The Book of Dreams

by O. R. Melling

  She was happy to see him, but at the same time suffered an attack of bashfulness. She had grown used to meeting him at school, sharing lunch, and talking between classes. His manner was so natural and easygoing, she was able to relax in his company. But this was different. They were no longer surrounded by the security of the school routine and the presence of other students. This was just the two of them, alone in the night. And she could hardly believe what she was doing. Behind her, a light shone through the blinds of her father’s bedroom. What would he do if he looked out the window and saw her meeting with a boy!

  Jean caught her arm and drew her into the park.

  “Je m’excuse, I am late,” he explained in a quick whisper. “I wait for mes parents to sleep. They know I go out sometime, but then they worry. Especially since the night I get hurt. Alors, I go en secret.”

  “Me too,” said Dana. “So where are we going? Is it still a surprise?”

  All week he had refused to reveal their destination.

  “I bring you to the place of my friend,” he said. “He is one who is special. A medicine man. We go to him for help.”

  “Medicine man?” She looked confused.

  “You don’t know this word? There are other—jongleur, sorcier—I don’t know in English. How you say a person who go between the world?”

  “You mean like me? A fairy?”

  “Non, he is human. He is born in this world but he travel to the other one. He do this for power and to know many thing, but also to help the peoples when they are sick.”

  “Of course!” said Dana, annoyed with herself for being so slow. “In Ireland we call them a fairy doctor or doctress. I didn’t know there were people like that over here.”

  His exasperation was quick. “You think these things are only irlandais? This country has beaucoup de magie! Open your eyes, eh!”

  Dana heard the echo of the Lord Ganesha’s admonishment. You need but open your heart. And suddenly she caught sight of a truth she had refused to see. Eyes opening, heart opening, a door opened in her mind.

  “I was so sure there was nothing here,” she said, shocked by her own blindness. “And that’s all I saw. Nothing.”

  “Alors, regarde chérie,” he said with a wicked grin. “Canadian magic.”

  Even as he grinned he was already turning. Dana drew back involuntarily with a frisson of terror. Her instincts told her to flee. It was a natural reaction. As the old Irish adage warned: Bí ar d’fhaichill ar an strainséir. Beware the stranger!

  His features disappeared first as the face elongated to an elegant snout. Now his back arched and he dropped to the ground, landing on all fours. A stranger to humanity. Hands and feet changed to great paws. Nails grew to claws. Black hair sprouted from every pore, piercing his skin and then his clothes, covering both like a coat. He expanded in size. A stranger even to her fairy self. There before her stood a great northern wolf, with enough bulk to hunt the moose and the caribou. As the broad head reared back, she saw the point of the white star that emblazoned his chest. When he opened his mouth, a great red tongue lolled out. The fangs looked lethal. And yet, somehow, that wicked grin was Jean’s.

  Turning to leave, he trotted a short distance away and stopped to look back at her. The amber eyes were as cool as the moon. He snapped a quick bark. Your turn, it clearly said. Turn.

  Her moment of truth had come. Metamorphosis, for fairies, was as natural as dancing, and the wolf itself was Dana’s totem, yet no matter how often she had tried that week, she had not been able to alter her form. The changeling spell had been difficult enough, and that was only a simple enchantment; shape-shifting proved impossible.

  Dana hesitated, afraid to tell him. She could sense the wolf’s impatience, his lupine hunger to run wild, run free. With a final bark, he took off without her, dashing into the night.

  A cry escaped her. If she didn’t move quickly, she would miss her chance. He would leave her behind. The thought of facing him later with lame excuses was unbearable. She clenched her body in a furious effort to transform.

  The first thing she felt was the howl of the wolf inside her. It rose up like a pressure against her ribs, an excruciating pain, as if the creature were trying to claw its way out. She opened her mouth to scream. An impossible stretch of jaw. Now the howl tore through every cell in her body. It was a cry of longing. A cry of grief for her anamchara who had died in the mountains. A call-note of sorrow from her fairy self caged too long in her humanity, yearning to be free.

  As the life force of the wolf struck her, Dana fell to the ground. She landed on her dewclaws, and the immediate discomfort pushed her upright on all fours. There was no time to lose. She sniffed the air to catch Jean’s scent and bounded after him, a hunter on the trail of her prey. The last changes were quick and graceful and occurred as she ran—fur and fang, sleek sinew and muscle.

  Racing at a breathless pace, Dana had to wonder: how had she kept the wolf trapped for so long?

  To run with the wolf was to run in the shadows, the dark ray of life, survival and instinct. A fierceness that was proud and lonely, a tearing, a howling, a hunger and thirst. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst. A strength that would die fighting, kicking, screaming, that wouldn’t stop till the last breath had been wrung from its body. The will to take one’s place in the world. To say I am here. To say I am.

  Traveling westward, she caught up with Jean. He let out a glad bark to acknowledge her arrival and together they loped in smooth strides. The cool night air flowed past like a river. The two kept a steady pace, occasionally breaking into short bursts of speed. Dana knew they could run this way for hours, but she was already losing track of human time.

  Racing through Toronto’s streets, the wolves moved swiftly and silently over the sidewalks, across the roads, through green patches of park. They stayed in the shadows and sheltered spaces, but it wasn’t really necessary. No one paid them any heed, neither the drivers whose cars sped through the dark night nor the pedestrians who had their own reasons for being out so late. Those who did notice them assumed they were a pair of stray dogs. Dana realized the truth: the vast majority see only what they want to see and what they believe to be real. Most people ignore the extraordinary and anything that might challenge their view of life; anything that might frighten them.

  An Irish fairy in the shape of a wolf, running beside a loup-garou, Dana was part of that silver thread of magic, that other world stitched into the fabric of reality. She could sense it all round her, humming like static on electric wires, fluttering like ribbons through the silent streets. The stuff of dreams. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

  As they passed through a Chinese neighborhood, Dana was startled to see huge creatures crouched ominously on the rooftops. At first she thought they were demons or gargoyles, then she realized they were dragons. Ruby red, dark blue, yellow and green, they perched atop shopping malls, restaurants, and businesses. Many were fast asleep with no sign of life except for the puffs of smoke that rose lazily from long snouts. Others dozed like giant iridescent lizards with one eye open, tails batting leisurely against scaly hides. Some, but not all, had wings tucked at their sides. One of them winked at her and Dana suddenly knew. These dragons were the guardian angels of the community. They had emigrated with their people to bring them prosperity and luck.

  The two wolves continued westward as if tracking the sunset. On reaching the rolling green of High Park, they skirted the cold waters of Grenadier Pond, stopping at the edge of the South Kingsway. As it was Saturday night, there was still plenty of traffic. The pair waited patiently to cross the road. Once across, they slipped into the marshes that fringed the Humber River. As they skulked along the riverbanks, past white oak and cottonwood, they surprised a blue heron asleep in the reeds. The river flowed southward into Lake Ontario, but they journeyed north to Étienne Brûlé Park.

  The black wolf that was Jean came to a halt. Shivering violently, he ros
e up on his hind legs. Slowly at first, then more quickly as the change gathered momentum, his snout, fur, and claws receded even as his humanity emerged.

  Following his lead, Dana unraveled too. Breathless with the speed and thrill of the journey, she couldn’t speak at first. Oh, how alive and happy she felt!

  Jean grinned a welcome. The same intensity burned in his eyes, still glowing amber. He waved his arm at the dense greenery of trees and bushes around them.

  “This is one place I go when I am loup-garou. There are other. Warden Wood, the Don Valley, High Park … All are good for the wolf. They are also place to hide le canot that run la chasse-galerie.”

  “The what?” said Dana.

  She could see he was barely suppressing his excitement and she guessed this was the secret he had been keeping all week.

  Jean started to search the underbrush. Pulling at something large on the ground, he dragged it out of the greenery.

  “A boat?” she exclaimed.

  It was a long graceful canoe, not a modern fiberglass construction, but a Native craft of birch bark artfully stitched over ribs of wood. The blood-red color glowed in the dimness. The sides were painted with many images and patterns. Dana could discern the shapes of raven and wolf, but there were other figures that made her uneasy. Grotesque faces grimaced at her with unmistakable malice. She backed away. There was something here that reminded her of Crowley. Something menacing.

  Jean clambered into the canoe and retrieved the oars in the bottom of the boat.

  “Allons-nous!” he said to her over his shoulder.

  “What?” she spluttered. Was this some kind of joke? But she didn’t feel like laughing. She wanted to get away from that canoe as soon as possible.

  “Let’s go!” he said again. “Vitement. Time fly. So we do.”

  Dana hung back. Her old doubts about Jean crept into her mind. She knew for certain that the boat was bad. All her instincts screamed in alarm.

  “No,” she said, taking another step back.

  She was planning her escape. Having reclaimed her ability to shape-shift, she would try to change herself into a bird. No wolf could catch her if she flew away. Still, she hesitated. She wanted so much to trust him.

  “Jean, what’s going on? There’s something wrong here. I know it.”

  He had been concentrating on what he was doing, laying out the oars fore and aft. Taking up position in the stern, he obviously meant her to go in the bow. Now as he turned his attention to her, he regarded her gravely. There was a touch of sadness in his look.

  “You think I will hurt you, chérie?”

  “No,” she said, struggling to be clear. “It’s the boat. I don’t trust it.”

  He gave a little shake of his head, and his voice was apologetic.

  “You are sensible, n’est-ce pas? Sensitive, I mean? And I am stupide. I don’t tell you everything so you don’t fear. Je suis desolé. This is not right. You are not enfant. Alors, I explain.”

  He rubbed his hand gingerly along the side of the canoe as if it were a horse.

  “This is a spirit boat. With it, I run la chasse-galerie. It fly through the air, like a canoe go over water. This is the good thing. Now I tell you the bad that you feel. The boat, he belong to a diablotin. A demon. A devil. This we fight—comment dit-on?—wrestle. Yes, that is the word. It is necessary we wrestle it. There is a battle of will between the one who own the boat, the demon, and the one who row. This is what make la chasse-galerie. This is what make the boat fly.”

  The alarm bells lowered in volume. Dana could hear the truth in his voice.

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “Mais oui. All the time when I want to go where is too far for the wolf. Like tonight. This is the surprise I have for you. We go to the north of Québec where live my friend.”

  Despite the last of her misgivings, Dana was thrilled. A journey to northern Canada! And with him!

  Jean’s tone grew persuasive as he argued his case.

  “But think, chérie, this is not so strange a thing, eh? All the peoples do this all the times, eh? We fight the demon inside us, non?”

  Dana wished she could say she didn’t know what he meant, but of course she did. With sudden unease, she reflected on the year gone by. Had she fought her demons or had she succumbed to them?

  Jean stood up in the boat and reached out to coax her in.

  “You come with me, yes? I make this good for you.”

  With a deep breath she took his hand and stepped into the canoe.

  “Dark forces can be dodgy,” she muttered.

  “Without the dark,” he shrugged, “it don’t go. But you and me, we are strong together. One last thing it is necessary to remember. Don’t call to God no matter what happen. If you do, the demon he let go of the boat and we fall from the sky. Comprends-tu?”

  Dana understood perfectly. There was always a risk when you played with the dark.

  Kneeling in the front, she took up her oar. It felt light and easy to handle. She had never been in a canoe before and wished she could sit behind Jean to copy his movements. Apparently, the more experienced person went in the back. But though Dana felt anxious and unsettled, she was also excited. The night’s adventure had only begun.

  A shiver ran through her when Jean called out the challenge that was also a spell.

  “Nous sommes ici!” he cried. “We play the game of chance and fate! Nous risquons de vendre nos âmes au diable! We play for our soul! Canot d’écorce, qui vole, qui vole! Canot d’écorce, qui va voler!”

  Regardless of her feelings about the spirit boat, Dana would have been disappointed if it didn’t fly; but she didn’t have to worry. Like a dead thing slowly coming to life, the canoe began to shudder. Cold currents of air rushed toward them. She sensed the invisible demon in the atmosphere around them. As it clutched the sides of the boat, she felt its ill will and its eagerness to seize those who risked their souls for a night ride. She knew she was in mortal danger.

  The canoe shook violently. Her teeth rattled in her head.

  “Fais-nous voyager!” Jean roared. “Par-dessus les montagnes!”

  As the last words of the spell were uttered, the boat leaped upward. It was as if an unseen hand had plucked it from the ground and flung it into the sky.

  For a moment they hovered over the park, hundreds of feet in the air, hanging above the treetops like a star.

  “Regarde,” Jean called to Dana. “When we run la chasse-galerie, the boat he sail through time and space. He give us eyes.”

  Below her, the air rippled like water. She had a bird’s eye view of the modern-day park; the site for campfires, parking lot, and public washrooms. Then a wave seemed to wash over the scene. The trees were suddenly denser, much bigger and older. There was a clearing not far from the river. Smoke rose up from structures of hide and wood. It was still nighttime and few were awake, but two men sat companionably by a campfire. One was Native, the other white, but both wore the same clothing of deerskin and fur. The white man looked up. Even from a distance Dana could see he was young, still in his teens. It seemed that he saw her too, floating in midair. His glance was swift and piercing, like an arrow.

  “Who’s that?” she asked Jean.

  Jean laughed with pride. “Étienne Brûlé. He come here long ago when the park is a village of the Wyandot peoples they call the Huron. Étienne is the first white man to visit the Great Lakes. He have only eighteen year when he come to Canada with the explorer Samuel de Champlain. Like you, Étienne was sensible. He see many thing.”

  Jean waved down at the young man, who waved back.

  “Now we go!” cried Jean.

  A surge of power coursed through Dana as she paddled furiously. The canoe itself seemed to tell her what to do. She delved the air with her oar, first right, then left, as if paddling the craft over the surface of a lake.

  Swiftly flew the spirit boat over the forest and across the black flow of the Humber River.

  Below them the
landscape unfurled like a map. To the south gleamed the waters of the great lake of Ontario. Toronto sparkled with a thousand lights, like a jewel on the north shore. The magnificence of the city took Dana by surprise; the ivory-white spire of the CN Tower, the leafy parks and avenues, the elegant skyscrapers jutting upward like crystal quartz. There were no cities like this in Ireland. Even Dublin, the capital, was merely a big town compared to this glittering metropolis.

  Up, up they flew into the atmosphere. The city lights blinked below like the gold and silver specks of the stars overhead. The canoe rocked on the cool currents of air.

  Worse than turbulence in a plane, Dana thought, her heart in her mouth.

  She was glad of her parka. The wind was harsh. When they passed through clouds, they were left chilled and damp. Above the clouds was the dark of night where the moon hung like a sliver of nail, a pale lunula. Toronto fell away behind them. The countryside spread out in broad flat fields and low rolling hills ribboned with roads.

  It was hard work, paddling the canoe. The air, like water, resisted their flight. And so too did the spirit boat itself. In fits and shudders it would buck like a bronco, trying to toss them out. Sometimes it veered crazily in another direction. Fighting it furiously, they struggled to keep it on course.

  “It wants to go somewhere else!” Dana shouted to Jean.

  “Mais oui,” he called back. “It want to go to hell!”

  She heard the truth behind the joke and paddled all the harder. This was the perilous game, the terrible risk they were taking. Whoever mastered the boat mastered their fate. Dana took heart from the knowledge that Jean had done this before. And all by himself! Sensing him behind her, like support at her back, she was determined not to let him down. From time to time he called out instructions and words of encouragement. When he praised her newfound skill, she glowed inside. Gritting her teeth, she worked so hard she began to sweat despite the cold. In the end, she had to admit she was enjoying herself thoroughly. There was something to be said for taking up the challenge and pitting one’s will against the dark. Wrestling with demons. You can’t really know what you are made of until you are tested.