wrote out my orders to the bank,” he says, fussing with some papers. “They’re to triple the loggers’ salaries when they return and your mother will receive a monthly allocation of thirty dollars, as we agreed.”
“Good, yes, that’s good.” He goes to Honoré and tries for his hand again. “Once we’re settled, she’ll get more,” he says. But why can’t they talk about this later?
Again, Honoré manages to find something to hold his attention. He walks to the window and studies the snow-covered square. Facing away from McGauran, he glides a fingertip across the frosted pane.
“I—I asked Bernard to come with us.” McGauran coughs a little and waits.
&nbs
p; Honoré glances over his shoulder, his pale eyes narrowing. “You did?”
“He shouldn’t be alone in the world…right?” Carefully, he makes his way to Honoré one more time. He’ll keep trying. He’ll never stop.
“That’s good news,” Honoré breathes, his stare returning to the barren park. “You did well to ask him.”
Feeling vulnerable and clumsy, McGauran leans in closer to Honoré and gently presses his nose to his collar. “Honoré…”
“I should put these in envelops and mail them.” Honoré hurries to the desk. “Or perhaps, I should bring them in person. I’m sure they’ll need a witness. And I think I should go to—”
“I wrote to you,” he says in a desperate tone. “I wrote to you. Every week. Bernard has the letters. But you haven’t read them yet. Why?” He takes a shaky breath. His resistance is breaking down. Soon, he’ll be in tears.
At the desk, Honoré glances up at him with a poignant expression.
“You haven’t let me near you,” McGauran says, the hurt turning to sorrow. “I thought maybe you were still shocked, but now I don’t know anymore. I—I don’t know what to say or what to—”
“Oh, my love, no, no.” Honoré stares at him, but stays where he is. “Please, don’t torture yourself.”
“But—”
“I—” Honoré stops himself, his cheeks flushing darker still.
“What?” McGauran dares to move closer. Face to face, they stare at each other. “Tell me, please,” he begs, willing to get down on his knees if that’s what it takes.
Honoré’s breath catches in his throat and he exhales shakily, looking away.
“Oh, Honoré, please. Tell me.”
“Since you’ve returned from those woods,” Honoré says in a quiet voice, “being around you is like being trapped in a room full of thunder and lightning.”
McGauran’s throat clenches with panic. “Are you afraid of me?”
“No…of course not.”
“But you’re afraid.” McGauran tries to meet Honoré’s eyes. “It won’t come back. It won’t. It’s over.”