The Book of Dreams (19 page)

The canoe shook violently. Her teeth rattled in her head.

“
Fais-nous voyager!
” Jean roared. “
Par-dessus les montagnes!
”

As the last words of the spell were uttered, the boat leaped upward. It was as if an unseen hand had plucked it from the ground and flung it into the sky.

For a moment they hovered over the park, hundreds of feet in the air, hanging above the treetops like a star.

“
Regarde,
” Jean called to Dana. “When we run
la chasse-galerie
, the boat he sail through time and space. He give us eyes.”

Below her, the air rippled like water. She had a bird’s eye view of the modern-day park; the site for campfires, parking lot, and public washrooms. Then a wave seemed to wash over the scene. The trees were suddenly denser, much bigger and older. There was a clearing not far from the river. Smoke rose up from structures of hide and wood. It was still nighttime and few were awake, but two men sat companionably by a campfire. One was Native, the other white, but both wore the same clothing of deerskin and fur. The white man looked up. Even from a distance Dana could see he was young, still in his teens. It seemed that he saw her too, floating in midair. His glance was swift and piercing, like an arrow.

“Who’s that?” she asked Jean.

Jean laughed with pride. “Étienne Brûlé. He come here long ago when the park is a village of the Wyandot peoples they call the Huron. Étienne is the first white man to visit the Great Lakes. He have only eighteen year when he come to Canada with the explorer Samuel de Champlain. Like you, Étienne was
sensible
. He see many thing.”

Jean waved down at the young man, who waved back.

“Now we go!” cried Jean.

A surge of power coursed through Dana as she paddled furiously. The canoe itself seemed to tell her what to do. She delved the air with her oar, first right, then left, as if paddling the craft over the surface of a lake.

Swiftly flew the spirit boat over the forest and across the black flow of the Humber River.

Below them the landscape unfurled like a map. To the south gleamed the waters of the great lake of Ontario. Toronto sparkled with a thousand lights, like a jewel on the north shore. The magnificence of the city took Dana by surprise; the ivory-white spire of the CN Tower, the leafy parks and avenues, the elegant skyscrapers jutting upward like crystal quartz. There were no cities like this in Ireland. Even Dublin, the capital, was merely a big town compared to this glittering metropolis.

Up, up they flew into the atmosphere. The city lights blinked below like the gold and silver specks of the stars overhead. The canoe rocked on the cool currents of air.

Worse than turbulence in a plane, Dana thought, her heart in her mouth.

She was glad of her parka. The wind was harsh. When they passed through clouds, they were left chilled and damp. Above the clouds was the dark of night where the moon hung like a sliver of nail, a pale lunula. Toronto fell away behind them. The countryside spread out in broad flat fields and low rolling hills ribboned with roads.

It was hard work, paddling the canoe. The air, like water, resisted their flight. And so too did the spirit boat itself. In fits and shudders it would buck like a bronco, trying to toss them out. Sometimes it veered crazily in another direction. Fighting it furiously, they struggled to keep it on course.

“It wants to go somewhere else!” Dana shouted to Jean.

“
Mais oui,
” he called back. “It want to go to hell!”

She heard the truth behind the joke and paddled all the harder. This was the perilous game, the terrible risk they were taking. Whoever mastered the boat mastered their fate. Dana took heart from the knowledge that Jean had done this before. And all by himself! Sensing him behind her, like support at her back, she was determined not to let him down. From time to time he called out instructions and words of encouragement. When he praised her newfound skill, she glowed inside. Gritting her teeth, she worked so hard she began to sweat despite the cold. In the end, she had to admit she was enjoying herself thoroughly. There was something to be said for taking up the challenge and pitting one’s will against the dark. Wrestling with demons. You can’t really know what you are made of until you are tested.

Guided by the Polar Star, they headed northeast, crossing the sky like a ship at sea. To the south glimmered the speckled band of the 49th parallel, the most populated region of southern Ontario. To the north lay a great soft cloth of darkness, the shadow of the vast terrain that was the Canadian Shield. To the east wound the St. Lawrence River on its way to the gulf and the ocean beyond.

Another bright city sparkled ahead of them, a tiara crowning the brow of a hill. Ottawa, the capital. Dana gazed down curiously at the silver-green spires of the Government of Canada and the white vein of the Rideau Canal that shone frostily in the starlight. Jean called out the names of the many bridges that clasped the slender arm of the Ottawa River:
Pont Champlain, Pont des Chaudières, Pont du Portage, Pont Alexandra
.

Ottawa, it seemed, was the marker buoy that pointed the way home. Steering the spirit boat due north, Jean urged them on to greater speeds. They were shooting the rapids of wind, flying on night’s dark wing into the heart of Quebec.

“
À gauche! À gauche!
” he cried to Dana. “Left side only!”

The land below became an ink-black shadow of rock and bog. The ground bristled with the pointed spears of black spruce, jack pine, and barren tamarack. Chains of lakes and winding rivers gleamed a faint silver. Except where sporadic points of light shone like lone ships on the sea at night, there was an overwhelming sense of the absence of man and the triumph of nature.
In wildness is the preservation of the world
. They were crossing the taiga, coniferous bogland on the fringe of the northern boreal forest that draped like a green scarf over the shoulders of North America. Beyond lay the tundra, a cold lonely land oblivious to the humanity that crouched on its borders.

How far into Quebec they journeyed Dana wasn’t sure, but the occasional signs of communities grew fewer and farther between. After a particularly long spell of darkness, Jean pointed to a flickering light ahead.

“We are here! I bring us down. Don’t paddle!”

She could hear him chanting in French as they began to descend. It was a steep drop to the ground. Her stomach lurched as they hurtled downward. She let out a yelp.

“
C’est
okay!” he called out.

She put her paddle aside and held on to the canoe. The descent was rapid, cold and rough. The ground seemed to rush toward them with frightening speed. It was all happening so quickly that she caught only flashes of what lay below: a dense forest, a small lake, and a narrow winding road.

Dana was just getting used to the free-falling motion when she spied it ahead of her.

A smear of greenish mist trailed in the air.

It was almost imperceptible, but she knew instantly what it was. Now the twisted features came into view, scarred and familiar. The eyes burned like red coals.

Crowley!

The phantasm charged straight at her. “Oh, God!” she cried.

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“
NON!
” shouted Jean.

Too late.

Like a bird whose wings had been clipped in mid-flight, the canoe lost all buoyancy and plummeted downward.

Jean and Dana clung to the gunwales. The canoe was pitching from side to side in a last-ditch effort to toss them overboard. No doubt the demon of the canoe had recognized an ally. The two clung on for dear life, but their luck was running out. There was nothing below to break their fall. Only hard ground. They were riding a juggernaut on a dash to their deaths.

Jean grabbed his oar and began to paddle with fierce strokes.

“
Dans l’bois!
” he cried.

Dana spotted the trees in the distance and understood. If they could land in the branches of an evergreen, they had a chance. But the forest was far away.

And the ground was rushing nearer.

She saw in an instant they would never make it. They were bound to fall short. Jean roared as he paddled furiously, every inch of his body bent on the task. Now Dana roared too, hurling herself forward against the bow of the boat. Calling on the power of her fairy blood, she drove the canoe with the sheer force of her will.

It was enough.

Leaping forward in a last gasp of flight, the spirit boat crashed into the top of a tree.

In the tense stillness that followed, the only sound to be heard was the protest of branches beneath the weight of the canoe. The craft teetered precariously. The tree’s weave held. Finally the boat settled, perched askew in the boughs like a great misshapen bird.

“Maudit, câlisse, tabernac,”
swore Jean.

He moved quickly to see if Dana was all right. She had fallen back into the bottom of the boat. Bruised but otherwise fine, she sat up shakily.

Jean peered over the side of the canoe.

“
Pas de problème
. We climb down.
Le canot
go first.”

She expected him to be furious. With one careless word, she had nearly killed them.

Jean’s eyes glittered, but not with anger. He flashed a wide grin.

“That was some ride, eh?”

Dark hair tousled in the wind, white throat bare, he threw back his head to let out a wild laugh. It turned into a howl.

For a moment, Dana was stunned. Then she threw back her head and howled along with him.

C
limbing down the prickly spine of the evergreen was difficult. Pushing the spirit boat ahead of them through the tangle of branches was trickier still. The sturdy craft was undamaged by the fall but, like a canoe snagged in lakeside rushes, it resisted their efforts. Struggling downward, Dana kept an anxious lookout for Crowley. Had they managed to outrun him in their race with death? Or was he lurking nearby, waiting to attack?

At last they wrestled the boat to the ground and landed after it.

The northern night was cold and silent. High above the treetops, stars sprayed the sky. The scent of frosted pine tinted the air. They were surrounded by the white hush of snow.

Jean dragged the canoe into the undergrowth. Noting the spot, he tied a piece of string on a branch above it. At Dana’s questioning look he grinned.

“One time I forget where I put him.”

Her eyes widened. They would be stranded in the middle of nowhere!

“Do you know where we are?” she asked.

“
Mais oui, c’est mon pays.
This is my country.” His voice rang with pride. “This is where the wolf run and where my friend live. Many mile to the east is Labrador City. That is where my
grand-père
—”

A tremor of pain crossed his features. He didn’t continue.

Dana was curious, but she didn’t trespass. Their friendship was too new. She caught the gratitude in his eyes when she didn’t press him, and there was something else. He seemed to be studying her. As always, the intensity of his gaze made her look away.

“
C’est ça
,” he said suddenly, as if coming to a decision. “Before we go to my friend, I like for you to meet someone else.”

The amber light seeped into his eyes. He threw back his head and let out a howl. When an echoing bay came from deep in the woods, Jean howled a second time. Again came the response, but it was closer now as the other wolf drew near.

As Jean continued to call, Dana kept watch, but she was still surprised when the great animal charged from the trees. Silver-gray in the starlight, the wolf was huge, with a powerful head and gaping jaws. It had the northern coat of long hair, as well as thick underfur and a large bushy tail.

Dana let out a cry as it leaped at Jean.

The wolf’s great paws struck Jean’s chest and knocked him down. Landing on top, the wolf growled low in its throat. But Jean was quick to recover. Grappling the beast in a headlock, he twisted sideways till they were both rolling on the ground. Now Jean leaped to his feet, arms stretched to wrestle. The wolf crouched low, ears pricked forward, ready to pounce. The two began to circle and feint, sometimes bounding forward, sometimes dashing back.

By this time, despite the throttling and biting, Dana knew they were playing. When the greeting game was over, Jean put his arms around the wolf’s neck. Panting, the two stared at each other, man and beast. Dana could see the pain in Jean’s features.

“We don’t run tonight,” Jean told the wolf. “I go with my friend to the Old Man. You come too, eh?”

The gray wolf studied Dana a moment, then loped into the woods.

Jean lurched to his feet. His eyes were wet. As he lowered his head, he let out a tortured sound.

Without thinking, Dana moved quickly to put her arms around him.

“What is it? Tell me!”

The night seemed to hold its breath there in the forest of snow and pine, with the moon and stars watching above. She had caught him by surprise, but he didn’t try to break away. His body trembled as it leaned against hers. He rested his head on her shoulder and spoke in a hoarse whisper.