The Witchin' Canoe

by Mel Bossa

  As time passes, a coal-hot fever rises inside him, making him ache and shudder under Gene’s blanket. For the rest of the night, he drifts in and out of consciousness, moaning and tossing on the mattress. He dreams of a piano covered in ice, playing all on its own. He dreams of church bells ringing in broken towers. He dreams of branches whipping his face. Of weightlessness. Something evil behind him. He dreams of Honoré, naked in his arms, his skin damp with sweat, his black-blue hair sticking to his beautiful face. Honoré is whispering tender, erotic words into his ear, his body pressing harder against his. But when he fuses his lips to Honoré’s searing hot mouth, Honoré’s skin begins to coarsen under his hands, and black hair covers his face, and his mouth—his mouth has turned into a gaping jaw full of sharp, jagged teeth. The black dog overpowers him. He can’t breathe. Can’t move. It sits on his chest, blowing sour, foul breath into his nose and mouth. He tries to break away and shouts soundlessly. Oh, God, can’t anybody hear him? Can’t Jimmy help him?

  When the dawn comes, McGauran is lying in a pool of his own sweat, unable to raise his head. Through a slit in his eyelid, he sees the men standing around him with grim or angry expressions.

  “Simon,” he hears Gene’s voice, far, far away, it seems. “Keep the fire high all day and I’ll check up on him in the afternoon.”

  “He’s not gonna make it,” someone says. “Better not be the goddamn Red Death.”

  “No…I saw his vaccination scar.”

  “Better not be typhus.”

  “Everybody move your cots to the other side of the room.”

  Everything goes dark and quiet.

  Chapter 25: The Sand Begins to Trickle Through the Hourglass

  Nothing has been removed from George Latendresse’s bedroom, not even the various ointments, powders, and herbs Fredeline had tried on him in the last weeks before his death.

  Fredeline…

  Gone, too. Fled. Oh, she sent Honoré a short letter telling him of her new peaceful life in Ohio. She writes that Maggie’s spirits have begun to lift since she’s taken a liking to one of the children there, a little boy she dotes on.

  Of course he couldn’t be happier for the pair. How could he not be? Why should he ever be reason enough for anyone to stay?

  Dressed in his black silk house coat, Honoré stands at the window, smoking one of his uncle’s cigarettes. At first, the taste of the tobacco revolted him, but now he quite enjoys it. Through the fogged window pane, he watches the frozen courtyard, blowing curls of smoke into the damp air, sometimes managing a circle. The Saint-Louis Square is empty, barren, buried under a heavy quilt of white. The house is silent as a tomb, every sound muted by the snow compounded on the roof and around the walls. There are no horse cars out tonight. Not a soul in sight. He feels the weight of winter settling on his shoulders. The pressure of it on his mind. When the ashes tip off the end of his cigarette, he stares at the gray spot they’ve made on the rug, and then after a while, snuffs out the cigarette in his empty glass of cognac.

  Downstairs, the longcase clock begins to chime. He listens, counting its tolls. Twelve. The midnight hour. In the room, candles burn on tables, the desk, the window sill. Two days ago, all the artificial lights failed and Gédéon has yet to summon the electric company. Honoré doesn’t mind. The flickering has stopped.

  Slowly, he turns to look at his father’s bed. Could his life truly be nothing better than his? Some men are irrelevant. Many die alone, abandoned, exiled. What made him think he was so special?

  Above the bed, his mother Esther watches him, her blue eyes so alive, they seem to be straining against the painted canvas imprisoning her.

  “I do love you,” he breathes, staring at his mother’s still face. “And I need you more than ever now…” A shape moves at the corner of his eye, and Honoré starts, glancing back at the open door. Someone was in the doorway. That figure again. That shadow he’s been seeing in the last month. A blackness blacker than the absence of light. It follows him across rooms, but whenever he tries to glimpse it, it retreats into walls, absorbed by them.

  No, it could be his vision spoiling. He could be going blind. Or mad…

  He blinks a few times. There’s a lesion or some form of illness rotting his brain. He stares at the bed, his throat tightening. He can see himself propped up against the silk pillows in that massive bed, fed by doe-eyed nuns or read to by the maids, his beauty fading with every passing day, his talent withering away, his thoughts emptying out into the dark drain of his mind.

  Like father, like son.

  He fumbles for the cognac bottle and pours a generous amount into a clean crystal glass. He quickly drinks, spilling a little on his robe.

  It was that stupid letter he sent Gaury. Such flowery prose! He should be ashamed. What a romantic fool he was. What a child he is. He loathes himself.

  “What are you doing in this room?”

  At the sound of his uncle’s rough voice behind him, Honoré turns around, clutching his glass. “I can’t—couldn’t sleep.”

  In the doorway, clad in his red housecoat, Gédéon gives him a fierce, almost hateful glare. “We agreed that you’d master yourself and stay away from my cognac and cigarettes, and be in bed at a reasonable hour, so that you wouldn’t cause any more humiliating scenes such as the one you made today.”

  “I don’t know what happened this afternoon,” he sputters, setting his glass down on the silver platter by the crystal decanter. “I was certain that the lady in the portrait had moved. I—I saw it with my own two eyes. She beckoned me with a finger and I—”

  “Enough! The Julien family is one of our most important clients and you nearly sabotaged our meeting with your unnerving behavior.” Gédéon steps into the room, stopping by the bed. “Honoré,” he says with obvious restraint, “you’re not making a lot of sense lately and I’m greatly, greatly, concerned.” Leaning his hands on the gilded bed post, he eyes him. “Look at you. What happened to the young man I raised? Where did that charming, quick-witted boy go? You’re a shadow of yourself, Honoré. I fear for you. For us.”

  “Us? You mean you!” Honoré starts for the door, his movements affected by the cognac. He can’t fathom spending the next four months in this house with this man who’s become his warden. “You don’t care a thing for me anymore.”

  “How dare you be so insolent?” Gédéon grabs his arm, hindering his flight. “Are you drunk, is that it?” Furiously, he turns him around, then shoves him out of the way, before rushing to the desk. “I should have all of this burned. All of it! He was never deserving of her and if she hadn’t married him, I’d have never crossed the Devil!” In a fit of rage, he swipes his hand across the desk, sending the cognac bottle and ink pot flying. “I’ve had it with you! You’re more and more like your goddamn father. I’ve had it with your—your lunacy!”

  Honoré freezes up. “You think I’m a lunatic?” He steps to the door, stumbling away.

  But Gédéon manages to take hold of his arm again and jerks him back into the room, nearly ripping the robe off his shoulder. He pushes Honoré into the wall and grabs his face. His uncle’s mouth has twisted into a grimace and he won’t allow Honoré to move. He squeezes his face so hard, Honoré can taste blood where his teeth dig into his cheeks. When Gédéon’s shouts, his voice is strange, sounding almost guttural. “I should have you bled! Cleansed! Strapped to a bed!” For a moment, his face morphs into features Honoré can’t recognize. His uncle’s blue eyes have turned black. “You will be the ferryman or I will,” he growls.

  Ferryman? What? “Let…me…go,” Honoré manages to protest against his uncle’s vise-like fingers.

  The dimmest of light moves across Gédéon’s stare, and slowly, his grip loosens and he tumbles back with a look of confusion on his face. “Honoré, I don’t know what got into me. I—”

  “You’ve put your hands on me for the last time, Uncle.” His voice is calm, but his heart pounds. “I’ll be twenty-one years old in thirty-two days and I will cla
im my rightful inheritance. Inconvenient as that idea is to you. Then I’ll leave here. And you can do what you wish with the house, the businesses, and your goddamn curse!”

  There’s a loud noise and his mother’s portrait comes flying off the wall, falling face down onto the bed. Honoré freezes for a moment and then quickly rushes to it. “Mother!”

  But again, his uncle pulls his arm, hindering him. “Let her be.” With a grim look, Gédéon stares at the upturned gold frame, his steely gaze pausing on the wire attached to the dark back of the canvas. “What I did for that woman…” He looks up at Honoré. “And now for you.”

  “I never asked for any of this,” Honoré whispers, fastening his silk housecoat with trembling fingers. “All I want is, for once—” he swallows back the bitter tears, “—just for once. To be free of all of you. To be…the master of my own fate.”

  Gédéon smooths his hair back, regaining his composure. “You think O’Dowd will want to leave with you, is that it?” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “Oh, Honoré, you poor child. That Irishman isn’t like you. No, he’s like those ancient Greek soldiers who enjoyed the taste of a young ephebe for a while, and that’s what you are, Honoré, his eronemos, and that’s all. I saw his girl at the station. She was there with a gift for him. And the secret kiss they exchanged wasn’t a chaste one, believe me.”

  He leans his hand on the door jamb. “You’re lying,” he says, though a part of him could believe. Yes, he could believe that. Why not? Why wouldn’t McGauran want to sate both desires? Perhaps he longs for women, too. Perhaps what he gave McGauran could never be enough.

  “You think a man like O’Dowd won’t marry and father children? He’s an Irishman. There’s nothing else for him, but work, God, and family. That’s his path, Honoré. His destiny. And you dream of keeping him from it?”

  Tightening his fist, Honoré remembers McGauran’s last words to him. No, he won’t let doubt corrupt his love. “He’ll come back for me,” he says, holding his uncle’s eyes with his. “I’m his destiny. He told me so.”

  Gédéon frowns, his expression changing into a mask of disgust. “Do you hear yourself? His destiny? My boy, you’re unwell. Unfit.”

  Unfit.

  Like a terrible premonition, that word chills his blood. Unfit to decide for himself? Unfit to state his case? Unfit to inherit?

  “Tomorrow, I’m going to place a request with the Soeurs de La Providence and ask that they recommend a competent alienist.” Gédéon walks by him in the door. “You will be examined, Honoré. You leave me no choice. That’s all we can do for you now.” He steps away into the darkly lit hall. “I expect you to comply.”

  Honoré tries to hold on to his pride, his hope, but tears stream down his face and into his mouth. An alienist? No, he can’t allow that to happen. He’s heard the fateful stories. Men locked up forever, spending their lives watching windows or sitting in chairs with open books they never read. He leans his head to the doorway, shuddering with despair. “McGauran,” he pleads out loud, a silent sob rattling him. “Please…please.”

  Chapter 26: Visitations

  For the third time in the last ten minutes, McGauran stumbles behind Benito, tumbling to his knees in the snow. He quickly tries to stand, but the snow is too deep, and when he leans on his hand, his arm gets buried up to the elbow in it.

  “Ah, Dio mio,” Benito grumbles in his mother tongue. Nervously, he checks the trail of men walking ahead and hurries back to McGauran, offering his hand. “Presto. Presto. Before Sullivan sees.”

  A swarm of black dots dance before his eyes and McGauran wretches and coughs, bile shooting up his throat. Clutching Benito’s shoulder, he struggles to get to his feet.

  Benito loops his arm around his waist. “You should have stayed in the cabin.”

  “No, no, I’m fine.” But he sways, and when he looks up, tree crowns circle around his head, making him dizzy. “I’m not lying on that cot for one more day. No way.” He coughs again, and this time the cough rattles his chest. “I’m not that sick and you all know it,” he adds, the words coming hard.

  “Whatever it is.” Benito glances back at the trail. “You’re not fit. You’ll have an accident or cause one, Mac.”

  After the coughing fit passes, he fights for air and then takes a step forward. Gene says he has no choice but to deduct the days he was unfit to work out of his meager salary, and he’s been bedridden for six days already. He needs to be out here in these woods. He needs this money. “Let’s go,” he growls. “Just help me a little. I’ll be fine.”

  In the narrow trail, Jimmy comes rushing back to them. “Sullivan says,” he sputters, red-cheeked and breathless, “that he—he doesn’t want you to here, Mac. He says you’re a liability to the crew.” He gives him a pathetic smile. “I’m sorry, but those are my orders. I’m to escort you to the cabin. Listen, Ben, lemme just take him back, all right?”

  “No, no, I can work.” McGauran holds back a cough, clenching his throat. “I need this money, please.”

  “Ah, Madonna,” Benito curses between his teeth, releasing his hold on his waist. “You’re weak as kitten, Mac, and as much as I hate to side with the Sullivan brothers on this, Gene is right.” He pats his shoulders. “Come on, let the kid take you back to the cabin. You need a few more days.”

  He knows arguing with them would be a waste of his fading energy. And maybe they’re right. He’s lost weight in the last week, due to his diet of broth and tea. He couldn’t keep anything else down. He was a fool to think he could come out here today and resume his responsibilities. “Fine,” he concedes, embarrassed. Why is he so weak? What happened to him? What is draining his strength so fast? Panting, McGauran turns his face away and starts trudging through the snow. Every day they dig a trail, and every night Nature fills it.

  “Let me come with you, Mac,” Jimmy offers.

  “No,” he snaps in a hoarse voice. “I can make my own way back.”

  McGauran hears them argue about it a little, but then after a few seconds, they let him be. He’s grateful to Jimmy and Benito for allowing him to retain a crumb of his pride. Struggling onward through the snow and trees, McGauran fastens his eyes on the shanty below the incline. It’s not too far. He can make it. But his body is burning up again. His throat aches.

  He manages to make it halfway, before collapsing against a tree. He needs a breather. A minute to rest. He leans back against the bark and tries to steady his heart beat. He gathers a bit of snow and sucks on it, but it tastes like iron. When McGauran shuts his eyes, the world seems to be spinning faster and faster around his head. He’s trapped in this maniacal forest dance. Around him trees wave and bend in the wind’s furious hands.

  McGauran…

  His eyes pop open and grow wide. Holding his breath, he searches the pines and shrubs. The morning sun pours through the needles, and his vision blurs from the strain. It can’t be. It’s impossible. But he heard him. He heard Honoré softly call his name.

  Please…McGauran.

  His palms prick and the hairs on his neck rise. “Honoré?” he whispers, afraid of his own thin voice cutting the silence. He waits, chest heaving, senses focused, muscles stretched. He hears the men somewhere near the river’s edge, not too far away. Could he have been mistaken? Could it have been Jimmy’s voice he heard?

  As he steps forward, something quick and dark moves through the trees, and McGauran snaps his head around, catching a black figure swiftly disappearing behind a cluster of pines. He narrows his weak eyes, trying to understand what he saw. A man? A man in a black capped Ulster coat, much like the one Honoré owns, yes. A man in a top hat.

  No, no, it can’t be. He’s seeing things again. It’s the fever. The sickness inside him.

  He pauses. Wait. What was that?

  That sensation. Like a caress. Yes, a delicate touch on his face. No, this can’t be happening. Oh, but he can feel him now, so close to his skin. He can almost pick up the trail of Honoré’s perfume in the air. He�
��s here. Close to him. A flame rises and flickers inside his chest, and McGauran sways, closing his eyes, swept away by the amazing feeling overcoming him. It’s so good. So sweet. He wants only to surrender to it. To let this warm sensation cradle him.

  Why did you leave me?

  His eyes pop open again. The warmth is gone. Yes, why? Why did he leave Honoré? Why did he do such a foolish, reckless thing?

  Pride.

  This time, the voice is different. It’s not Honoré’s. The voice is hard. Hateful.

  McGauran’s ears prick up. He searches the trees. “Who said that?” he asks, shivering. The wind is seeping into his coat, under his wool shirt, cooling his skin. He can almost see his body heat steam out of him. The cabin. Must get back to the cabin. This thing, whatever it is, wants him out here. It wants him to die. Or to lose his sanity. He coughs and turns away, painstakingly trudging through the snow. To hell with it.

  McGauran.

  Honoré’s voice again. Hurt. Gentle. Pleading.

  I need you…

  It brings tears to McGauran’s eyes. “You’re not him!” he yells, breaking his voice. “Trickster!”

  Something soft and misty skims his lips, and surprised, McGauran tumbles back from the invisible touch, but still feels the kiss on his mouth. Enraptured again, he runs his tongue over his lips. Oh, God, it tastes like him. It tastes like Honoré. “No,” he growls, shaking his head, walking off again. No, it’s not Honoré. It’s that fiend. That demon.

  My love.

  The words are whispered right into his left ear. McGauran feels the pressure of a mouth there, right there on his lobe.

  I’m lost…

  “No! Liar!” He runs off now, knee deep in snow, his heart pounding against his ribs. No. No. No. It’s not him. It can’t be him.