by Mel Bossa
“Let me help you,” Honoré takes his uncle limp arm. “To put him to bed.”
“No, my dear boy, just go on off to your own bed and I’ll settle him in. All he needs is some black tea and a good night sleep.”
Gédéon mumbles a few words and pushes his face into Bernard’s shoulder. “We have to do something for him,” he whines. “We have to send him away—”
“Tsk. Tsk. Come now, Gédéon.” Deftly, as though he’s done this many times before, Bernard ushers his uncle to his room.
Upset at seeing Gédéon in such a disorganized state, Honoré stands speechless for a while, until Bernard and his uncle are inside Gédéon’s room and the door is shut. But he doesn’t stand there long. Carefully, he tiptoes to Gédéon’s closed door and leans his ear to it. He can hear Bernard scolding his uncle in the voice he usually uses with him. “What were you thinking?” Bernard demands.
“He’s a deviant,” Gédéon slurs. “Corrupted.”
“Listen to me. I know he’s been spending all of his hours with O’Dowd,” Bernard goes on, more softly. “And that’s not a terrible thing, is it? This Mac boy, he seems to have a good head on his shoulders. Do you really think that forbidding Honoré to see this young man is the safe thing to do? What do you think will happen? He’ll only want to see more of him. At that age, rebellion is normal. Healthy, Gédéon.”
Holding his breath, Honoré stands frozen, with his ear to the door. He’s not rebelling! He’s finally living in accordance with his own truth.
“Bernard, he’s going to ruin himself with that Irishman, damn his soul, and that thing will seize it as it promised it—”
“Why do you persist in believing that, Gédéon? A man with your education?”
Honoré blinks, remembering to breathe. He checks the hall. Then listens again. His uncle is drunk. He can’t mean anything he’s saying.
“See, it wasn’t enough not to beget sons and daughters. It’s coming for my kin. My nephew. Honoré is twenty years old! The age I was when I broke the pact.”
Honoré takes a step back. The pact. With the Devil? Are the stories true? No, how could they be?
“Oh, God, Esther, poor Esther. She died because of my arrogance, because of my refusal to take no for an answer, and now her son, her only son is my responsi—”
“Keep your voice down,” Bernard says. “You need to sleep.”
“No, I’m not going to lie to myself anymore! Not going to waste another day. I’m going to call a meeting. I was the one who convinced them to get on that goddamn canoe and I have to fix this before it comes to its full conclusion.”
“Gédéon, you can’t be serious! Are you mad? Those men haven’t spoken to you in twenty years. They won’t want to see you.”
“Listen to me. Just listen to me. I’ve found a great occultist. She says she can help me with summoning it.”
“I can’t let you do that. No. I can’t. I won’t let you do that. It would only make things worse.”
Something in Bernard’s voice, in his tone, causes Honoré to frown, to pause and listen more closely. He’s never heard Bernard speak to Gédéon in that voice. He sounds…stricken with fear. But there’s something else he can’t quite grasp.
“I have to. And I will. In Cacouna. I know this is the only way.” Gédéon sounds so resolute, yet there’s a trace of anxiety in his voice. “He’s a special, angelical boy, and I won’t let him pay for my sins. I can’t lose him.” His voice breaks. “He’s all I have left of her.”
“I know. I know.”
His mother?
Honoré touches the door handle, wanting to reassure his uncle, but something changes his mind and he finally steps away. Perhaps he shouldn’t have eavesdropped. This isn’t for him to hear. He must have misunderstood. But as he’s walking back to his room, behind him, a door opens, and Bernard calls his name. Nervously, he turns to face him. “Yes?”
Bernard hesitates. “Whatever you heard, don’t make anything of it. Your uncle lost some friends in the past, on New Year’s Eve. There was a fire in the shanties, and those dead men haunt him when he’s had too much to drink. He starts believing in the Devil on nights such as these. And you know how much he loved your poor mother. That too, weighs on his conscience. I’m sorry if we upset you. Off to bed you go.”
“He sounded so convinced. So utterly convinced that I’m in danger.”
“Oh, Honoré, your uncle is a tormented man. But rest will do him well.” Bernard walks up to him and presses his shoulder. “You’re in no danger. How can you be? You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Perhaps I have…or perhaps I want to.”
Bernard blinks and shakes his head, looking off into the hall for a moment. “Who knows what is right or wrong in the eyes of God. He sees into men’s hearts, that is where evil lies. And there’s no evil in yours, my boy.”
“Sometimes my uncle looks at me with such disgust, such…hatred. Sometimes I think he’s the root of my nervous condition.” A fleeting shadow moves behind Bernard’s shoulder and Honoré starts. “Oh, I think he’s slipped out of bed,” he whispers.
“No, he’s too drunk for that.” Bernard walks back to Gédéon’s open door and peers in. “He’s snoring.”
“There’s a presence in this house,” Honoré ventures, hoping he won’t frighten Bernard into thinking his mind is spoiled. “Something…I don’t know. And that dog. That animal I see in the carré and by our house. It waits and watches as though someone has commanded it to do so. Oh, and the lights, they—”
“The wiring. It’s to be redone.” There’s a hint of concern in Bernard’s eyes. “And never mind that dog. Animals aren’t spiritual beings. It knows nothing of your existence.” He exhales a long breath and watches Honoré with affection. “You’re happier now, aren’t you?”
Honoré know Bernard means McGauran. “Yes, I am, and I don’t want to go to—to the summer house with my uncle.” He must seize this golden opportunity. “Obviously, being apart for a month could be good for both parties.” He puts his hands together. “Please, can you make him understand? I need a little time to think. To meet with myself.”
“Well, there isn’t much I can do when it comes to changing your uncle’s mind. But…yes, I think you may be right. I think going to the villa together isn’t such a good idea anymore.”
“Then you’ll argue my case to him?” He imagines the freedom, the relief of not having his uncle breathing down his neck for a few weeks. “Will you?”
“I’ll speak to him.” Bernard nods, walking off. “Now good night. Try to rest your mind.”
“My mind isn’t the source of my agitation. It’s my heart that won’t be quiet tonight.”
“Ah, the heart. Yes. It wants what it wants.” Bernard has a mournful look on his face. “And because of it, we suffer as no other mortal creature does.”
* * * *
With a start, McGauran sits up on the cot, panicked and breathless. For a second, he doesn’t know where he is. His heart races. His hands are knotted into hard fists.
“I knew you were having a nightmare.”
He blinks, looking over. Widow Leary sits at the table, in a shaft of sunlight, mending a shirt. “You were moaning and tossing like a devil in holy water there.”
And she was watching him? He runs a hand across his sleepy face and glances down at himself. He’s in his shirtsleeves and his undershirt is damp with sweat. “What time is it?” His voice is hoarse. “Did the seven o’clock church bells toll?”
“Nah, don’t worry. You’re not that late yet. What were you dreaming about? No, wait, don’t tell me. It’s bad luck to talk about our nightmares.” She shoots him a quick look. “Who’s Honoré? You said his name a few times.”
He lies back and turns away. “Don’t wanna talk about it,” he mutters.
The dream is always the same. He’s been having this nightmare for three nights in a row. He’s in a forest. It’s cold. He’s running. Panicked. Has to get to Honoré. But Honoré is too far away and he
can’t reach him fast enough. They’re going to hurt him. He needs his help. Then everything turns so quiet. Not a bird or creature around. But he feels the silence. He waits for it to speak.
In a clearing, right there before him, is a canoe. When he reaches the boat, he studies it. The pine is intricately crafted with ancient symbols he’s seen before in a book about the Iroquois nation. There are words and animals painted in red and green all along the boat’s flank. Beneath the canoe, the snow is steaming black.
The dog. Yes. That black dog is there. It sits in the canoe, wagging its tail happily. Then a man steps out from a cluster of tall pines. Quietly, without a sound. His face. He can’t make out his face.
Honoré for Gédéon. Gédéon for Honoré.
I will have my ferryman.
“Today isn’t a good day for nightmares, Mac.” Widow Leary looks up at the painting of Christ and crosses herself. “Tonight, Mary Gallagher is gonna be out searching for her head and it’s best not to get in her way.”
Her very name evokes fear around the quarter. Mary’s grizzly murder happened seven years ago, but he still remembers the chaos it caused around the neighborhood. Mary was a lady of the night. A drunk, some said. Folks suspected her woman friend of cutting off her head after a nasty argument fueled by jealousy. Others thought her male lover had done it.
But most swore they’d seen a stranger roaming around town. A murderer in their midst. Since then, her ghost has been spotted in these streets, headless, searching for peace. For restoration.
Now he knows he might have liked Mary Gallagher and she might have understood him better than any of the people here. Exiled, she was. And judged. Then turned into a ghost story. Is that what they do to people who won’t play by their rules? Make a dark legend out of them?
“I don’t know what’s a matter with you these days, but you got your poor mother worried and I can’t blame her.”
For days now, ever since he parted with Honoré in the tram, he’s been out-of-sorts, plagued by this nightmare, on the edge of losing control. He drinks too much at night. Can’t seem to reign himself in anymore. He hasn’t dared return to the Latendresse house, because in the state of lust he’s in, he’ll be throwing himself at Honoré’s mercy. Like a lovestruck lunatic, he’ll be begging Honoré to surrender his beautiful body to him. If only for one night.
And then where will they be?
“Now what’s this nonsense about refusing to confess?”
“I don’t like that priest,” he almost snarls. “And I don’t believe he’s in God’s good graces, so why should I tell him my secrets?”
Widow Leary drops her work. “Boy, you better watch your mouth! That man is a saint. He’s a pillar of strength around here and if it wasn’t for Father Hayes, you and your mother would have been beggars.”
McGauran stares at the soot-stained wall, fuming. He can’t take this for one more day. He’s going to explode. And now he has to go down to the basin, to be treated like a dumb animal? There’s never enough money for anything.
Why should he have to go without delicious food, fine clothes, and leisure time?
If only he could strip Honoré of all his fancy clothes and defenses, hold him, caress and please him until Honoré cried out in pleasure, this unbearable tension would finally relent and give him some peace. Is this what Father Hayes means by being cursed? This hot desire eating away at his mind and heart? Soon, he’ll be nothing but a shadow of himself.
“Mac,” Leary says, her voice turning gentle. “A man needs to know his place. Remember that.”
He knows where his place is, and it’s nowhere near here.
Chapter 14: A Stormy Sonata
At the piano, Honoré closes his eyes, letting his own musical gift carry him as it has many times before. He doesn’t need to read the sheet. He knows this Beethoven sonata by heart. It always touches him, no matter how many times he’s played it before, and sometimes, like this afternoon, the melody moves him to tears.
Outside, a summer storm rages. Rain and wind lash the windows, causing shutters to beat against the house. But the storm has brought him an unexpected gift; an hour ago, all the electric bulbs magically shut down and never lit up again. At last, his eyes can rest. The glowing dance of the many candles he scattered across the room remind him of his own ephemeral life. The futility of being a mortal with infinite desires and little time to fulfill or even chase them.
At the piano, Honoré plays the moonbeam notes, thinking of all the sadness in the world. And the music reminds him of McGauran, yes, McGauran, so full of pride and strength, while inside, his true heart is like this song. Waiting for tenderness.
Tenderness. Honoré smiles through his tears. His surname.
Suddenly, he feels the fatality of their forbidden love so deeply, it chokes him. Tears stream down his face, but he keeps playing, compelled to drown out the sound of the howling wind with his own music. It’s been two weeks since he last saw McGauran. Of course he sent a telegram to his home and even visited the city jail, praying McGauran hadn’t been picked up for being drunk and disorderly. This afternoon, he was going to steal the carriage, drive the horses himself, and ride down to the slums to seek him out, but the storm hindered his plans, and now here he is, lonely as his beloved Beethoven.
Someone touches his shoulder, and Honoré jumps, opening his eyes. In the mirror on the piano, Maggie’s face is spectral white. Quickly, he wipes his nose and eyes. “What do you want, Maggie? Don’t sneak up on me like that when I’m rehearsing, please.”
“You—you should come to the kitchen.”
“Is it that dog again?” Already, his courage dwindles.
“No, it’s Mac.”
He stands so abruptly, he tips the bench over, and then runs off into the hallway. Maggie is following behind, trying to catch up. “Fredeline gave him some strong black tea and—”
“Tea?” Honoré pushes on the kitchen door and freezes in his tracks.
McGauran is sitting at the long wooden table with his head in his hands and Fredeline is draping a blanket over his shoulders. A few candles melting in bronze candlesticks provide the room with diffused light.
“What happened?” he whispers, afraid to startle McGauran.
Fredeline gives him a tender look. “The poor man is drunk and soaked to the bone.”
McGauran slowly looks over at him. His eyes are hot with ache. He tries to stand, and when he does, the blanket slips off his broad shoulders, his coarse wet shirt clinging to his brawn. His handsome face tightens with sorrow. “I keep coming back to you,” he says in a broken voice. “No matter which street I take.”
For the first time in his life, Honoré feels strong, capable, and calm. He walks over to where McGauran sways, and addresses Maggie and Fredeline. “I’m taking him to the back room and I need you to bring some warm blankets and pillows.” He brushes McGauran’s wet hair off his forehead. “You need to be quiet, all right? Very, very quiet. Just put your arm around me and don’t make a sound.”
“He’s too drunk,” Maggie says, with a hint of impatience. “Drunk as an Irishman can be. You won’t manage it on your own.”
“Then help me,” he snaps, shooting her a hard glance.
Fredeline gathers the cup of black tea and hurries out. “I’ll find some blankets and some of your uncle’s clothes,” she says as she leaves.
With Maggie’s minimal help, he struggles to get McGauran to stay on his feet, and then step by step, they make their way out of the kitchen and into the dark and quiet hallway. Gédéon is in the old city, soon to return, but Bernard is somewhere upstairs and could appear at any moment. As they stumble down the candle lit hall, taking the narrow passage to the back rooms, McGauran is mumbling incoherent words. Something about the docks. A fight. His temper.
“Get the door.”
Maggie hurries and unlocks the door, then holds it open for him. With McGauran hanging off his shoulder, he manages to stumble forward a few more steps. Inside, he gently pushes
McGauran back on an old couch Bernard stored in this room they never use. “Now leave us. Please.”
There’s a flash of lightning, and seconds later, the thunder bellows. Maggie hesitates in the door. “He shouldn’t be bringing you his troubles.”
“Is that what you think this is?” He kneels by McGauran and looks at her sharply.
She quickly leaves, shutting the door behind her. It’s almost too dark to see, so he stands and fumbles around the room full of discarded trinkets, lamps, and furniture, in search of candles. He finds two in the top drawer of his childhood desk and lights them with the matches he keeps in his coat pocket. With steady hands, he sets the wax sticks in some old silver dishes he finds on a side table. Soon the room is basking in faint light. Shadows cling to the furniture. Outside, the rainstorm rages on.
McGauran lies on his side, half falling off the divan, shivering. Honoré feels his forehead. It’s warm, but not searing hot. He tries to keep his wits and stay calm, but there’s a storm inside him, too. He almost kisses McGauran and stops himself.
With his eyes closed, McGauran is shaking his head. “I’m a fool. A loafer and a drunk.” He opens his eyes and clutches Honoré’s coat flaps. “You’re too good for me…”
“No, no.” Lovingly, he presses McGauran’s hand. “Sleep. Please, rest.”
But McGauran is shivering harder. “All I think about is you,” he whines, covering his eyes with his arm. “Do you even need me?”
Honoré leans away, desperate to be good and well-behaved. He can’t tell McGauran how he feels. Not now. What if McGauran forgets tomorrow, after he wakes?
“If I had money,” McGauran says, obviously falling to sleep, “I’d take you away from here and make you so—” his voice trails off, “—happy…”
Before Honoré can speak, Fredeline quietly opens the door and enters, carrying a load of blankets, some fresh shirts, wool trousers, and a pillow. She sets everything down by the couch. Then without a word, and efficiently, she begins to unfasten McGauran’s wet shirt, but when she slips the shirt off his sculpted arms, Honoré stands and swiftly turns away to the window, catching sight of his face in the dark pane. It startles him. The air is full of electricity and he can barely stand the tension running through him.
