The Land God Gave to Cain

by Innes, Hammond;

  It was a stupid thing to do, for I’d no compass, no food, no equipment, nothing but what I was wearing, and the conifer growth was so thick that I could only follow him by ear. This meant pausing every so often to listen and, as a result, he gradually drew away from me, until I lost the sound of his movement entirely. I didn’t know what to do then, and I stopped, undecided, in a small clearing. It was almost daylight, the sky was heavy and overcast and a light sprinkle of snow falling, and suddenly I realised that I didn’t know my way back. Travelling by sound only I had lost all sense of direction.

  I had a moment of sheer panic then and stood screaming Laroche’s name at the top of my voice. And then, because there was nothing else I could do, I plunged forward again in the desperate hope of catching up with him. Luck was with me, for not more than a hundred yards farther on I came suddenly out of the timber on to the shores of a small lake, and there was Laroche, skirting the far end of it. I could only just see him, for it was snowing heavily now. “Laroche!” I yelled. “Laroche!”

  He stopped abruptly and turned, and then he stood staring back at me in silence. “Laroche! Wait!” I called. He was on the very edge of visibility and I knew, as I started towards him, that he’d only to turn and dive into the bush and I should have lost him for ever.

  But instead of trying to escape, he stood quite still, waiting for me. It was only when I was a few yards from him that I saw the dull blade-gleam of the axe gripped in his hand, and I halted with my heart in my mouth, for I’d no weapon with which to defend myself.

  II

  That bleak little lake with the snow falling softly—it might have been the lake where he’d tried to kill the others. My knees were trembling as I stood there, facing him; there was only a few yards between us and I thought that this was how it had been before, when he’d had the brainstorm, with him standing so still and the axe gripped in his hand, and all my body was tense, waiting for the attack.

  But instead, his gaze went past me, down along the edge of the lake. “Where are the others?” he asked. “Are they following, too?”

  I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

  His dark eyes came back to me. “Just you—alone?” And when I nodded, he seemed to relax. “I guess you saw me leave the camp, eh?” He swore softly to himself, using the Canuk word “Tabernac!” “I thought I’d slipped away without any of you seeing.” And then he added, “Well, you’d better go back to them now.”

  It was my chance to escape. I started to edge away from him, and then I stopped. “But I don’t know …” The words died in my throat, for I didn’t dare admit that I was lost. Once he knew that … My body was suddenly still with fear, a fear that was greater than any fear of him.

  “Try and persuade Paule and Ray to wait there for me,” he went on, his voice still reasonable, his gaze fixed now on the far end of the lake. “I’ll be about two days,” he added.

  I stared at him, puzzled by his manner. He seemed so sane. And yet … “Where are you going?” I demanded.

  “That’s my business,” he answered sharply.

  And then, suddenly reckless, because anything was better than being left to die of cold and starvation: “You ran out on him when he was still alive, scared at what had happened. Isn’t that the truth?”

  He was staring at me, his dark eyes wide in their shadowed sockets. And then suddenly his gaze shifted to the ground. “You’re so damned logical, aren’t you?” It was said without any trace of hostility. And then he murmured, “Well, it’s true—in a way. I was scared. I was certain Baird was dead, and there seemed nothing else …” His voice trailed away as though at some ghastly recollection. And after a moment, he lifted his head and looked straight at me again. “If I told you history had repeated itself there at that lake, then you’d think I’d gone mad, wouldn’t you?”

  “How do you mean?” My throat was suddenly dry.

  He stared at me a moment longer and then he shook his head. “No, it’s no good,” he murmured. “I guess you can only see it the one way. I knew what you were thinking that first day at Seven Islands. Mon Dieu!” His voice was no more than a whisper. “Why did it have to be you? Queer, isn’t it?” He gave a little, nervous laugh. “If I told you …” But he stopped there and shook his head again. “No, you’d twist it round in your mind. But I’ll tell you this much—that Indian was right. It’s a bad place.”

  “Then it was Lake of the Lion?”

  “Sure it was Lake of the Lion.” He was still looking at me and his lips were drawn back from the even line of his teeth in that same wry little smile. “Yeah,” he said. “The place where my grandfather killed yours.” And he added, “The body’s still there. A heap of bones—that’s all that’s left of James Finlay Ferguson, and there’s a hole drilled in the skull where the bullet struck him. In the back of the skull. Pierre Laroche must have come up behind him and shot him in cold blood. The forehead’s all splintered.” His eyes stared at me unblinkingly a moment, and then: “It’s not a pretty thing,” he muttered, “to discover that your grandfather is a murderer.” His tone was suddenly bitter.

  The fascination that old tragedy had for him, his bitterness—if I had needed to be convinced, this would have convinced me. It was the sight of my grandfather’s remains, the evidence of his own grandfather’s guilt that had unhinged his mind. “And what happened—afterwards?” I heard myself ask, and my voice shook slightly. “What happened then between you and Briffe?”

  But he shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m not telling you that. Or what happened to Baird.” He hesitated, and then he added, “But you can come and see it for yourself, if you want to.”

  “You mean now?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re going to Lake of the Lion?”

  “But of course.” He said it impatiently. “Where else did you think I was going?”

  And I stared at him, the skin crawling on my scalp. It was incredible—quite horrible. He was going back to the scene of the tragedy. Why? To gloat? Or was it the murderer’s subconscious fascination for his crime? Whatever it was, I knew now he was mad and my voice trembled as I said, “But you’re going south.” Fact—anything to keep him to facts.

  “South—yes.” He nodded. “I have to pick up my route out.”

  “But you told us that was to the north.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “What does it matter what I told you?” And then he added, “If you come with me, you can see for yourself what happened to Baird. Then maybe you’ll believe me.”

  But I knew I could never believe anything he said, now or in the future, for his mind seemed so confused. Perhaps, to him there was no truth any more. “You said Baird was injured in the crash,” I whispered. “You told me they were both injured in the crash.”

  But he shook his head. “No,” he said. “Nobody was injured in the crash.” And then he suddenly smiled with that touch of boyish charm that I had found so frightening before. “You mustn’t think, because I told you they were injured in the crash, that it was so. I had to tell you that, because I didn’t want you to pursue your inquiries.” It was said with such an appalling candour that I felt almost sick. And then he said, “Well, are you going to come on with me or are you going back to join the others?”

  I hesitated—not because I’d any choice, but because I was so horrified at the thought of going on alone with him. My only hope was that Darcy and Paule, by following the Indian’s instructions, would reach Lake of the Lion before us. If I were to be the only witness to what had really happened there … “Are you sure you can find the lake?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he replied. “In the early stages I was very careful to memorise my route and even blazed some of the trees.”

  “But if you’re prepared to let me come with you, why not the others—why didn’t you tell them you could guide us in? Damn it!” I cried. “You flew in with the helicopter twice. If you’d memorised your route out, why in God’s name couldn’t you find the lake
then?”

  He shook his head and the smile on his lips had become oddly secretive. “I could have found it,” he said. “But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want anybody to know.”

  “But Paule—”

  “Least of all Paule,” he said harshly, the smile suddenly wiped from his face. And he added, still in the same harsh voice, “I guess you’d better come with me anyway. If you go back you’ll talk, and the one person who must never know what happened there is Paule.”

  It surprised me that in his state of mind he should still care what Paule thought, and I took the opportunity to point out that she’d be worried about him. “They’ll wonder what’s happened to us,” I said.

  But he shook his head. “I left a note. They’ll guess you’re with me.” And he added, “I hope to God she does what I asked and stays at that camp.” He made a gesture with the axe. “Okay, let’s get going. You lead the way.” And he stood back to let me pass.

  I barely hesitated, for if he once knew that I was lost, then it would be so much simpler for him to abandon me here. Nevertheless, as I went past him the muscles of my shoulders contracted in anticipation of a blow, even though my intelligence told me that he was now determined to take me to Lake of the Lion and that anyway, if he intended to kill me before we got there, he would have plenty of opportunity. From now on we would live as close as it is possible for two human beings to live, for we’d no tent, nothing but our own warmth to protect us from the cold.

  We left the lake behind and the timber closed round us again, and after that I was conscious all the time of the sound of the axe close behind me as he blazed the trail for the return journey—but whether for his return or for mine I didn’t then know, and because of that the chip and bite of the axe on wood had a hollow, mocking sound in the silence of the falling snow.

  And then suddenly the timber fell away before us and I stood looking out over the same flat country that we’d come through the previous day. But now it was all white with the vastness of the sky a dirty curtain of lazily drifting snow. My first thought was that I had been right after all in thinking he was running out on us. “You’re going back,” I said. “You’re not going to try and reach the lake.”

  But he shook his head. “Pas du tout.” He smiled at me almost cheerfully. “I’ve come back here to pick up my landmark.”

  However, it was impossible to pick out anything, for it was snowing harder than ever, and we remained in the shelter of the trees and lit a fire to keep ourselves warm. Later, when the snow eased up, we went out along a ridge of sand as far as the first lake, and from there Laroche was able to identify his mark, a lone rock outcrop topped by three ragged-looking firs.

  Then began a nightmare journey that lasted two whole days. No sooner had we started back into the rock country than it came on to snow again. And even when it finally ceased some time in the late afternoon, the going remained heavy and tiring, an unending struggle through deep, wet snow with every branch unloading its sodden burden on us. The temperature fell steadily, and with the disappearance of the clouds, it dropped below freezing, so that the snow formed a crust through which we broke at every step. And all the time our progress was further slowed by the need for Laroche to search back and forth for the trail he had blazed. In the conditions in which he had marked it, there would have been no difficulty in following it, but now with the trees all blotched and weighted down with snow, it was a wonder we were able to keep to it at all.

  We went into camp at dusk in a little clearing full of snow-covered rocks, and I swear if we’d had a tent, we’d have been too tired to put it up. It was as much as we could do to cut wood for a fire, and when it was lit in an angle of the rocks that would reflect the heat, we lay down in the wet snow and fell into a stupor as we shared a little of the food Laroche had brought with him.

  I shall not easily forget that night. The cold was intense. At first the fire kept it at bay. But it melted the snow, so that we lay in a pool of water with the sharp edges of rocks sticking into our flesh. And later, as the fire died down, the cold crept in, numbing our bodies and turning the water to solid ice.

  In these conditions it was impossible to sleep; I simply lay in a dazed half-world of consciousness, chilled to the bone and tired beyond belief, with no vestige of hope in my heart. Denied the blessed balm of sleep, there was no escape from the fact that the only warmth I had was to lie close against the body of a man I knew to be a murderer. This, and the circumstances of our journey—not to mention the conditions—would, I truly believe, have driven me to a state bordering on madness if it hadn’t been for the fact that in that pitiless country I discovered, or perhaps I should say rediscovered, something deep-buried within me that was akin to belief in the Almighty. I do not intend to dwell on this. The conversion of the unbelieving and the unthinking into an acceptance of God is of great moment only to those who have experienced it, and that I should have done so is not much to my credit, being due more to my wretched circumstances than to any innate piety, for by then I was convinced I was going to die—if not by the hand of Laroche, then by the country. Only one of us could leave Lake of the Lion alive, and if it was to be me, then I did not know the way back to the others and I had no hope of getting out of the country on my own.

  Accepting, therefore, the certainty of death, my mind dwelt again on what that step meant, and in the frozen quiet of that night I came to terms with it and made my peace with God, so that before the first dawn-light made grey ghosts of the trees, I had reached a strange state of calm that was somehow in tune with the country.

  Our breakfast that morning was one biscuit apiece and a small square of chocolate. That Laroche had taken so little from the general store of our supplies was in itself somewhat surprising, but I don’t think I considered it at the time—nor the fact that he was willing to share it with me. In country as bleak and inhuman as Labrador you take it for granted that the essentials of life, things like food and warmth, are shared between you, regardless of the future; and because of that, even if I had been in a condition to think about it, I do not believe I should have reached any other conclusion than the one I had.

  As it was, the pitiful inadequacy of our breakfast did little to comfort us after the wretchedness of the night, and though we built up the fire and got some warmth back into our bones, we were both of us in a wretched state as we started out that morning. Laroche, in particular; he seemed suddenly to have come to the end of his strength. His face was flushed and his eyes unnaturally bright, and there was a slackness in his muscles that made his movements clumsy, so that he was inclined to stumble. But when I asked him whether he was all right, he pulled his stooped body instantly erect and assured me he was. “I’m stiff, that’s all,” he said. “It’s the cold.” And after that I didn’t comment again on his condition, for I knew by his manner and the tone of his voice that he’d resented it, and I was afraid, as I had been from the time I had caught up with him, of precipitating a showdown.

  The cold that morning was very severe. The sky, when we glimpsed it through the trees, was grey with it like a canopy of frozen lead, and the land itself was held immobile in an iron grip. Because of this, the snow was hard and the going easier.

  We skirted two frost-rimmed lakes, following all the time the trail Laroche had blazed on the way out, and shortly after ten we came to a big expanse of water, curved like a bow, with the ends lost in the trees that stood thick along its banks. That was when I suggested turning back. It was going to take us a long time to skirt that lake and I felt that if we didn’t turn back now, neither of us would get out alive. “It’s the only sensible thing to do,” I urged. “Turn back now, before it’s too late.”

  “Listen!” He was staring northwards, his head cocked on one side. “Do you hear?”

  But all I could hear was the whisper of a chill wind in the trees.

  “Sounds like the falls,” he said. “The water here is a lake expansion of the river Mackenzie marked on his map.” He sank down on to h
is hands and knees and bent his ear close to the water. “Yeah, it’s falls all right.” And he got to his feet, and stood staring along the shore. “I guess there’s more water now than when I crossed here before.” It seemed to worry him. “I didn’t hear the falls then.”

  “What’s it matter?” I asked. “We certainly can’t cross a river where there are falls.” And then, because I was too exhausted to care any more, I said, “I’m turning back now.”

  I thought that would precipitate a showdown, but all he said was, “You do as you like. It’s only two miles from here, and I got to hurry in case …” But I didn’t hear the rest, for he was already wading into the water.

  I couldn’t believe it for a moment. He didn’t seem to care whether I stayed with him or not. The water was already over his knees. He called to me over his shoulder then. “If you’re coming with me, better hurry. I shan’t wait for you.” And he waded straight on into the lake.

  I had moved automatically to the water’s edge and there I hesitated. I could so easily leave him now and go up to those falls and wait for Paule and Darcy; I was sure that Paule, at any rate, would push on as far as the river. But it took more nerve than I possessed to deliberately abandon the company of another human and blaze a lone trail through that sort of country. Moreover, now that I was so near to my objective, I found it exercising an increasing fascination, so that though I had been offered a means of escape, I couldn’t bring myself to take it.

  I stepped into the water then and the cold shock of it made me catch my breath at the same moment that Laroche shouted something, so that I didn’t hear what he said. I thought for a moment he was in difficulties for he was now waist deep in the water. But he hadn’t been pulled off his feet by the current. In fact, he was standing stock still, staring at the farther bank. He cupped his hands and shouted again. “Paule! Paule!” The name wandered down along the jackpine fringe, a dwindling ghost of a sound swallowed by the empty vastness of sky and water. “Paule!” And then he went plunging forward, driving his body through the water with a sudden, desperate energy.