by Mel Bossa
As they fly over Sherbrooke Boulevard, over those mansions he’s walked by so many times, he feels no envy. No anger. He doesn’t want what those men have anymore. No, what he wants is less than a minute away, and now his heart starts racing and his hands fill with sweat. He looks down, but though they’re flying over horse-trams, buggies, and people, no one has screamed or pointed upward at him. He’s shrouded. The demon has cast its spell.
Then finally, they glide by the tall and thin Saint-Jacques church steeple, and the last of his calm leaves him. “There,” he yells. “There, that’s the square!”
The canoe slices through the air, above homes and shops, following Saint-Denis Street. At the Saint-Louis Square, it makes a left turn, and McGauran braces himself for a rough landing. As the boat descends, he looks around, prepared to face anything and anyone. But even when the canoe reaches lower than the trees, thumping loudly inside its invisible current, not a soul comes rushing out of their Victorian homes. The square is empty. People are fast asleep. Tomorrow is a day of blessing. A day of new beginnings. The canoe rocks and jolts and McGauran cringes, making himself as small as possible inside the hull, and at last, the contact with the ground is made. It sends a wave of nausea washing over him, and he groans a little, searching the park for any sign of life. As soon as the canoe comes to a stop, the dog jumps out and runs off, disappearing into the night before McGauran can call out to it. Where is it going?
Dazed, McGauran looks around at the quiet and familiar park.
Did he just do the chasse galerie?
He grips the sides of the boat, slowly unbends his sore legs, and stands. He can’t seem to feel the air around him. Can’t grasp its temperature. His hands are shaking badly. He knows that behind him, the canoe is empty. The demon has fled, too. A great chill rocks his body as he realizes the moment of truth has come, and when he looks ahead at the Latendresse house, the sight of it propels his body forward. Before he knows it, he’s running through snow and sleet, panting and tripping on his feet. He crosses the icy street, boots skidding, and then mounts the porch stairs two by two, dashing to the front door and shoving it open. He comes crashing into the vestibule. “Honoré!” he yells, running into the hall. “Honoré, I’m here!” He hurries from room to room, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, noticing nothing. “Honoré!”
“McGauran.”
Wide-eyed, he turns around.
Bernard, Gédéon, and Father Hayes stand at the end of the hall, where the passage narrows, staring at him like three statues.
“My boy, what have you done?” Wearing a purple stole over his white robe, Father Hayes is the first to move. “You rode it, didn’t you?”
The purple stole. No…
Father Hayes only wears that purple stole when he gives a man his last rites on his dying bed. McGauran’s knees weaken and Bernard rushes to him with open arms, but McGauran steps back, feeling wild, crazed, on the edge of murdering someone. “Where is he!” he shouts, his voice sounding like an animal’s roar. He pushes Bernard and lunges for Gédéon. “What have you done to him?”
Father Hayes grabs his coat, throwing himself in front of Gédéon. “Mickey, wait,” the priest shouts, shaking him. “Wait. Let the Lord do His work!”
“Let me at him,” McGauran growls, struggling to get out of Hayes’s giant hands. “You’re getting on that canoe, Latendresse!”
“No, Mac, don’t,” Bernard pleads with him, gently touching his shoulder. “Please, listen, we’re coming to the end of it. It’s going to be arranged. Please.”
Behind Hayes, Gédéon is silent, his cold blue eyes shining with fever. And now McGauran sees the state the man is in. He looks like a vagrant. Disheveled. Torn. On the verge of collapse. And the house, the house is full of snow. Dark. Cold. Only a few candles burn here and there on hall tables. His fury dwindles into despair. “Where is he?”
Hayes releases him. Gédéon steps back into the hallway and the priest follows, speaking gently to Gédéon as though to a dying child. “Come now. It’s time.”
Time for what?
McGauran stares at them for a moment, and then turns around to look at Bernard. “Tell me,” he orders him, his voice breaking.
Bernard wipes his teary eyes and dusts McGauran’s coat. Snow and pine needles come flying off it and McGauran wonders what he looks like after that diabolical flight. “He’s upstairs. But McGauran, listen—”
No, he’s already running. He flies up the stairs, clutching the railing, and on the second floor, dashes for Honoré’s room. At the open door, he grips the door frame to slow himself down and then hurries to Honoré’s bedside. He leans over him, not daring to speak, to breathe.
Clad in a black shirt and frock coat, Honoré lies on his back, propped up on a dirty pillow, and in the light of the candle, his face is ashen pale. His eyes are closed, motionless under their lids. There’s no color in his lips. No movement in his face or hands.
With a trembling hand, McGauran touches Honoré’s thick black hair. The contact is too much to handle and he collapses over Honoré’s chest, weeping without a sound. “I’m sorry…Oh, God, Honoré, I’m sorry.” No, the pain is too sharp. He can’t take it. His own heart will stop. His blood will turn cold. But against his cheek, there’s a tremor. There’s warmth emanating from Honoré’s body. Life.
Stunned, McGauran leans back, pressing his hand to Honoré’s heart. It beats under his palm. Weakly, but steadily. “Oh, Honoré,” he whispers through his tears, bending to Honoré’s beautiful face. “I’m here. I’m here…” He caresses Honoré’s cheek, and shaking with exhilaration, pulls up the red upholstered chair closer to the bed, then sits in it, on the very edge of the seat. He takes Honoré’s hand inside his and kisses each of his fingers. “I wrote to you. I wrote to you every week.” His voice is dying. He’s sweating under his heavy coat, so he removes it quickly, hating to let go of Honoré’s hand, even for a second. He throws the coat on the floor and takes Honoré’s fingers into his again. He leans in closer to Honoré’s ear and presses his lips to it. “I saw the world. I saw it, Honoré. Oh, and I’m gonna give it you.” He kisses Honoré’s soft hair. “I love you…”
When he leans back, McGauran stiffens in his seat, the hairs on his arms rising. The black dog sits at the foot of the bed, staring at Honoré.
He glares at the dog. “Get out of here,” he hisses.
But the dog won’t move. It lies down, clearly settling for the night.
McGauran glances up at the door. There’s commotion down there. What’s going on? He wants to check but refuses to leave Honoré’s side. He looks at the dog. It seems to be waiting for something. With its ears pricked up, it keeps looking from Honoré then back to the door. McGauran is ready for anything. That demon will have to tear him to pieces to get to Honoré. Then he hears Father Hayes’ strong booming voice echoing through the house. The priest is shouting in Latin. The sound makes McGauran sit up in his chair, and eyes wide open, he prepares himself to face the beast.
But after long minutes of high tension, the cold, damp house turns silent again, and he gazes down at Honoré’s face. What if he never wakes up?
McGauran puts his hands together and closes his eyes.
Lord, forgive me. But You know I had to do it. Restore him to me. Only You have that power. Restore him to me. He’s mine. You made it so.
He raises his eyes and watches Honoré’s face, his lips.
But Honoré seems barely alive.
Chapter 31: Expiation
Hours have passed. Midnight has come and gone. It’s January first. The new year.
Honoré’s birthday.
Sitting stiffly in his chair, McGauran strains to keep his eyes open. The last thrilling hours have taken their toll on his nerves and he feels the exhaustion, mental and physical, overcoming him. He glances at the candle on the side table. It’s soon to be extinguished. He stands. His legs are sore. He looks around for a candle in the dimly lit room, but his eyes always return to Honoré. He�
�s afraid he’ll disappear right before him. That demon could make a canoe fly. It can do other things. But what will it do? What? He can barely take the anticipation anymore. This confrontation, bargain, trade, whatever it is, must happen tonight. Now. This needs to end before Honoré’s last resources run out.
McGauran leans in closer to Honoré and feels his forehead. Cool. Dry. He resumes his vigil, sitting in the chair at his bedside. “It’s your birthday, Honoré.”
Suddenly, the dog’s head pops up and it sits on guard, staring at the door with ears pricked up.
“What? What is it?” McGauran’s heart is thumping harder and harder. Then on the table, the candle goes out, and he stiffens in his seat, eyes growing wide in the grainy darkness.
Head bowed, with his face hidden under the brim of his silk hat, the man stands in the doorway.
“No,” McGauran hears himself say, and he lunges forward in his chair, grabbing Honoré’s hand. “No!”
For a moment, the man is still. Then he enters the room with a gust of cold air.
“No. No, you can’t.” But already, McGauran knows he’s lost. His will won’t be enough. His love means nothing to this demon. His words are mere noises to it. His pain and grief are only the demon’s salary. There’s nothing he can say or do that will deter it from collecting its payment tonight. McGauran holds Honoré’s hand tighter. “Please, please don’t take him from me. Please. He’s all I have. All I want.” He tries to scream for help, but his voice is gone. Where are Bernard and Hayes? He can’t move. Can’t fight. He sits, clutching Honoré’s hand, frozen with fear and sorrow.
When the man steps closer to the bed. McGauran tries to make out its face, its expression. Finally, he gets a flash of the man’s features in the wan light, and a moan escapes him. “Gédéon,” he whispers, leaning in. “Gédéon?”
Gédéon turns his face to him. His blue eyes have turned dark. His face is his, yet not. Something moves deep inside those eyes. Recognition. Surprise. McGauran is dazed, stunned speechless. He watches as Gédéon bends his face to his nephew’s and fixes him with an undecipherable expression.
“Don’t…” McGauran pleads, so softly, he can barely hear himself.
Gédéon puts his nose to Honoré’s mouth, and with his eyes closed, inhales sharply, loudly, the sound sending a shiver of terror up McGauran’s spin. “What did you—” But the words die in his mouth. Gédéon leans away and stands above Honoré. Then without a look at McGauran, he turns and swiftly exits the room, his caped coat flapping behind him.
McGauran jumps to his feet and touches Honoré’s chest. Under his hand, Honoré’s heart now beats strong and steady. Amazed, he touches Honoré’s cheek—it’s warm. “Honoré?” He shakes him a little, but Honoré doesn’t respond.
Then McGauran hears a sound, a clicking of tongue in the hallway.
At the command, the dog jumps up and trots to Honoré’s bed. He sniffs him for a while, but appears confused, its eyes going from the door back to Honoré’s sleeping figure.
Again, in the hall, Gédéon, the man in the top hat, clicks his tongue. Then he whistles sharply. At the sound, the black dog wags its tail and looks up at McGauran, waiting for an answer.
Understanding what transpired, McGauran tosses his chin up at the door. “Go,” he says in a thin voice. “Go to your new master.”
The dog barks and dashes out of the room. In the hall way, footsteps are heard, and then silence again. Exhilarated, and yet strangely calm, McGauran goes to the window to look out at the Saint-Louis Square.
Outside, the new ferryman and his companion are walking away, two black silhouettes under the flare of a sinking moon.
Chapter 32: The Tender Prince
A warm sensation on his cheek.
A comforting voice somewhere in the house. A woman humming Beethoven’s Ode to Joy.
Before he opens his eyes, Honoré is already smiling. Awake, he sits up against the huge, crisp white pillows, and immediately recognizes his surroundings. He’s in his father’s bedroom, lying in his father’s huge baldaquin bed. Peachy light drifts through the large window, and at his desk, facing away from Honoré, his father is writing. Once in a while, George dips the fountain pen into the ink pot and mumbles a few words to himself. His white hair is trimmed neatly around his ears. His shoulders are robust, stretching the black fabric of his tail coat.
“Daddy?” Honoré throws off the purple silk blanket but doesn’t leave the bed. He’s dazed, almost transfixed.
“Oh, darling, don’t get up just yet,” his mother says, entering the room. She wears an elegant black velvet dress, buttoned up to the throat, her only jewelry an ivory lock pendant. Her black hair is pinned up in a loose bun, and soft curls frame her peaceful and intelligent face. “It’s your birthday, and I would love to bring you breakfast in bed.” She laughs and pinches his bare toe. “Would you like that?”
Tears fill his eyes and he can’t speak. Then he picks up the scent of pine in the air. The Christmas tree hasn’t been thrown out yet.
Esther leans over George’s shoulder. “Why don’t you give him your blessing now?” she whispers into his ear.
Honoré watches the scene, his heart swelling with gratitude. His parents. His parents are well again. “Mother,” he dares in a frail voice. “Father?”
Esther turns and her blue eyes sparkle. “Yes, my sweet?”
George slowly shifts in his chair. “Today is a grand day, my son.” His voice is full of music and surprisingly soft. “Today is the day you came into our lives. And today is the day you set our souls free.”
His mother gently rests her hand on his father’s shoulder and they both stare at him with proud smiles.
Honoré hesitates and then climbs out of bed. Can he touch them? Will they disappear if he breaks this spell he seems to be under?
Esther reaches for his hands. She’s real. Her skin is satiny and warm against his fingers. George stands and ceremoniously puts a hand over Honoré’s head. “Bless you, my wonderful son. And my boy, I heard every word.”
“Oh.” Honoré pushes himself into his father’s arms. “Daddy…”
They hold him, and their love, so powerful and infinite, pours into his soul, healing him. There will be no more cold baths. No more everlasting pill. No more madness, transfusions, and hallucinations.
His mother takes his face inside her hands and kisses his forehead…
At the touch of her lips, Honoré opens his eyes. For a moment, he’s confused, uncertain of everything.
Bernard jumps out of a chair and leans over him with a stunned expression. “Honoré?” he says very softly.
He’s in his own bedroom and it’s daytime. How long as he been asleep? And why can’t he move his arm? He glances down at himself and his heart explodes into a manic rhythm. “McGau—”
“Shh. Shh. Don’t wake him. He needs his rest.”
With his lips parted in stupefaction, Honoré stares at McGauran’s dark red hair on his shoulder. McGauran’s bearded face is cradled against his chest, his leg wrapped around him in a possessive embrace. He smells of smoke. Of pine. Of dirt. Like a Christmas tree decked in lighted candles…
Bernard touches Honoré’s head and sighs. “You gave us quite a good scare.”
Honoré pushes his nose into McGauran’s hair. The weight of him is exquisite. The feel of McGauran’s bulk against his body soothes him, but his arm hurts, so he carefully, very carefully, extricates himself from under McGauran. The movement doesn’t even cause McGauran to stir or mumble—he remains perfectly still, breathing deeply against his shoulder. “What day is it? Was I asleep for six months?”
Bernard’s features strain. He seems exhausted. Gray bristles cover his sunken cheeks. “Today is your birthday. Today is January first.”
A thought, a memory, though vague, sends Honoré into a panic. “I’m to be interned,” he breathes, remembering his uncle’s words. The form. The threats. “I didn’t mean to sign my name. He made me do—”
&nbs
p; “Honoré, listen to me,” Bernard says, stroking his hair. “And I want you to stay calm. We must let McGauran sleep, right?”
His stomach flips, and with wide eyes, he nods.
“You’re not going to be sent away.” Bernard pauses, clearly choosing his words. “Your uncle has left.” He pats Honoré’s arm and smiles, but tears dance in his eyes. “You’re safe now. Do you understand?”
Today is January first. The heart of the winter. Traveling is nearly impossible outside of the city limits. The logging camp is unreachable by train until spring. He looks down at McGauran and stares at Bernard. “How did he—” His breath hitches and he sits up a little more, “—get here?”
Bernard tilts his head, words forming on his mouth, but doesn’t speak.
Honoré looks down at McGauran again. Pine needles are tangled in his red hair and in his thick orange beard, too. His forehead is scratched with tiny cuts. But there’s no frostbite on McGauran’s nose or the fingers he’s curled around Honoré’s coat. He couldn’t have walked for a week or he’d be in much worse a shape. Honoré thinks he understands, and with his heart racing, gazes up at Bernard’s serious expression. “The canoe? But his soul. He gave it to—”
“No, no, his soul is still his own.”
“How?”
Bernard motions for him to get up. “Please, can you try to stand? Mac needs to rest. After what he went through in the last months, and then last night—I worry for him. Please. Let’s give the man a little peace.”
