The Book of Dreams (50 page)

Taking a deep breath, Dana asked the crucial question: “Do you have a copy?”

The suspense was dreadful. Hope hovered in the air like a hummingbird.

“Don’t know about any copies.” Gran Gowan shook her head. “They all got ruined or lost here and there.”

The hummingbird darted away. Of course not. That would be too easy.

“But we’ve got the original handwritten version right here in the house. His journal, that is. It was passed down along with the jewelry, china, and linen. Precious heir-looms and family history go together. I thought maybe we should give it to the museum in Toronto, it being part of our pioneer history, but your great-grandfather, my father, was very strict about that. He said his father told him in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t to go outside the family. He wrote it for the ones to come. It’s somewhere up there in the attic, wrapped in tissue paper and safely stored away in a trunk.”

Dana had to use all her willpower not to race out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the little door on the top landing that led to the attic. How she managed to stay in her seat and finish her tea, she would never know. Her mind was reeling. Could it really be the book she was looking for? The title could hardly be a coincidence! But how could it be a human thing? How could a book written by her mortal ancestor contain a fairy secret? She had to find out. She had to know the truth.

Gran Gowan saw the look on Dana’s face and cut her off before she could open her mouth.

“Don’t even think about it. Not at this hour. You can hunt it out in the morning. Trying to find anything in that attic is like looking for a needle in a haystack, believe me. And it’s already well past your bedtime.”

Her grandmother was right. The hour was late. They had spent the entire day baking pies and then cleaning up after them. Though Dana could hardly bear the thought, she would have to be patient. And wait till Jean heard about this!

Dana kissed her grandmother good night and headed upstairs to her bedroom. There was a moment when she stood on the landing and considered sneaking up to the attic. She decided against it. She couldn’t risk getting caught, not after the Triumph Herald fiasco. She would just have to wait until morning.

Despite her excitement about finding the book, Dana fell asleep easily in the big bed with the lilac quilt. Outside, the streets of Creemore were dim and quiet.

That night, she had a dream.

She stood amongst a crowd on a large ship, waiting to disembark. Everyone was dressed in old-fashioned clothes. She wore a long skirt of homespun fabric and a bonnet on her head. The passengers were being lowered into small boats and rowed ashore. Dana recognized the island she had seen from the flying canoe. Grosse Île! Didn’t Gran Gowan say her ancestor had survived that ordeal? Immediately she looked around for her great-great-grandfather, Thomas Gowan. Would she be able to recognize him? Of course she did! He looked just like Gabriel when her dad was eighteen, with dark wavy hair and laughing eyes. Her grandmother always said that Gabe was a true Gowan.

Thomas looked tidy, if not prosperous in his worn and faded clothes. He stood with his family, waiting to be cleared by the medical officers. She could see by his face that the voyage had taken its toll on him. Yet despite the signs of hardship and suffering, there was something irrepressible about him. The jaunty smile and the good-natured demeanor overcame the sickly pallor and the dark shadows under his eyes. He was obviously overjoyed to find himself alive and well in the New World.

She elbowed her way through the crowd to meet him. That’s when she saw it under his arm: a book shining with light. The Book of Dreams? She was about to call out to him when something else caught her eye. She stopped and stared around her. All the immigrants on the ship were carrying books and all the books shone with the light of their dreams!

Dana woke with a start. A sense of urgency overwhelmed her. Something she had lost! Something important she had forgotten! A silvery light drifted through the lacy curtains. The moon was luminous, almost full. She slipped out of bed and padded barefoot through the hallway, up the narrow stairs to the little door. Once inside of the attic, she cupped her hands to make her own light.

The task before her was almost impossible. The attic ran the width and length of the house. Every inch of it was covered with trunks and boxes. There was even baggage hanging from the rafters of the roof. But she was too excited to be daunted. Beginning with the nearest chest, she began her search.

An hour later, Dana was still making her way through antique dresses, hats, and moth-eaten furs, albums and costume jewelry, samplers and old paintings. It was time to come up with a plan. Ignore anything but paper. At last she found a brass-bound trunk full of books and papers. There were ladies’ diaries with jeweled clasps and flowers pressed between the pages, perfume-scented letters, and all kinds of books, dog-eared and yellowed with age. In the midst of that pile, like a golden egg in a nest of tissue paper, lay her great-great-grandfather’s journal.

The precious book was worn and well-traveled, with numerous stains and torn pages. At the same time it was bound in leather, meant to last. Slowly, reverently, she opened the book. On the first faded leaf, she was thrilled to see a big, friendly scrawl.

The Book of Dreams by Thomas William Gowan.

O
n this the 21st day of June in the Year of Our Lord 1841, I, Thomas William Gowan, find myself on board the good ship Horsely Hill asail on the ocean of the great Atlantic. It is a big ship, three-masted, with a crew of eighteen hands, over three hundred steerage passengers and several families with cabins of their own amongst whom mine is included. We have come with lock, stock and barrel, my parents, my two brothers and sister, our maid-servant and myself, the firstborn at eighteen years of age.

It has been two weeks since we departed from the port of New Ross bound for Montreal in the land of Quebec. I stood on deck as we left the harbor and bade farewell to my native country that I shall see no more. Others stood with me weeping copiously as they cast last lingering looks at the beloved green shores of the Emerald Isle. I did not weep. I was too filled with the glorious joy of adventure. Here was I off to the New World to a new life and new freedom, to try my fortune in a land of promise where dreams might prove true.

I have yet to tell Father or Mother that I do not intend to settle on a farm in the backwoods of Canada. I am no hewer of wood or tiller of soil. Such is not the destiny I envisage for myself. There is a vast land to be explored from coast to coast. How could I be content to bide in one small part of it when the whole cries out to enrich my knowledge and experience?

The voyage out has been long and arduous. This ocean crossing will not be speedily made. There is much sea sickness amongst our fellow cabin passengers as we plough the heavy swell of the great Atlantic. Many stay indoors, lying abed, moaning and sickly. The steerage passengers fare much worse. Some were already weak and ill from the trials and hardships of their life before they boarded. Fever and typhus rage amongst them. The majority are in bare feet and rags. Many are destitute and have only the most meager of provisions. If the journey takes longer than predicted, I fear they will suffer gravely from hunger and malnourishment. The very young and the very old are the most ill-affected. Only this morning we buried a small babe at sea still swaddled in her blanket. She was dropped most gently overboard while the Captain said prayers. The poor bereft mother had to be restrained from following her child into the Deep. It was a dreadful and piteous scene.

That was the moment when I decided to take pen and paper in hand and write this journal. Observing the crowd of unhappy humanity so sorely distressed without minister or priest to assuage their pain, I saw the truth. Against the vagaries of Fate and suffering in this life, we have only our hopes and dreams to bolster us. It is they which keep us from drowning in the black mire of despair. It is they which fortify us with the assurety that we are God’s children blessed with the gift of immortal souls. Thus I shall record here, for my own good and that of posterity, all the hopes and dreams that I shall so encounter on this journey of my life.

June 23, 1841. It is but two days since I last wrote in these pages. I have ventured below into steerage. The stench of unwashed bodies and sickness is most suffocating. I wonder why the Captain does not open more hatches to allow in fresh airs. Some of the more fastidious women have done their best to keep their quarters clean, constantly washing with buckets of sea water. However, they lack fresh straw to make new bedding. They tell me the crew mistreat them most cruelly often playing tricks on them and stealing their food. There are a few musicians amongst them who endeavor to keep up their spirits, a tin whistler, a fiddler and a lad with a skin drum. The three are of a most peculiar appearance, which in itself brings laughter along with the merry jigs and reels. They sing a sweet ballad concerning the land we are bound for.

Oh the green fields of Canada,

They daily are blooming,

It’s there I’ll put an end,

To my misery and strife.

The creaking and groaning of wood is more cacophonous in the bowels of the ship and the violence of movement more severe. One fears at times that the ocean might break us asunder. The rolling and rocking makes me quite sick. I can rarely stay long below decks and soon find myself yearning for the comfort of my cabin. How much worse off are these wretches who have no other refuge!

Here let me record some of the dreams of my fellow pilgrims on this voyage to a brave new world:

Josephina McAtamney, 16 years, from Newry, County Antrim: I wish to find good employment in a nice house with a kindly mistress. Then later to marry a good man and have healthy children and my own wee home.

Seamus mac Mathuna, 25 years, from Bundoran, County Donegal: I shall work as a laborer and save the money to buy my own land. They say land comes cheap in the wilds of Canada. I will build my own cabin and raise horses and cattle.

Mrs Maggie Teed, Spanish Arch, 57 years, Galway Town, County Galway: I just want to survive this voyage in one piece, lad! That would be a dream come true!

I no longer note the day or hour of our passage as we are caught in a limbo of time and season. We were detained for weeks on the Banks of Newfoundland by heavy fog, stiff winds, and the foulest of weathers. We are short of fresh water and provisions. What we have left must be meted out with the greatest of restraint. The steerage passengers are deathly ill and starving. I have heard that the Captain, a decent God-fearing Scotsman, has released food from the stores to feed those below deck. Alas there is little to go around. It must be said there are stories of other Captains who have let their passengers die without raising a hand to aid them.