The Book of Dreams (29 page)

“Now you tell the story,” he insisted, “or sing
une chanson irlandaise
.”

“This is like a road trip with my da.”

She was about to take her turn with a song when she noticed something strange below. The land seemed to have patches of darkness and light, as if it were day in one place and night in another. The more she gazed down, the more confused she grew. She wasn’t sure what she was looking at. There were moments when she saw things she couldn’t possibly see from that far up, as if she were only feet away. Then she realized the truth. Like gazing into a crystal ball, she was viewing the land with magical sight. As well as the bright vistas of modern cities and townlands, she could see layers of time on top of one another, as if time itself were a heap of events, a great collection of moments.

“I’m seeing all kinds of things down there!” she exclaimed.

“
Mais oui
. Remember when you see Étienne Brûlé? This happen sometime with
la chasse-galerie
. The flying, she make
une ouverture sur le Grands Temps
. A big hole in time? No, I don’t mean this.”

Dana understood. “An opening in the Great Time. It’s the same with Faerie! Time and space go all weird around it. More like a circle than a line or, better still, a spiral.”

“Oui, c’est ça! Exactement!”
He waved grandly at the panorama below.
“Regarde, chérie
. See my country.”

As the spirit boat passed over Montreal, another name came whispering through the cobbled streets and around the corners of tall buildings and sidewalk cafés.
Hochelaga
. At the foot of a hill not yet called Mont Royal stood a thriving Iroquois community. Palisaded like a town, with fifty longhouses, it overlooked tilled fields of corn and maize.

On sped the canoe past Trois-Rivières and Cap-de-la-Madeleine to la Ville de Québec. Again the layers peeled away like an onion. Beneath the majestic walls of the city and the great star-shaped fortress called le Citadel, Dana could see another settlement.
La Habitation
was a simple quadrangle of wooden buildings with a stockade and moat. It stood on a point where the St. Lawrence narrowed, a
kebek
as the Algonquian people called it.

A new sound reached the flying canoe. Musket fire and the roars of men.

On the Plains of Abraham, in the shadow of Quebec City, two armies gathered. Two old countries waging war for new land. Thousands of British troops were mustered on the grassy field below the western walls of the fortress. They had already bombarded and destroyed much of the city. If the French had only waited for reinforcements, they would have had a chance. But they were already moving out to engage in battle.

The spirit canoe quivered violently and stalled.

“We go!” Jean shouted. “
Vite! Rapidement!
”

But they didn’t leave. It was as if the canoe were caught in a hidden current. It began to circle around the scene.

Dana didn’t want to look, but found herself mesmerized. It was nothing like the battles she had seen in movies or on television. Everything was chaotic, brutal and bloody. Limbs blown off with musket balls. Men screaming horribly. Her stomach heaved.

Frantically steering the boat away at last, Jean called Dana out of her daze. But even as they left, she remembered the outcome from her history book. The fight for Quebec was short and bloody, less than half an hour, but both leaders died. General Wolfe lay dead among his troops on the battlefield, while the Marquis de Montcalm perished from his wounds the following day.

Though they didn’t get caught again as they continued eastward, Dana began to notice a pattern in their journey. Whenever the land told a story of death and destruction, the canoe would judder with delight.
He was a murderer from the beginning
. Feeding off the darkness below, the demon would gain in strength and ferocity. Then Dana and Jean had to struggle with all their might to keep control of the craft.

The demon was particularly strong whenever they encountered the devastation wrought by the settlers on the First Peoples of the land. Without pity or remorse, the Europeans burned villages and crops; enslaved men, women, and children; and slaughtered all who opposed them. Sometimes in the crowd of slaves or the bodies of the slain, Dana thought she recognized Grandfather and Roy. She would turn away with shame. She couldn’t bear to watch.

Upstream of Quebec, they passed a small island. Dana felt a sharp ache in her heart. The wooded isle was sculpted with coves and capes. On a rocky promontory overlooking the river stood a Celtic High Cross carved in stone: a tombstone to mark the site of mass graves.

“My people are buried here!” she cried with sudden knowledge.

The sorrowful sound of keening was carried on the wind, a wake of fiddles and the clatter of bones.
Oileán an nGael
. The Island of the Irish. She heard the whispers of the thousands who had perished in this place. Some had crossed the Atlantic in “coffin ships” to escape the Great Famine. Others had come seeking new lives and freedoms. Here they died of disease and malnutrition, meeting death in their dreams.

“I know this
complainte
,” Jean told her. “This is Grosse Île. Like Pointe Sainte-Charles too. With them lie the French also, who try to help. Like I tell you,
chérie
,” he called to her sadly, “the French and the Irish are always good friend.”

They continued to follow the St. Lawrence as if it were a highway. The great river had yet to freeze and was busy with sea traffic. Amidst the modern vessels, Dana caught sight of ancient canoes and ghost ships.

How long they traveled along that shining seaway, Dana had no idea. Hours seemed to pass like minutes and sometimes a minute seemed to contain eternity. Again and again, the land told its tales with all the color and verve of a storyteller. Then a silence fell over the country, like a book closed at bedtime, and they paddled on through the darkness beneath the sky of stars.

They heard the gulf before they saw it, a mournful sound in the distance, the plangent murmur of the sea. When they reached the estuary of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, it looked as wide as an ocean.

Jean steered the canoe south. To their left, in the distance, was the dark silhouette of Île d’Anticosti standing guard at the gateway of the great river’s mouth. To their right, ahead of them, was Prince Edward Island.

They had journeyed through a long night into the rising sun. The waters of the gulf gleamed in fiery splendor. The sky blazed gold. Soon they came in sight of Cape Breton Island.

Dana scanned the rocky landscape and the sea-washed shores. Nothing looked familiar.

“Let’s go inland,” she suggested, trying not to sound anxious.

What if they had come all this way for nothing? What if they couldn’t find the Place of Stones? She suffered a pang of doubt. What if it didn’t exist, except in a song that she could hardly remember!

They had begun to descend. Jean was looking for a place to land.

“We don’t fly near the lake,” he warned. “There is fog on Bras d’Or .”

His words triggered her memory. The line of the song echoed through her mind.

There’s fire in the blood and a fog on Bras d’Or
.

“That’s it!” she cried. “The fog! Fly through it!” There was a moment after they had sailed into the mist when they both regretted the decision. It was a moment of intense cold and damp and milky blindness. Both were all too aware that a huge, deep lake lay somewhere beneath them. If they were going to land on a body of water, they would prefer to see it! Both held their breaths as they continued to paddle, and only released them again when they flew out of the haze.

And there, in the clear light of day, was the place Dana sought.

Where the lake opened its arms to embrace the Atlantic was a little cove with a scattering of houses. The village was sheltered by a ridge of low hills. The highest peak had a crown: a jagged circle of stones.

“The Place of Stones!” Dana called out, delighted.

They landed the canoe on the pebbly shore of the cove. The air was salty with sea spray. Other boats lay upturned on the stones, small wooden craft painted in bright colors.

“It’s like the west of Ireland,” said Dana.

“There is nowhere to hide
le canot
,” Jean observed, looking around.

The hills nearby were all grass and gray rock. There were few trees in sight.

“It should be safe here,” she assured him, thinking of home. “This is fishermen’s country.”

Still, he didn’t look happy at the thought of leaving the canoe out in the open.

“How about a picnic?” she suggested, to distract him. “Time for breakfast.”

They spread out a sleeping bag over the stones and opened their knapsacks. He had rolls of ham and beef, while she had cheese and egg-salad sandwiches.

“You don’t eat meat?” he asked her curiously. “never?”

“I won’t eat anything that had a face.”

“This I can’t do,” he said, shrugging. Then he wolfed down his food.

As they ate their meal, they discussed whether they should rest or explore. After traveling all night, both were pale and bleary-eyed.

“The Place of Stones is on the highest hill,” Dana said, surveying the range.

“Maybe we go to the village first, eh?” Jean stifled a yawn. “We see who live there.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Dana stuffed a few chocolate bars into her pocket, then rolled up the rest of her things in her sleeping bag and stowed them under the canoe. Though she was tired, she felt she could keep going for a while yet.

Jean was regarding her strangely.

“What?” she said.

“I like that we do this together, you and me.”

His words made her smile. She felt exactly the same way. Only a year ago, she had quested alone in the mountains of Ireland. How much more wonderful it was to have a companion!

Hand in hand, they walked toward the village. They were ready for anything.

I
t was barely a village, only a handful of small houses perched on the rocks like a scatter of gulls. There were no paths or gardens. The cottages were made of stones that were wedged together without mortar or cement. The roofs were thatched, some as tightly as cloth, others less tidily, with weeds and wildflowers sprouting from the eaves. Lace curtains hung in the windows and pots of red geraniums sat on the sills. The place had an Irish or Scottish air. There was no sight or sound of the inhabitants, but they were apparently at home. Smoke curled from the chimneys, sweetening the air with the scent of burning wood.

Dana and Jean stopped at the first house. The heavy silence was unnerving. When they knocked on the door, no one answered. A big ginger cat on the windowsill eyed them coolly. The door was of the kind Dana had seen in rural Ireland. Built in two pieces, the top could open separately, like a window, to let in fresh air. The old people would lean on the bottom half and call out to their neighbors who passed on the road.

“Maybe we enter?” Jean suggested. “This look like the kind of place my
grand-mère
say
‘la porte est sur la clanche.’
”

“The door is on the latch?” guessed Dana. “That’s what the Irish say too!”

She hesitated. If the villagers were friendly, wouldn’t someone have come to meet them by now?

The half-door opened. An old woman peered out at them. She was dark-haired and dark-skinned, with gaunt features and bright lively eyes. Her nose was hooked like a beak; her clothes were black, and she wore a feathery shawl over bony shoulders. Head cocked sideways, she peered at them before speaking.

“I am the Cailleach Dubh,” she announced in a shrill, chattering voice. “You are welcome to Ailsa Craig. Enter.”

The cottage was a single-room dwelling with whitewashed walls and a loft overhead that was reached by a ladder. A cavernous hearth dominated one end of the room. A black cauldron hung on a hook over the fire. Half the space was domestic with an old settee, table and chairs, and a wooden dresser filled with dishes and crockery. The other half, near to the door, was a makeshift shop and pub. A high counter ranged in front of shelves lined with canned goods, dried herbs, rolls of twine, and various tools. Bunches of onions and garlic hung from the ceiling. There were stools at the counter and chairs nearby. The floor was checkered with black and red flagstones worn down by the tread of countless feet.

Dana and Jean sat near the fire while the old woman made tea in a black kettle. She moved with an ungainly grace, kicking her long skirt in front of her. When she poured the tea, it trickled out like treacle, a dark brown mixture with leaves floating on top; but with dollops of cream and sugar, it tasted surprisingly good.

“Did ye ever hear the tale of tea?” she asked them, eyes sparkling with mischief. “When ’twas first brought from China, the people of Europe hadn’t a notion what to do with it. They boiled up the leaves, threw away the liquid, and ate it like cabbage.”

She made a face and pretended to spit. They laughed with her and felt a little more comfortable.