The Witchin' Canoe

by Mel Bossa

  The young man’s presence as gentle as it is, is also commanding.

  “Please sit down. I insist.”

  McGauran stares at the chair for a second and then eases himself into it. When the wood creaks under his bulk, he feels awkward and clumsy. At least he bathed in the canal this morning and his clothes are clean. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands and tries not to watch the door. Most of all, he tries not to stare at the young man’s beautiful, trusting face.

  The fear, ugliness, and death of the last year seem not to have reached this house.

  The man sits with his legs crossed, the white button spats of his shoes showing under his ankle-fitted pants. For a brief moment, his gray-blue eyes hesitate over McGauran’s hands. His hair, so thick and lustrous, shimmers blue where the light catches it.

  Feeling hot under the collar, McGauran shifts his weight in the narrow chair, causing it to creak again. “I’m here for your uncle’s wood-burning business.” His voice sounds wrong and he lowers it. “Lumber.”

  “Oh…the camp.” The young man watches him with a kind expression. “It’s rough business.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty tough out there.”

  Young Latendresse nibbles on his bottom lip. “But I suppose the fresh air is nice. The scenery as well.”

  McGauran doesn’t quite know what to make of Latendresse’s candor. “Lots of trees,” he says. “Lots of snow. That’s about it.”

  Latendresse chuckles. He seems easily amused. “Yes, well, I’m certain there’s a sort of poetic charm to it.”

  Feeling a little more at ease, McGauran cracks a smile. “Yeah, that’s why I’m going out there. For the poetry.”

  This time, the young host laughs freely, his eyes sparkling.

  The pleasure he feels at the sound of that spontaneous laughter surprises McGauran and his guard goes up again. “Your English is very good,” he says, more seriously, wanting to make conversation, yet hoping Gédéon will rescue him from this thrilling encounter before he reveals too much of himself. “For a Frenchman.”

  “My mother was American.” Latendresse pauses, a slight tremor furrowing his brow. “Later,” he goes on in a soft voice, “after she died, I had a tutor.” Suddenly, he leans back in his chair, staring at something over McGauran’s shoulder. On the side table, the lamp shuts off.

  “Is something wrong?” McGauran leans in a bit, ready to act.

  “No, nothing. I—you’ve worked for my uncle before?” The young host keeps looking over McGauran’s shoulder with a startled expression.

  Curious, McGauran checks the window. In the cobbled path that separates the house from the next, a black dog sits watching them. What kind of a dog is it? He’s never seen anything like it before. It has short ears and a flat muzzle—a chest nearly as wide as a man’s. Its eyes almost look human. “Is that animal yours?” He stands, wanting to see the dog up close.

  “No…don’t go near it.”

  As McGauran approaches the window, the dog runs off, dashing for the square.

  “You chased him away.” The young man’s voice is close to his ear, and when McGauran turns around, he finds him standing inches away. Up close, his eyes are even more striking, large and benevolent as two silver moons, and it’s more than McGauran can take. Flustered, he quickly walks back to his chair and sits, wringing his hands.

  He has to get out of this house before he makes an irreparable mistake. “I guess it doesn’t like me,” he says, trying to keep his true nature hidden. “Red hair sometimes scares people…Or dogs, I guess.”

  “Your hair is so exquisite!” Flushing pink, the young man hesitates, and then says, “Oh, mon Dieu, I haven’t even properly introduced myself.” He walks back to the table where McGauran sits and extends his hand. “How rude of me. I’m so sorry. I’m Honoré.”

  It’s a common French Canadian name. It’s even the mayor’s name. McGauran has heard it many times before. Yet, the name has never meant anything until now. Honoré. Yes, that’s what this young man is. Honored by God. Spoiled with beauty and riches. He shakes Honoré’s fine hand, trying not to crush his tapered fingers. “McGauran is my name. People call me Mac, but…I’m not too fond of it.”

  “I thought your name was O’Dowd.” Honoré sits in the opposite chair, giving him a questioning look. There’s indeed a nervousness about him. Something in his nimble hands and the way he won’t stay still for more than a few seconds.

  “McGauran O’Dowd is my full name.”

  “Oh, I see. Is it a common Irish Catholic name?”

  “There’s a story to it.”

  “Please do tell it! I love stories! I’d be delighted to hear yours.”

  Is he getting the young man too excited? What is a nervous condition, anyway?

  “Well, I don’t know if you’d like it.”

  “Please, I’m curious. Indulge me. No one interesting ever comes around here.”

  He stares at Honoré for a moment and then shifts his weight in the chair. For some reason, he can’t refuse him this story, though it’s a private one he hasn’t shared with anyone who wasn’t Irish before. “All right, well,” he begins in a subdued voice, “my mother named me after the priest who saved her life. Up on Grosse Isle. Where they quarantined her folks. They were escaping the famine in the old country and came by on those coffin boats.”

  “Coffin boats?” Honoré seems riveted. There’s no malicious curiosity in his eyes.

  McGauran goes on. “See, when the timber companies sent their stock to Europe, they had empty boats on the return trip, so they decided to fill them with starving people looking to start a new life across the sea. There was a typhus outbreak. That’s where the boats got their name. From the people dying. The government stopped the boats at Grosse Isle, close to Québec city. Plenty of my people died there on that island. Most of them I guess.” How depressing is he? “It was…pretty cruel,” he adds.

  “Our government did that? That is positively criminal! I’m so sorry.”

  Honoré’s sincere reaction catches him off guard. “It’s not your fault. I mean, you weren’t even born.”

  “Can I say something?”

  Curious, McGauran frowns again. Honoré is genuinely nice to him. He hadn’t expected that from a rich man. “Yes…what?”

  “Coffin was my mother’s surname.”

  “Huh.”

  Honoré gives him a charming smile. “And your name?” The lamp near him turns on again.

  “Uh, that lamp keeps turning—”

  “Oh, never mind that.” Honoré waves his comment off. “It does that all the time. Every lamp, globe and—” he points up “—chandelier in this house has a will of its own.” He raises a brow. “Tell me you story!”

  Delighted by Honoré’s enthusiasm, McGauran can’t help chuckling. “Right. Well, Father McGauran, from Saint-Patrick’s parish, was a young priest assigned to Grosse Isle. He almost died there himself. He saved a lot of orphans, making sure they had homes. So when my mother heard the story, she swore she’d name her first son after that priest.”

  “I’m going to write a poem about it,” Honoré whispers. “Thank you for sharing that story with me.”

  They gaze at each other, and McGauran wants to break this silence, but can’t seem to look away from Honoré’s eyes, and no words come. He remembers the first time he’d held a compass in his hand. The way the magnet had showed him true north. He feels that way now.

  “O’Dowd.” Gédéon Latendresse enters the room and goes straight to him. “I thought you’d joined up with the Les Chevaliers du Travail. You have some gall showing up here at my home. Why didn’t you respond to the announcement I placed in the Patrie newspaper two weeks ago?”

  “I don’t read that paper, sir,” he says, tearing his gaze away from Honoré. “And I only organized a few strikes. I’m no trouble-maker.” He offers the notary his hand.

  But Gédéon recoils from the touch. He glances at Honoré, something passing over his face. Suspicion? Po
ssession? “Let’s not talk in here. My nephew needs his peace.” Tall, broad shouldered, Gédéon Latendresse is an imposing man. His hair is as dark as his nephew’s but streaked with gray and he wears a thick mustache, which hangs low over his lips. His eyes are pale as well, but not as lovely and luminous as Honoré’s. There’s a steely look in them.

  McGauran remembers Widow Leary’s tale. Could this man have done what she said? Did he ride the witchin’ canoe? He sure looks like a man who could cheat the Devil out of his due.

  Gédéon touches Honoré’s sleeve, and when he looks at his nephew, the ice in his eyes melt. Clearly, he’s very fond of the young man. “I’m holding a meeting tonight and I expect you to entertain us with a concerto or maybe one of your poems. So please rest today.”

  “Uncle, you know how much I hate those Freemason meetings.”

  “It’s not a Freemason meeting.” Gédéon winks. “And you shouldn’t speak of those meetings so casually. You wouldn’t want O’Dowd here thinking we aren’t good Catholics.”

  Honoré tips his head and pouts. “Well then, tonight will be a meeting of the French Canadian chamber of commerce and I dislike those as well.”

  “Oh, we should be so lucky to have one, Honoré! No, tonight, I’m holding an assembly with the members of Montreal’s historical society.” He ruffles his nephew’s thick black hair, and for a moment, McGauran is jealous of that touch. “Now will you entertain us? You know how proud you make me when you do.”

  “But those men are such bores!” Honoré gives McGauran a conspirator’s smile. “And the only history they’re interested in, is the one they make.”

  He can’t help smiling back at Honoré. That was a clever thing to say.

  Gédéon lovingly pinches his nephew’s ear. “Behave yourself. Do you want the Brits to write all of our history?”

  When Honoré laughs, the small gilded chandelier above their heads flickers, and McGauran glances up, but Gédéon turns his attention to him again. “Let’s go to my study, shall we?”

  He must remember the purpose of his visit. “Yes, sir,” he says, his cheeks stinging.

  “Well then, follow me. With this damn plague, I’m a few men short and you look like you’ve been eating your meat and potatoes since I last saw you.”

  Not quite in control of himself, he follows the notary, but can’t help looking back at Honoré. “You play the piano very good,” he blurts out.

  “Oh, that.” Honoré grins. “Well, I was hoping to drive Bernard mad for throwing out my new copy of Madame de Maupin.”

  McGauran laughs, though he’s not sure who or what that is. Honoré’s smile is a tonic for his soul.

  “But if you like…I could play for you some time. A more reasonable concerto.”

  Honoré wants to see him again? Him?

  “O’Dowd,” Gédéon shouts from the hall. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  Honoré’s lovely eyes dance with humor. “My uncle isn’t a patient man.”

  “Yes…” McGauran hesitates by the door. “Goodbye.”

  Honoré bows his head a little. “Goodbye, Mr. O’Dowd. Charmed to make your acquaintance.” He turns and walks to the window sill, touching the plants again. “Of course my uncle will have your address,” he says in an unsure voice, staring out at the square with his back to him. “Maybe I’ll send for you.” Near him, the floor lamp flickers, dims and then brightens strongly, and Honoré glances over his shoulder. “Would that be acceptable?” he asks, his eyes saying more. Saying so much more.

  Leaning on the door, McGauran decides to take a risk, to let his true self show, if only for a moment. If only to this man. “I’d be honored,” he whispers.

  The enchanting smile Honoré gives him was definitely worth the risk.

  Chapter 4: Bernard’s Warning

  It’s getting late in the evening and Honoré can’t avoid going downstairs for much longer. Soon, Uncle Gédéon will summon him. The very idea of giving a piano recital for those hounds down there causes him heart palpitations and cold hands.

  If only he could escape this house tonight. But what will happen if he does venture out in the dark streets? He’ll walk for a while, and then begin to feel nervous and threatened. He’ll see angry faces flash at him from under the brim of hats. He’ll hear whispers and mocking laughter. And after a few minutes, he’ll end up hurrying home like a fearful child.

  What happened to the curious boy he used to be? The boy who would go sliding down the Côte-à-Baron without a care in the world?

  Turning away from the window, Honoré looks at his father. “I shouldn’t have read that Nodier tale. That Smarra of his. It haunted me all night.” He lowers his voice and sits in his usual chair, the one facing his father’s. “I hid the copy in Mother’s music box. If Bernard finds it, he’ll be upset with me. He says I shouldn’t be reading these types of books, and I know he’s right. Why am I so tempted by these tales of demons and ravens?” He stands again, paces, and then goes to the window to stare out at the side courtyard. A silvery blue moon hangs in the sky. “It’s because I need to live. To feel. To be thrilled and enticed. I can’t be locked up in this stuffy house for another year reading Leconte Delisle and Louis Fréchette, or worse, LaFontaine!” He presses his palm against the window. “And now Uncle intends on beginning my apprenticeship this fall. I don’t want to be a stoic banker.” He curls his fingers into fists. “I want to be a poet. Or compose my own opera!”

  No, he’s getting excited again. If he isn’t careful, Gédéon will call Doctor Beaufort and they’ll force him to take that horrible everlasting pill, or worse, plunge him into an ice cold bath, and then he’ll be in bed for days with an induced fever and stomach cramps.

  Honoré kneels by his father’s rolling chair, gazing up at his vacant expression. Then his attention strays to the wall behind the bed. Encased in a massive gold frame, a large portrait of his mother looms over the room. Her black hair is pinned under a sophisticated hat decorated with blue feathers. Her gray eyes, so much like his own, follow him whenever he’s in the room. “I met someone today,” he whispers to his parents, as he’s done ever since he was a child. He doesn’t need to write in a journal. His father is the white page on which he spills his thoughts and dreams, and his mother is the guardian of them. “He came here to ask for a job. I think I made a…friend.” He recalls McGauran’s searching dark eyes. His fiery red hair. His hoarse voice and musical accent. And when he thinks of the shape of McGauran’s muscular chest straining the fabric of his worn jacket, he feels aroused in a way he’s never felt before. The sensation is overwhelmingly pleasant, yet scares him a little.

  There was an accord between him and McGauran. A resonance. Most men recoil from Honoré, and those who don’t, watch him salaciously, as though he were a mere object they wish to fondle. It was different with McGauran. Yes, McGauran scrutinized him this afternoon, but in his eyes, there was desire and perhaps even…admiration.

  Drool has gathered at the corner of his father’s mouth and Honoré patiently wipes it with his handkerchief. “Can I send for him? He wants me to. I know he does. Sunday. In the afternoon, of course. He must attend church, don’t you think? He’s an Irishman. Do you think he would come? Do you think he fancies me a little?” He glances at the door again. Downstairs, male voices boom and he can smell the cigar smoke gathering in the house. Soon, he’ll be forced to make an appearance and subject himself to their interrogation or indifference.

  He rises and checks the doorway. “They think love is a convenient pairing of two estates and bank notes are the world’s poetry.” He looks over at his father. “Don’t you agree?”

  Of course, his father stares at the wall, his thick hair shining almost white in the candle light. Above the bed, Honoré’s mother gazes at him with eyes full of secrets he’ll never learn.

  Lost in his thoughts, he paces again. The bedroom is small but furnished with everything a man of his father’s status should need. In the right corner, there’s a massive waln
ut chest filled with finely tailored suits and shirts, and near the window, a Louis XVI secretary is covered with papers, ink, and an empty journal, waiting to be used. The bed, a Parisian baldaquin, is draped with the most lavish purple bed clothes and embroidered silk cushions he could find in the city. All of it has been chosen by him. Every week, the maids dust and clean the room.

  Yet, George Latendresse doesn’t need any of those expensive objects. His feet have never even touched the Persian rug. His father, a businessman who was once revered, has been mute and confined to this chair for the last seventeen years. Honoré has never known his embrace. Or if he has, he can’t recall it.

  Feeling the grief more poignantly tonight, he goes to the window again. Somewhere to the west, down the hill, is where McGauran O’Dowd lives. Is he lonely, too? Is he thinking of him? No, that would be too much to ask.

  Oh, this is torture! To have so much to give and yet have no one to offer it to. Honoré presses his forehead to the cool glass. “I’ll go mad,” he whispers. “And be interned at Saint-Jean de Dieu, with all the other deviants and prodigals.”

  The Longue-Pointe Madhouse.

  He walks to his chair and falls back into it, resting his head against the plush seat. That’s what happens to men like him. They end up under the care of the good sisters of La Providence.

  For a while, he stares at his father, imagining himself in those aged features. Is he doomed to the same fate? When Honoré looks up, he glimpses his own pale face in the mirror above the desk and starts, sitting up straight. His nerves begin to dance under his skin. Sometimes he can’t seem to recognize his face in the mirror. Why?

  Alienation from one’s self, Doctor Beaufort calls it. Polymorphic tendencies.

  “Ah, there you are.” In his usual brisk manner, Bernard enters the candle lit room and turns that dreadful artificial globe on. He blows the candles out, one by one. “Your uncle requests your company.”

  Hoping to hide his mental confusion from Bernard, Honoré watches the smoke twirl up from the extinguished candles and cracks a brittle smile. “The artificial lights keep flickering. It gives me a headache.”