The Witchin' Canoe

by Mel Bossa

  Why did you leave me?

  Tumbling down the hill, McGauran makes his way back to the cabin’s trail, and panting—his chest burning from the effort—looks down at the shanty which seems further than it was before. Has to call out to Simon. He won’t make it down there without help. “Simon,” he says weakly.

  But it’s too late. He feels himself sink. Brightness fills his eyes, and when an army of tiny black dots invades his vision, McGauran takes another step, his heart beating strangely out of rhythm, and collapses.

  * * * *

  Later when he wakes, McGauran raises his head a little to look around at the smoke-filled cabin. The dusty blueish light creeping through saplings and logs tells him that it’s late afternoon, close to dusk. The men should be back soon.

  The scent of molasses still lingers in the air. It vaguely comforts him.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake,” Simon says, entering the cabin with a few logs. He drops them heavily on the pile by his station. “You can peel some potatoes.” He doesn’t waste a second and lugs a large tin pail full of water along with a sack of potatoes over to him. “You can use my pocket knife.” He tosses the blade on the cot. “Feeling better?” he asks, returning to his spot at the large tree stump he uses as a cutting board. Over the fire, a large cast-iron pot simmers with tonight’s stew.

  “I don’t…I don’t remember walking here.” McGauran’s voice is gruff. His head throbs with the beginning of some monstrous ache. “Did you carry—”

  “Oui.” Simon winks, his fingers working quickly at peeling an onion. “I carried you, you big Irish bastard.” He laughs. “Well, more like dragged. You might have a few bumps on your head, there.” He throws the onion up in the air and catches it. “Get to peeling, please.”

  “I’m sorry,” McGauran stammers. He’s so useless. No, something useless doesn’t need to be fed and pampered as he is. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  Simon looks up from his wooden slab, but his hands keep working. “You’re just sick, Mac,” he says. “There’s no mystery there.”

  No. He remembers Father Hayes’ words. The body can’t rest, when the soul is being attacked. And that’s what’s happening to him. He’s under siege. He’s being tested. Tormented.

  Is it happening to Honoré, too? The thought of it turns his blood to ice. Honoré is so alone. Will he have the strength to fight this spell?

  With effort, McGauran sits up and picks up the knife. He digs into the bag for a potato. Has to keep his mind and hands busy. Whatever that was in the woods before, was not of this world. And it knows his secrets. His weaknesses, too. But it wasn’t like that when he and Honoré were together. This evil gains strength when they’re apart.

  He was wrong to leave. So proud and full of himself. That was the Devil’s trick on him. Father Hayes was right. His stupid pride. He could have told Liza he couldn’t marry her and then went to work on that church, as Honoré had suggested. But no, not him.

  “Oh, hey, you have a letter by the way.” Simon throws a large spotted potato into the cold water. “I put it under your pillow there.”

  For a moment, McGauran is too emotional to respond or move. But that doesn’t last long. With frantic hands, he lifts the pillow and picks up the small, cheap envelope. He tears it open and pulls the one-page letter out. The ink is faded. He recognizes his mother’s handwriting. Bitterly disappointed, he swallows the knot in his throat.

  Then he remembers that in the last and only letter he wrote his mother, he asked her to send Gédéon Latendresse a telegram to inquire about Honoré’s health. He begged her, really. He enclosed the telegram fee along with his plea. That was eight days ago. This could be her response. Feeling feverish again, he reads the short paragraph.

  Dear McGauran,

  Mr. Morris agreed to restore our home, but I told him that I will be staying with Coleen Leary upstairs. He says that if you like, you can have the four rooms downstairs at the price of nine dollars a month instead of the seven we were paying because it will be repaired. He might put in a water-closet, too. I think it is a good enough idea. Father Hayes says that if you need him to, he will speak with Daniel Brown over at Red Path and you could start at the refinery when you return. They pay decent and I know you don’t like the docks, so this would be better.

  I wanted to share this good news with you because I feel that you’re not in good spirits at the shanty. Your last letter upset me. Don’t worry about your future, my dear son, it still waits for you here. Maybe Liza wasn’t the girl for you. There are many others in the neighborhood that would be happy to be your wife.

  Make up your mind and choose the prettiest one!

  As per your request, I could not send a telegram to that French notary. That would have been very inappropriate. I’m sure your friend is fine in that big house of his. I don’t know why you concern yourself with these ideas. They have good doctors for people like him.

  With love,

  Your mother.

  Chapter 27: The White Lady

  Through the blizzard, Honoré sees her. There, turning the corner! He’d thought he’d lost her near Dominion Square, but there she is now, her figure barely discernible in the snow-filled air. For a moment, she seems to wait for him to catch up, but then turns and disappears. He hurries, his ankle-boots slipping, gliding over the icy patches in the dirt street. Desperately, he clutches the brick of some formless building and feels the rough brick of the wall under his palm, but his fingertips have no sense of touch. Numb, they are. As are his toes.

  Where is she? Where has she gone? She called him out of his room tonight. Touched his tear-stained face with her laced fingertip. She silently comforted him. He was going to die, frozen and naked in his bed, and she saved him. Wordlessly, she beckoned him to follow her. His mother. Out of the portrait she came. In the hallway, they walked quietly, and when he looked into the narrow, wood-paneled room, yes, looked at that porcelain bath filled with icy water, he shuddered and his arm hurt where the needle had been plunged. He’d been held down in icy water again, held down by the doctor and his mute aide, while in the doorway, his uncle, a black figure, a man in a top hat, his uncle, a black figure, his uncle, had stood like that black figure and his uncle was there. His mother out of the portrait kissed his brow and he was warm again. She knew what to do, how he hurt, how he hurt inside his soul, his soul that is not corrupted, not rotten, not unfit, but only missing—missing what? What? What did it want? What did it need? Downstairs, it was snowing inside the house, yes, white powder drifting in through open windows, ice forming all along the walls and carpets. His piano was covered in frost. Beethoven, Liszt, Mendelssohn, and Tchaikovsky, freezing, shivering, and the plants all dead, some deader than others, some so dead they’d ceased to live! He’d wept and paced the room, leaving trails and footsteps across the snow, and she’d hushed him, beckoned, beckoned him. He had to leave. There was no one there to help, but she’d helped him into his coat, as she must have done when he was a child, now that he was her child again. And they’d left together. Through the carré, down the empty deserted streets, down, down, down to that place she hated and loved and died in. And she’d screamed, so savagely, her suffering shriek ripping through him, shredding the silent night where no one heard anything. In Dominion Square, she’d torn her head off, her pearl necklace exploding, beads and beads and snowflakes swirling all around her, and she’d tossed her bloodless head into the snow, and he’d yelled no, no, no! He’d rushed to it, but in the blizzard he couldn’t find her missing piece, the thing she needed so. The thing they needed. Life. A chance. Restoration.

  Now, under his Ulster coat, Honoré’s thin linen undergarments have begun to stiffen, his sweat having turned to ice. A gust of wind whips his face and he shields his eyes with his arm. He lost his hat hours ago, by the canal, by the frozen black canal. She lost her head and he lost his hat but—no, he hears the sound of horse hooves and blinks, his eyes searching the white night. Under the gas lamp, the snow has
formed a halo of buzzing white bees. They swarm the light in such a way that he knows that stepping into their frenzied dance would mean death. He hurries into the light. Death! Yes, death! It could be quick. He steps farther into the street, searching, and Neigh! A horse. Right there in his ear. His body retracts, recoils, from the grotesque sound. The animal is a man. A man with a face he knows. A face that smells of whiskey and bear fur.

  “Hey! Watch it there!” the man shouts angrily.

  Honoré hurries away, and yet, his feet don’t move. Something has stopped working inside his flesh. His body won’t respond. His legs have turned to stone. He feels the warmth, like fluttering angel wings, wrapping his shoulders. The weightlessness is exquisite. He is lying in the snow making snow angels. He is a snow angel. He is an angel. He is the fallen one.

  A voice speaks. What does it say? Someone, a hand, on his face.

  “Trying to get yourself run over?” The voice throws the words into the white, blowing air. “Hey, wait a minute, you’re that Latendresse fellow. Mac’s friend. What the hell are you doing out here in this blizzard?”

  He is dragged.

  “You’re lucky I’m in a charitable mood.”

  Helped into a seat. Something is thrown over him. It itches.

  “My horse don’t scare easy. I can take you up as far as Saint-Denis, up the hill there.”

  He struggles to see. To understand. His voice has left him days ago. He doesn’t remember when.

  There’s the sound of horse hooves again. Shifting and rocking beneath him. He’s in a buggy. Half-open buggy, barely sheltered from the snow, but he’s warmer, yes, warmer now. He looks into the white. She is standing there! Mary Gallagher is standing, no, his mother is standing on the Queen’s bridge, her white gown catching a moon beam. She has no face with which to express horror, sorrow, pain, but her hands reach out always looking, hoping, grabbing. He closes his eyes before she jumps into the black river, before she falls down the stairs into the black where they threw her head. Where he threw his heart. In the black bathtub where the doctor threw his soul.

  “You’re lucky I still have some tenderness for Mac, even after what he did to my sister.” Eyes, pale eyes, flash at him. He knows this face. “I don’t know what kind of spell you put on O’Dowd, but this quarter don’t need one more raving lunatic, so I’m taking you home, back to your bastard of an uncle. You’re his problem now.”

  Lunatic. Yes. Lunatic! Yes. That’s what he is! That was the word he heard in the wood-paneled room with the icy river trapped in the tub. Under the moon’s influence he remains. Under Semele’s power. A child of Bacchus. The Devil’s doll. He grins and stares at the man’s lap.

  “Jesus, Latendresse, you really are mad.”

  Beneath the reigns, on the man’s lap, sits Mary’s head.

  Chapter 28: Nevermore

  His Jean-Jean is gone. He was buried two weeks ago, in nearly frozen ground among the outcasts. His wife did not attend. Neither did his two grown boys. Bernard stood a little away and watched as the gravediggers lowered Jean-Jean’s casket into the hole. In that pine casket, lay the man he loved more than life itself. His friend. His lover.

  He will meet him again, he knows this. And they will have eternity together. God reunites those who love each other. Of this, he is certain.

  All Bernard has left of Jean-Jean is this tie he wears around his neck. He had to steal it, just as he stole every moment he shared with his lover in the last twenty years.

  Where to go now? Who can ease his sorrow, his grief?

  Stepping off the tram, Bernard pauses in the crowded street. He longs to see his sweet Honoré. To be in his presence again. To hear his music, his melodious voice. But he fears their reunion as well. When he left the Latendresse home three months ago, he was a man in the force of his age, and now he is old. Battered. Conquered. Jean-Jean was his fountain of youth and the fountain has dried up, never to gush again.

  Tears well up in his eyes and Bernard throws his shoulders back. Must be strong. Noble. But more importantly, he must not fall into Honoré’s arms and weep like an abandoned child. The young man has had enough of sorrow and grief to last him all his days and nights.

  Bernard walks up Saint-Denis Street, his boots crushing snow and gathering mud. Winter. How he hates it. And especially during this festive time, this period of the year where shops hang merry little decorations in their windows and everyone prepares for the eve of Christmas. As a valet, it always meant more work and that was all. Or perhaps this time of year constantly reminds him of his status as a single aging man with no children or grandchildren to spoil.

  But through it all, the highs and lows of his career, he has had Honoré. It was only after he had left the Latendresse home that he began to fully grasp the immense place Honoré holds in his heart. Thinking of the young man now, warmth and tenderness fill his chest. Honoré is his son, in so many ways. The boy he wishes he could have fathered.

  Bernard traverses the Saint-Louis Square, gazing around at the familiar trees and lamp posts. This place, this street, is his home. When he looks up at the Victorian mansion that is the Latendresse house, he clutches his bag harder and draws in a short, excited breath. He has not had any contact with Gédéon in the last months, though he did send a few telegrams to the home and tried to reach the house by telephone. He knows Honoré may have been upset with him for leaving so abruptly. Perhaps that is why he never got a response from him. But Honoré is such a kind soul. He will forgive him. They will make peace this afternoon and perhaps he will even ask him to resume his position.

  He would like nothing more than to go back to knotting Honoré’s ties and pretending to scold him when he’s being rebellious or feisty.

  Yes, but deep inside, he knows those days are gone. The boy he knew, the one he watched over all these years, is a man now. There will be no more evenings of chasing little Honoré through the house to get him to bed, of peering at him over a book as he learns his piano scales, or listening to his clear voice as he recites his Latin and Greek in a theatrical manner. And the joy, that immense joy Bernard felt as Honoré grew into a dashing young man, a man willing to seek the best in people, a man worthy of his name, he will miss as well.

  If he could relive the last twenty years, as difficult as they were, he would. They were the best of times. He should have held Honoré once. At least once. Should have kissed his brow when he bade him good night. He was always too proper and afraid to do so. Afraid that perhaps Honoré would sense his true nature and reveal it to Gédéon. Then, when it became clear to him that Honoré shared his inclination, he was afraid for other reasons.

  But now he must concentrate on the present. On helping Honoré accept and nurture his own special nature. With McGauran at the logging camp, it must have been a lonely time for Honoré in the last months. Undoubtedly, he will be happy to have some company, at the very least. They will have tea the way Honoré likes it—too much sugar and milk—and he will confess everything to him. Who Jean-Jean was, what passion they shared. Their comforting companionship of the last years. Honoré is not a child anymore. He should know that there are other men like them in the world, and good, ethical men they are and can be.

  With trepidation, Bernard mounts the steps to the house and deposits his bag by the door. He sucks in another breath and knocks. After a few seconds of complete silence, he knocks again. He has the key, of course, but that would be breaching proper etiquette. He knocks again and more forcibly. The door cracks in its hinges, and slowly, as though someone is pulling it, opens wide. He frowns and hesitates, then steps into the vestibule. “Hello?” He peers at the long, unlit hall. The globes are turned off. The air is nearly as cold as it is outside. He grabs his bag, drops it in the vestibule, and shuts the door behind him, his heart beating faster and faster. There is frost on the inside of the windows. His breath fogs the air around his face. “Hello? Gédéon?” He takes a few steps forward. Underneath his boots, the carpet cracks. Ice has logged itself into the
fibers. “Honoré!” he shouts now, panic grabbing hold of him.

  What has happened? What calamity?

  Bernard rushes from room to room, looking into each open door, but in every one, he finds the same disaster. Frost. Dust. Puddles of half frozen snow. He hurries to the main parlor, dashing for the fireplace. The ashes in the hearth are dark and cold. There are no available logs to burn. What has Gédéon done? How could he permit this?

  The curse. Oh, could it be true then?

  He hurries down the hall and bursts into the kitchen. Perhaps Fredeline…

  But the kitchen is vacant. Cold. The scent of souring food lingers everywhere. On the wooden table, he is relieved to find a few pieces of fresh bread, some onions, an apple. Someone has eaten. Someone is alive. “Honoré,” he shouts again, rushing out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Where could Gédéon and Honoré have gone? Are they still in the house, somewhere?

  Passing the music room, he halts, his heart jumping up into his mouth. No…the piano. He walks to it, almost solemnly, and grazes the keys with his gloved finger, then presses down on the major C. The sound echoes through the room, discordant and much too low. Frost has ruined the piano’s chords. He shakes his head, looking around the room. The plants! All wilted. Dead.

  How could this happen in so little time?

  The silence in the home fills him with dread. Where are they? He can almost feel a presence in the house. A part of him wants to flee, to forget he ever came. But Honoré, his sweet Honoré, he can’t leave without him. Gingerly, Bernard leaves the music room and walks to the staircase. The oak walls are faded. The lush red carpet covering the steps has lost its shine. He mounts the stairs, trying to prepare himself for what he might find. A vision of Honoré’s pale, lifeless face flashes through his mind, and he groans at the thought, his knees faltering under him. His heart won’t take it. He knows it. If he should discover Honoré’s body without a pulse, he will die in agony. He can’t bear it. No.