The Book of Dreams

by O. R. Melling

  Guided by the Polar Star, they headed northeast, crossing the sky like a ship at sea. To the south glimmered the speckled band of the 49th parallel, the most populated region of southern Ontario. To the north lay a great soft cloth of darkness, the shadow of the vast terrain that was the Canadian Shield. To the east wound the St. Lawrence River on its way to the gulf and the ocean beyond.

  Another bright city sparkled ahead of them, a tiara crowning the brow of a hill. Ottawa, the capital. Dana gazed down curiously at the silver-green spires of the Government of Canada and the white vein of the Rideau Canal that shone frostily in the starlight. Jean called out the names of the many bridges that clasped the slender arm of the Ottawa River: Pont Champlain, Pont des Chaudières, Pont du Portage, Pont Alexandra.

  Ottawa, it seemed, was the marker buoy that pointed the way home. Steering the spirit boat due north, Jean urged them on to greater speeds. They were shooting the rapids of wind, flying on night’s dark wing into the heart of Quebec.

  “À gauche! À gauche!” he cried to Dana. “Left side only!”

  The land below became an ink-black shadow of rock and bog. The ground bristled with the pointed spears of black spruce, jack pine, and barren tamarack. Chains of lakes and winding rivers gleamed a faint silver. Except where sporadic points of light shone like lone ships on the sea at night, there was an overwhelming sense of the absence of man and the triumph of nature. In wildness is the preservation of the world. They were crossing the taiga, coniferous bogland on the fringe of the northern boreal forest that draped like a green scarf over the shoulders of North America. Beyond lay the tundra, a cold lonely land oblivious to the humanity that crouched on its borders.

  How far into Quebec they journeyed Dana wasn’t sure, but the occasional signs of communities grew fewer and farther between. After a particularly long spell of darkness, Jean pointed to a flickering light ahead.

  “We are here! I bring us down. Don’t paddle!”

  She could hear him chanting in French as they began to descend. It was a steep drop to the ground. Her stomach lurched as they hurtled downward. She let out a yelp.

  “C’est okay!” he called out.

  She put her paddle aside and held on to the canoe. The descent was rapid, cold and rough. The ground seemed to rush toward them with frightening speed. It was all happening so quickly that she caught only flashes of what lay below: a dense forest, a small lake, and a narrow winding road.

  Dana was just getting used to the free-falling motion when she spied it ahead of her.

  A smear of greenish mist trailed in the air.

  It was almost imperceptible, but she knew instantly what it was. Now the twisted features came into view, scarred and familiar. The eyes burned like red coals.

  Crowley!

  The phantasm charged straight at her. “Oh, God!” she cried.

  The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

  “NON!” shouted Jean.

  Too late.

  Like a bird whose wings had been clipped in mid-flight, the canoe lost all buoyancy and plummeted downward.

  Jean and Dana clung to the gunwales. The canoe was pitching from side to side in a last-ditch effort to toss them overboard. No doubt the demon of the canoe had recognized an ally. The two clung on for dear life, but their luck was running out. There was nothing below to break their fall. Only hard ground. They were riding a juggernaut on a dash to their deaths.

  Jean grabbed his oar and began to paddle with fierce strokes.

  “Dans l’bois!” he cried.

  Dana spotted the trees in the distance and understood. If they could land in the branches of an evergreen, they had a chance. But the forest was far away.

  And the ground was rushing nearer.

  She saw in an instant they would never make it. They were bound to fall short. Jean roared as he paddled furiously, every inch of his body bent on the task. Now Dana roared too, hurling herself forward against the bow of the boat. Calling on the power of her fairy blood, she drove the canoe with the sheer force of her will.

  It was enough.

  Leaping forward in a last gasp of flight, the spirit boat crashed into the top of a tree.

  In the tense stillness that followed, the only sound to be heard was the protest of branches beneath the weight of the canoe. The craft teetered precariously. The tree’s weave held. Finally the boat settled, perched askew in the boughs like a great misshapen bird.

  “Maudit, câlisse, tabernac,” swore Jean.

  He moved quickly to see if Dana was all right. She had fallen back into the bottom of the boat. Bruised but otherwise fine, she sat up shakily.

  Jean peered over the side of the canoe.

  “Pas de problème. We climb down. Le canot go first.”

  She expected him to be furious. With one careless word, she had nearly killed them.

  Jean’s eyes glittered, but not with anger. He flashed a wide grin.

  “That was some ride, eh?”

  Dark hair tousled in the wind, white throat bare, he threw back his head to let out a wild laugh. It turned into a howl.

  For a moment, Dana was stunned. Then she threw back her head and howled along with him.

  Climbing down the prickly spine of the evergreen was difficult. Pushing the spirit boat ahead of them through the tangle of branches was trickier still. The sturdy craft was undamaged by the fall but, like a canoe snagged in lakeside rushes, it resisted their efforts. Struggling downward, Dana kept an anxious lookout for Crowley. Had they managed to outrun him in their race with death? Or was he lurking nearby, waiting to attack?

  At last they wrestled the boat to the ground and landed after it.

  The northern night was cold and silent. High above the treetops, stars sprayed the sky. The scent of frosted pine tinted the air. They were surrounded by the white hush of snow.

  Jean dragged the canoe into the undergrowth. Noting the spot, he tied a piece of string on a branch above it. At Dana’s questioning look he grinned.

  “One time I forget where I put him.”

  Her eyes widened. They would be stranded in the middle of nowhere!

  “Do you know where we are?” she asked.

  “Mais oui, c’est mon pays. This is my country.” His voice rang with pride. “This is where the wolf run and where my friend live. Many mile to the east is Labrador City. That is where my grand-père—”

  A tremor of pain crossed his features. He didn’t continue.

  Dana was curious, but she didn’t trespass. Their friendship was too new. She caught the gratitude in his eyes when she didn’t press him, and there was something else. He seemed to be studying her. As always, the intensity of his gaze made her look away.

  “C’est ça,” he said suddenly, as if coming to a decision. “Before we go to my friend, I like for you to meet someone else.”

  The amber light seeped into his eyes. He threw back his head and let out a howl. When an echoing bay came from deep in the woods, Jean howled a second time. Again came the response, but it was closer now as the other wolf drew near.

  As Jean continued to call, Dana kept watch, but she was still surprised when the great animal charged from the trees. Silver-gray in the starlight, the wolf was huge, with a powerful head and gaping jaws. It had the northern coat of long hair, as well as thick underfur and a large bushy tail.

  Dana let out a cry as it leaped at Jean.

  The wolf’s great paws struck Jean’s chest and knocked him down. Landing on top, the wolf growled low in its throat. But Jean was quick to recover. Grappling the beast in a headlock, he twisted sideways till they were both rolling on the ground. Now Jean leaped to his feet, arms stretched to wrestle. The wolf crouched low, ears pricked forward, ready to pounce. The two began to circle and feint, sometimes bounding forward, sometimes dashing back.

  By this time, despite the throttling and biting, Dana knew they were playing. When the greeting game was over, Jean put his arms around the wolf’s neck. Panting, the two star
ed at each other, man and beast. Dana could see the pain in Jean’s features.

  “We don’t run tonight,” Jean told the wolf. “I go with my friend to the Old Man. You come too, eh?”

  The gray wolf studied Dana a moment, then loped into the woods.

  Jean lurched to his feet. His eyes were wet. As he lowered his head, he let out a tortured sound.

  Without thinking, Dana moved quickly to put her arms around him.

  “What is it? Tell me!”

  The night seemed to hold its breath there in the forest of snow and pine, with the moon and stars watching above. She had caught him by surprise, but he didn’t try to break away. His body trembled as it leaned against hers. He rested his head on her shoulder and spoke in a hoarse whisper.

  “One time when I am small … when I have ten years … I stay with my grand-père in Labrador City. I … I climb a high tree to the top and then I fall down. My legs, they are broken. Maybe my back too. I bleed inside. The hôpital is far away. It’s winter and the road are all ice and snow. My grand-père, he put me in a blanket on the sled. A man, he can’t go so fast but a wolf, he is strong …”

  Jean pulled away from Dana. He clutched his stomach as if he were in pain. His face was twisted with grief and guilt. She knew, in that instant, that he had never spoken these words to anyone else.

  “It is day. It is not the night. My grand-père, he … he …”

  Jean let out a cry like a wounded animal.

  “He turned wolf.” She finished for him, feeling the echo of his pain inside, for she carried the same wound. “He knew what it meant and he did it anyway. He turned wolf in the daylight so he could save you. And he can never turn back.”

  Again, without thinking, Dana reached out to hold him. Great sobs racked his body as he wept unrestrainedly, letting flow the tears he had blocked for so long.

  Only when he grew still did she dare to speak.

  “You have to accept the gift,” she said softly in his ear. “His sacrifice. His love for you.”

  She felt the surprise shudder through him. Drawing back a little, he took her face in his hands and stared deep into her eyes.

  “How do you know to say this?”

  Tears flowed down Dana’s face in response. “Remember I told you about my anamchara? My wolf guardian? She died … to save me.”

  They held each other for a long time, like two lost children who had finally found their home. Slowly the darkness lifted around them, as the first hint of dawn crept onto the horizon.

  There was a moment, just before they broke apart, when Jean’s face was so close to Dana’s, she could feel the warmth of his breath. It occurred to her suddenly that he was about to kiss her. Overcome with panic, she stiffened and closed her eyes.

  Nothing happened.

  When she opened her eyes again, he had already stepped back, hands plunged into his pockets. For the first time since she had met him, he did not meet her gaze, but looked away as if embarrassed. When he spoke, his voice sounded tight.

  “We go to my friend, n’est-ce pas?”

  Dana was confused. She was certain he had been about to kiss her, but then he didn’t. Was it her fault? Did she do something wrong? Or maybe it was just her imagination? Wishful thinking. She had so wanted him to. And now he was acting strangely. There was an awkwardness between them that wasn’t there before. She was mystified. She knew nothing about boys and couldn’t begin to guess what he was thinking. As she followed him through the forest, she told herself to stop being silly. This was no time for fantasies. They had work to do.

  Their feet crunched over the snow as they walked.

  “My friend, they are Iynu of the Cree peoples,” Jean told her. “The Cree are the biggest nation in Canada, but here in the north of Québec they are small. They share the land with the Naskapi and the Montagnais.”

  “Croí.” Dana repeated the word in Irish, as it had the same sound. “That means ‘heart’ in my language.”

  Jean smiled. “C’est beau. ‘Cree’ is the name the French give them. The East Cree say they are Iynu.”

  “I’ve been in Canada a year,” she commented, “and I’ve never met a Red Indian.”

  Jean winced. “This is not so good to say. In English they are ‘Native peoples.’”

  “Sorry. That’s what the Irish call them. We don’t learn about … Native peoples.” She sighed. “I do know their history is sad, like ours.”

  Jean nodded. “But l’histoire is not over while the peoples live. The First Nations, they are strong again.”

  Dana could hear the passion in his voice. “Your canoe looks Indian, I mean Native. Did the medicine man build it?”

  “He help me to make it and he teach me how to call the demon. With the spirit boat I can visit and see grand-père who live here too. After he turn forever, he don’t stay in Labrador City. They will kill him there. Here is better. The Native peoples, they don’t hate the wolf so much. They say he is their brother, like the dog.”

  When they broke from the forest, they faced a stretch of open ground. Most of it lay cloaked in snow, but there were patches of moss-covered rock and coarse grass. In the distance, a scatter of buildings stood haphazardly like tents, as if the inhabitants didn’t intend to stay long. Behind the buildings gleamed a strip of lake. Nothing indicated they were on reserve lands. This far north, signposts were meaningless. If you didn’t know where you were, you were hopelessly lost.

  There was no highway or other access to the wider world beyond, but a dirt road led from the forest to the community.

  They passed a big dilapidated shack that was boarded up.

  “The Hudson Bay Trading Post from the old time,” Jean told her. “It don’t open now but the peoples still are hunter and trappeur.”

  “You don’t think that’s wrong?” Dana asked, surprised.

  “The wolf is hunter too, eh? I don’t like when the peoples hunt for fun and they make a big joke about killing the animals. It’s not the same here. These peoples, they don’t kill the animal for nothing. They do it for their life, for how they live.”

  Farther ahead was a small wooden church with a cross on the roof and a graveyard behind it. Beside the church was a low flat hall that served as school, library, and community center with offices for the band and government officials. Most of the houses were wood-framed bungalows with aluminum siding, television aerials, and satellite dishes. There were no gardens or driveways. The cars parked randomly were all four-wheel drives accompanied by snowmobiles. Life was organized around the reality of nine months of snow.

  There was no one about at that hour of the morning. A few houses shone with yellow light and the flickering reflections of television sets. All around, the landscape glistened white with snow, outlined by dark forest and the hills beyond. Above, the sky was ablaze with stars.

  Jean pointed to the lake that glinted icily on their left.

  “There’s no road so the airplane bring the store, the food, the priest, the teacher.” He started to laugh.

  “What?” said Dana, laughing with him.

  She was glad to see him cheerful again. The awkwardness between them had disappeared.

  “The airplane land on the lake in the summer and the winter. In the winter, he land on the ice. When he go again the little kids they run behind to catch—how you say?—the air that comes?”

  He made a whooshing sound.

  “The draft?”

  “Yes, I think so. They hold open the coats and it’s like they are wings. The air pick them up and they fly maybe a mètre from the ground.” He was laughing again. “You see the plane go across the lake and all these little birds, they run and jump and fly behind it.”

  “Did you try it? I bet you did.”

  “Maybe,” he admitted.

  They were still laughing when they reached their destination. The house was a wood-framed structure like the others, but there was no wiring for television. The door posts and lintel were intricately carved with the shapes o
f animals. As Jean knocked, Dana studied the designs of wolf and raven.

  The door was opened by a young man, not much older than Jean. He was lit up by the glow of a bare bulb behind him. Darkly handsome, he had glossy black hair that fell to his shoulders and lively eyes. His chest and feet were bare. It was obvious that he had just jumped out of bed and thrown on his jeans. He looked slightly annoyed, as well as concerned, but the minute he saw Jean he let out a yelp and grabbed him in a bear hug.

  “Loup! Enfin! Ça va?”

  The greeting was followed by a lot of horseplay as the two fell into the hallway. Loud whoops and laughter were interspersed with rapid-fire French and words of another language Dana guessed was Cree. She followed behind them and waited patiently till they broke apart.

  The young man looked at Dana with frank curiosity as Jean introduced them.

  “We speak English, okay? She come from l’Irlande. Dana, this is my friend, Roy Blackbird.”

  “Salut. Hi there,” said Roy, offering his hand.

  His grip was warm and friendly. They grinned at each other with instant liking.

  “So you finally got a girl, eh?” he said to Jean. “A real cutie.”

  Jean ignored the statement. Dana blushed.

  Despite the kidding, there was a peculiar gravity to the moment that descended over the three of them; a sense that they had met before. In other times and other places, these three had stood side by side in the fray. As it was, so it would be, now and always.

  Roy ushered them through the dim house. Doors opened into rooms of bare walls and plain furniture. Dana saw immediately that no woman lived here. The place lacked decoration and the comforts of a feminine touch. Its purpose was evident: to provide shelter for men who spent most of their time outdoors.

  “Should’ve known it was you,” Roy said to Jean. “Guess who’s been up all night drinking tea and smoking? Wouldn’t go to bed, like he knew someone was coming.”

  He led them into the kitchen where a big woodstove dominated the room. The floor was bare linoleum. A government calendar hung on the wall. The furnishings were simple and functional, plain cupboards and shelves, a Formica-topped table with wooden chairs, a refrigerator, and a battered washing machine.