The Witchin' Canoe

by Mel Bossa

  “You need cufflinks.” Bernard rummages through a sterling silver jewelry box on the massive oak wood desk. From where he stands, McGauran can see it holds many silver and gold rings, a few pocket watches, as well as various cufflinks, all more dazzling than the other. Obviously Gédéon isn’t a simple man. “Yes, these will work.” Bernard walks back to him and begins to fasten the golden cufflinks to his sleeves.

  McGauran studies the cuffs. They’re gold lions with two minuscule rubies inside their open jaw. He’s never seen such exquisite things. “Why are you so nice to me?” he can’t help asking. “Why haven’t you…thrown me out yet?”

  “Because Honoré would follow you.”

  So that’s it then. He’s only here to keep Honoré appeased. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need Bernard to like him or even say so.

  “And…you remind me of a kind and decent man I know,” Bernard says, finally looking up at him. “I’ve come to understand that as long as you’re near Honoré, his soul seems to be at peace.”

  “And mine, too.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure. And, well, I won’t always be around to watch over him.” Bernard steps away but stops in the door. “However, I have a presentiment that you will. Am I wrong?”

  “No, you’re not wrong.” He must seize this chance. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is it true what they say about Gédéon? About him making a pact with the Devil? I mean—I don’t care either way. I really don’t.” He steps forward. “You see, Honoré believes he’s cursed, that he’s the reason his father is the way he is and that his mother died so young and tragically.”

  “Poor child.” Bernard sighs, a sad expression coming over his face. “He’s not to blame.”

  “He’s not a child.” He hesitates to say more, but goes on. “Honoré isn’t as fragile as you all think he is.”

  “His mind is fragile. His nerves are fragile. You don’t understand.” Bernard sighs. “He’s seen and lost too much, and though he hides it well, he’s always on the edge of a precipice. Always on the edge of madness. He’s too sensitive. Even the doctors say he could slip at any time.”

  “I don’t believe that. I think something in this house, maybe even his uncle, is the cause of those episodes he has.” He cringes a little, waiting for Bernard’s reaction. Waiting for him to tell him that he’s out of his league for speaking so bluntly.

  “O’Dowd…McGauran.” Bernard studies him. “You’re a very observant man. Clever as a fox. But your duty is to keep Honoré happy.”

  “It’s hard for me to do that when his uncle forbids me to go near him.”

  “Be patient. Time is on your side.”

  Downstairs, Honoré has stopped playing the piano. McGauran recognizes his quick and light steps in the stairs, the sound of his heels clanking on the hardwood floor in the hall.

  “Listen to me,” Bernard whispers, leaning in closer and then checking the hall. “If you were to perhaps discover a letter of mine, let’s pretend, for a moment, in my bedroom, in a cigar box—”

  “What are you saying?” He looks over Bernard’s shoulder at the hall. Honoré will appear any second now. “Letter?”

  “Yes, yes, O’Dowd, don’t be daft. Simply, I need someone to know. I need you to promise me that whatever happens, you will take Honoré away from here someday and show him there’s another world out there.”

  “Letters about the witchin’ canoe.” He needs to hear the man say it. To make it real. “About the Devil?”

  Bernard hesitates, glances at the hall, and then back at him. “Yes.”

  McGauran’s heart skips a beat. Yes?

  “Bernard, where’s McGauran?” Honoré approaches them. “He wasn’t in my bedroom.”

  McGauran is out of view.

  “Ah,” Bernard says a little tensely, “Orpheus has finally found his Eurydice and we’re to have peace for a few hours?”

  “She dies, you know.” Honoré steps closer and finally sees him in the door. “There you are.” He blushes darkly. “You look dashing.”

  “Thank you. Bernard helped.”

  Bernard walks off. “Don’t delay, please. Dinner is about to be served.”

  After Bernard as turned the corner and his steps are heard in the staircase, McGauran moves out of the doorway and takes Honoré’s hands in his. “You didn’t wake me.”

  “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “You never disturb me.”

  “Not even when I’m playing that Overture 1812?”

  “Ah…so you knew.”

  “I can read your face.” Honoré scrutinizes him with ardent eyes. “Very easily. Like a music sheet.”

  Downstairs, the dinner bell chimes.

  “Is that so? Well then, what am I thinking now?”

  Honoré stands on the tips of his shoes and softly kisses his lips. With a bashful smile, he leans away. “Yes?”

  Laughing, he ruffles Honoré’s thick black hair. “Right you are. Yes.”

  Chapter 19: A Disturbance in the Night

  They’ve been quiet so far, caressing each other under the sheets, but when McGauran covers him with the length of his body, Honoré can’t help a little moan of pain inside the pillow. McGauran squeezes him tighter then, clutching his hand inside his, whispering soothing words into his hair. McGauran is the tip of a hot blade sealing an invisible wound inside him. But something is different tonight. Honoré has never enjoyed it so much. The pleasure is almost too much to bear. He’s nothing but nerve endings. He’s coming undone. Yes. Oh, yes, he’s being released from himself. He grips McGauran’s hip, turning his face to catch his mouth, to suck in his breath. Pushing deeper into him, McGauran groans a Catholic blasphemy in his ear, and Honoré has to bite into the pillow to keep from crying out in ecstasy.

  For a long time, they lie helpless in each other’s arms. After a while, they carefully untangle their limbs, and rest face to face, chests touching. McGauran stares at him with an almost painful expression.

  “What is it, Gaury?” He can’t remember when he started calling McGauran Gaury. The shorten name simply escaped his lips a few nights ago and he’s been using it at times. But only in these moments, when they’re the closest.

  McGauran moves into his arms and rests his head over his heart. “It can’t be a sin if it feels this good.”

  “Oh, but I think that’s the very definition of sinning,” Honoré says in jest, without thinking.

  “Don’t say that. I can’t accept that.”

  “I wish you’d read that Darwin book I told you about. Evolution. Transmutation of species. Science. That’s where men should be turning for answers. Not the Church.”

  When McGauran is silent, Honoré regrets his words.

  “It’s not like I gobble up everything the bible,” McGauran finally says, defensively.

  “No, I know. I know…The truth is that I look to science, when really, all I want is God.”

  McGauran glances up at him, his eyes turning gentle. “You’re scared, aren’t you? Because believing in God, would mean believing in everything else. Including the Devil.”

  “Stop.” He wraps McGauran’s arm around his shoulder. “Don’t talk about it. Don’t.” He’s learned to ignore it. To drown out its evil presence with joy and laughter and music. Always music. “I don’t want to have an episode. I haven’t had one since you’ve moved into the house.”

  “Well, you’re calmer.”

  “Because you’re here.” Honoré touches McGauran’s face. “And the lights—have you noticed?”

  “Yeah…I noticed.” McGauran leans over him, gazing down into his eyes. “Listen to me. I’ll never let it hurt you. Whatever it is. I’ll sell it my soul, if I have to.”

  “Please don’t say things like that.”

  “Honoré, if there’s a curse, I’ll lift it for you.”

  “You already have.”

  “Don’t you understand? I had nothing, I was nothing, before you looked a
t me.”

  “That’s not true, Gaury! You keep referring to yourself as a poor jobber, or a loafer, but you’re none of those things.”

  “Yeah, then what am I?”

  Honoré raises himself up on the pillows, leaning back on his elbows to give McGauran a direct look. “You’re a king, McGauran. That’s what you are. I knew it the moment I saw you.”

  “Right…” McGauran falls back against the pillows and rolls his eyes.

  “Stop it.” He chuckles, pinching McGauran’s chest. “You are. All you need is your own kingdom, that’s all. I see a cabin…a lake. Land. Yours.”

  With intense eyes, McGauran studies his face. A confession seems to be forming on his lips, but he doesn’t speak.

  “Tell me,” Honoré ventures, too curious to stop himself, “are you more like your father or your mother? Because you never speak of him.”

  McGauran looks away at the window. “I’m a lot like him, I guess.” He turns his eyes to him again. “He was always—he was always trying to better our lives. He worked so hard. Too hard. And he just…he just wore himself out. He died coughing blood.”

  “That won’t happen to you,” Honoré says, almost panicked and grabbing McGauran’s hand. “I won’t let it happen. I’ll inherit. I’ll lift that curse for you.”

  At the sound of those words, McGauran’s eyes fill with tears and he takes hold of Honoré’s face. “I have to tell you something.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know if men should ever say—”

  “Wait. Listen.” Someone is running down the hallway and Honoré sits up. “What was that?” Maggie is whimpering somewhere near his room. “It’s Maggie.” He tosses the blankets off.

  “No, stay here.” McGauran jumps out of bed and into his breeches. He frowns, looking at the door. Nearby, Maggie is mumbling words. He cracks the door open and peers into the hall.

  Honoré throws his black silk house coat over his naked body and ties it at the waist. He steps closer and looks over McGauran’s bare shoulder. He starts. “What’s hap—”

  “Don’t talk to her. Don’t touch her.”

  “Maggie?”

  “Shh. Don’t.” McGauran walks into the hall, slowly, carefully.

  But she takes off, running down the hall, her long orange hair swaying, her pale blue nightgown flowing behind her. Her light and quick steps are heard in the distance.

  For a moment, Honoré can’t move or speak. Shocked, he stares at the long empty hall. “You saw her, too, yes?”

  McGauran crosses himself and leans his head back against the wall. “Her face…”

  “Fredeline. Let’s get Fredeline! She’ll know what to do!”

  * * * *

  “No, you can’t come in.” Wearing a black shawl over her white night gown, Fredeline’s stands in the wedge of her bedroom door, looking tenser than Honoré has ever seen her before. “I’m sorry if we disturbed you,” she says. “Maggie slipped away, that’s all.”

  “But her face.” Honoré tries to see into the room. “Why is her face painted white like that?”

  McGauran whispers close to his ear, “Devil magic.”

  “Hush now.” Fredeline shoots McGauran a sharp look. “You have your religion, I have mine. There’s nothing evil about asking Papa Legba for a little help sometimes. Now you two go back upstairs and let me do my work.”

  Honoré tries to see into the bedroom again. There’s a mirror reflecting the dance of flickering candles. “Can’t we come in? Please? We’ll be very quiet. So discreet.” He presses his hands together. “Please, Fredeline. Let me see.” He looks back at McGauran. “We won’t say one word. Right?”

  But Fredeline stands firm. “My room is not a museum. I’m performing a ritual for Maggie. Her ti bon ange and gros bon ange are fighting. She’s in great turmoil. Now leave us.”

  “But why is she so quiet now?” McGauran asks, obviously not too convinced. “And why was she running around the house with her face like that?”

  Fredeline glances back at the room. “It wasn’t her running…It was the loa.” She hesitates. “He’s riding her. He wants rum and cigars and then we can talk.” She begins to shut the door again. “He’s waiting. Sitting there and waiting. But he’ll be gone soon, so please, let me finish.”

  “I don’t think you should be doing this to Maggie.” McGauran puts his hand on the door. “Let me see her. Right now.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Fredeline pushes harder on the door, trying to shut it.

  “Wait, wait,” Honoré says, gently tugging on McGauran’s arm. “You can’t barge into her room. That’s her private room.”

  “You own this house.” McGauran gives him a confused look.

  “But I don’t own her.”

  “And what about Maggie? Huh?”

  “I’m not harming her,” Fredeline says, quietly. “I’m trying to help her. I care for that girl. She’s like the daughter I never had. And her soul is hurting. She’s too gentle for this house.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve seen the kind of help religion gives.” McGauran walks away. “Be it in the name of God or Papa Legba. Makes no difference to me.”

  Honoré stares at the empty hall, his heart following McGauran.

  Fredeline blows out an impatient breath. “Take a quick look inside and then leave. And don’t talk to her.”

  Surprised, Honoré doesn’t waste a second and steps into the modest room. It’s dark in there, except for the altar on which a dozen white candles burn, their flames doubled in the oval mirror above the dresser. The scent of roses or carnations linger in the air, and on the narrow single bed, Maggie sits in her nightgown, her long orange hair cascading over her shoulders. Her painted face is serene, her eyes, wide open, but vacant of any emotion.

  Fredeline goes to the altar and lights one last candle. The table is covered with glass jars, flasks, and various bottles of perfume. There are flowers there, too. Long-stemmed white roses.

  “Are those for the loa?” he asks, as softly as he can. “We don’t even have a white rose bush, do we?”

  “Shh. Don’t speak.” Fredeline gives him a grave look. “Now leave us, please.”

  But he needs to know something. “Fredeline,” he asks, with trepidation. “You’ve seen the black dog. What do you think it is?”

  In the mirror, her candlelit eyes meet his. “The truth?”

  “Yes.”

  Slowly, she turns to face him. “It’s his companion. His watchdog.”

  “The…” No, he won’t say it. Won’t even think it.

  Maggie moves her head and stares at him. “Sa Bondye sere pou ou, lavalas pa ka pote l ale.”

  Honoré presses his hand over his heart, giving Fredeline a wide-eyed look. “What did she just say?”

  Maggie is staring blankly at the mirror again. As though she never spoke.

  “Was it a curse? What did she say? Did she curse me?”

  “Shh. Shh.” Fredeline takes his face inside her hands. “It wasn’t a curse, my sweet Honoré. Calm down.” She releases his cheeks and presses an open hand over his pounding heart. “The loa says…What God put away for you, no one can take away. I needed to know that.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “It means that whatever your uncle did, and whatever price he must pay, you are not it.”

  “But what does it want with me then?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighs. “But listen to me, you’ll be twenty-one on New Year’s Day and you’ll claim your inheritance. Then I want you to leave. Do you understand? Just leave this house.”

  “McGauran—”

  “He’ll be with you.”

  “He’ll be at the lumber camps.”

  “Have faith. He will be with you before the New Year.”

  “But that’s impossible. He’s going to the be miles and miles away from here.”

  She begins to shut the door.

  “Wait, Fredeline, wait.”

  “What?”

  “Plea
se, tell me, do you believe in—” But again, he stops himself.

  She gives him a long, probing look. “Honoré, I’m a black woman who’s survived fifty-three years in a white man’s world. So don’t ever ask me if I believe in the Devil.” She shuts the door in his face.

  * * * *

  A few minutes later, upstairs, Honoré finds McGauran sitting on the bedroom window sill, sipping on a glass of brandy and gazing out at the carré.

  His heart speeds and he goes to him. “I saw Maggie. She’s in no danger.”

  McGauran sets his glass down on the side table and slips a hand into Honoré’s hair, studying his face him with almost furious eyes.

  “What is it?”

  “I need to tell you something.”

  His heart flutters a little. “Yes?”

  McGauran sighs heavily, as though he needs to shed a burden. “I don’t know what you’ll think of it. If a man should say such a thing to another man.”

  “What, please, tell me.”

  “I—” McGauran stops, shakes his head.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he whispers.

  McGauran takes a shallow breath and looks straight into his eyes. “I love you, Honoré. I love you. If there was a way, some kind of world we could flee to that would understand this…I’d marry you. I’d do it before God himself.”

  Honoré feels those words like a fist reaching into his chest. They snuff the air right out of him for a moment.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” McGauran blurts out, his cheeks turning red. “Please forget—”

  “I love you, too,” he nearly shouts.

  McGauran laughs a little, but then turns serious, reaching for his face again. “Let’s leave this place. Tomorrow.”

  He could forge his uncle’s signature on some documents. Go to the bank. Steal away on a train. West. But he can’t. He can’t. “My father…”

  “I know. I know that. I respect your devotion to your family. But I can’t keep living off your money. And I can’t go back to living how I was living. I’ve come to the end of the line, Honoré.”

  “I will go with you one day, but not like this. Not right now.”

  “You’d come with me? You would?”