Ghosts of James Bay (6 page)

“No,” I replied in confusion. “I'm Christian. United Church. It
is
the year 2001 after the birth of Christ.”

John Hudson finally withdrew his hand and hunkered down on the rocks beside me. “This is passably strange,” he said thoughtfully. “It cannot be both 1611 and 2001. Yet we are both convinced of our own facts. This is truly a most unusual land we have come to visit.”

My fear had diminished as we sat talking, apparently normally, on the reassuringly uncomfortable stones of the beach. Then I remembered the oar that had hit, yet not hit, my head. I had to find something out.

“My name is Alfred Lister,” I said, holding my hand out, “but my friends call me Al.”

“Well, Alfred. I am much pleased to make your acquaintance, despite the strange circumstances of it.”

He reached out and took my hand in his. I tensed, half expecting nothing but a cold draft as we touched, but it was an ordinary handshake. My companion's hand was skinny, and I could feel the bones when I gripped it, but the skin felt warm and alive and his grip was firm. I returned the smile that now wreathed his pale face. I didn't have the slightest idea what was happening, but at least knowing the figure before me was solid and not a wraith comforted me a bit.

“However this has come about,” he continued, “will you come, Alfred, to our meagre camp and meet my father and the others? It is not far.”

I wasn't sure. A short while ago I had been happily walking along the beach toward
my
father's camp. Now I was being invited to visit another camp that had existed almost four hundred years before I was even born! It was insane. But what
choice did I have? Either John Hudson had travelled in time and his camp wouldn't exist and we could proceed on to mine, or I had travelled in time and there would be little point in trying to find my father. In any case, I instinctively liked this strange boy. Despite the apparent impossibility of our meeting and his odd way of speaking, I felt at ease with him. The possibility that he existed in my time but was subject to insane delusions crossed my mind, but I dismissed it. It couldn't explain the happenings in the fog, and my new friend seemed completely sane.

“All right,” I replied. “I'd like to visit your camp. But on the condition that you call me Al.”

Hudson laughed. “I see you like not your given name. Very well, Al it shall be. But in your turn, you must address me as Jack. There is nought remiss with John, yet all address me as Jack since, as a stripling, I ascended without fear a tall oak in the manner of the old tale of the giant killer and the beanstalk.”

“Okay,” I said, unable to stop smiling at the happy chatter of my companion. “I'll call you Jack.”

Standing, Jack Hudson led the way along the beach. Despite the disorientation I felt at the impossible events of the morning, a part of me hoped it was really happening. Perhaps, somehow, I had really travelled in time. As I followed the figure into the unknown, I couldn't help feeling this was a much better way to find out about the past than rooting around in ancient garbage piles. What would Dad give to be wherever I was right now? I was on my way to meet Henry Hudson, famous explorer and the subject of four centuries of speculation. It might be impossible, but it was certainly exciting.

Again the warrior was watching an intruder in his land, but this time there was just one of them. It was high summer, and
the warrior had come to the shore to fish. Fortunately he had seen the seated figure first.

It was one of the strangers from the winter. He looked hungry and sat looking out over the great water. The warrior was confused. He had watched the strangers leave in their winged canoe soon after the ice had broken. That had been almost two cycles of the moon ago. Why had this one returned? Where were his companions? Where was the winged canoe? What did the return mean?

As he observed, a second figure approached from the north. This was one the warrior did not recognize. He was dressed differently, in short leggings and a tight shirt, and seemed hardly aware of the world around him. In fact, he almost fell over the first figure. Then the two began talking in their odd tongue and set off along the beach.

The warrior followed, paralleling the beach yet hidden by the undergrowth. At times the newcomer appeared to suspect his presence and nervously scanned the trees. Once, he stared directly at the warrior for some time. But the warrior was too skilled in bushcraft to allow himself to be seen, especially by someone who obviously did not make the forest his home.

The stream where the fish were good was not far. There was a clearing there the warrior would have to cross before the strangers arrived if he was to avoid being seen. Lengthening his stride, the warrior increased his pace through the trees and soon left the two figures on the beach behind. But there was a surprise awaiting him at the clearing. Instead of an open space he could cross quickly, there was a camp. A crude shelter sat in the middle of the clearing and a long wreath of smoke rose from a fire pit in front of it. It was obviously the work of the strangers; none of his people would be so careless or untidy. Yet there was still no sign of the winged ship. One of the smaller canoes was pulled up on the beach, but that was all.

As the warrior watched, the first two figures arrived. One of them shouted something. In response Hairy Face emerged from the shelter. He looked even hungrier than the boy. The warrior was extremely puzzled. Obviously there were not as many strangers here as had been at the winter camp and obviously they were in some distress. What had happened? Had the large canoe been wrecked?

The warrior would not approach the strangers again, but he would watch. Watch and wait until he had answers to some of his questions.

Silently I followed Jack along the beach. Now I had a chance to observe him. He was about my height and, as far as I could guess, my age. He looked weak but walked strongly, although he stumbled occasionally on the uneven rocks of the beach. He was wearing a loose, grey, three-quarter-length woollen jacket, pulled in by a broad leather belt. A knife was tucked through the belt in the middle of his back, and a small leather pouch dangled over his right hip. His trousers were baggy and dark red. They were pulled tight about his legs just below his knees. He was wearing long stockings that disappeared beneath his trousers and soft, shapeless leather shoes. On his head was a woollen cap of the same red as his trousers, from beneath which his dark hair hung in an unruly mat. His clothing looked comfortable but very old-fashioned.

We walked for about ten minutes, both lost in our own thoughts. Gradually an unsettling feeling that we were being watched grew in my mind. It was similar to the sensation I'd had in the fog. Then there had been ghosts all around me, but
this time it seemed that someone, or something, in the trees was watching Jack and me. I kept glancing over but could see nothing suspicious, just the trees and the dark spaces between them. Jack appeared not to be bothered, and that helped me fight the urge to break into a run.

Eventually we came to a clearing by the beach. I recognized the place. My father's camp at the big rock lay a long way to the south. Apparently I had paddled a lot farther north than I had thought.

A sluggish stream flowed across the clearing. Beside it, a boat was drawn up on the shore—the one I had seen in the fog. The ground to my left was rocky with occasional patches of grass and a few stunted trees. On a low rock outcrop a rude shelter had been constructed. It was square, measured about three metres on each side, and was high enough for a short man to stand upright in. The walls were constructed of roughly cut saplings interwoven with branches. The roof appeared to be of similar construction. It looked sturdy enough, but I doubted it would keep out much wind or rain. A small fire pit in the doorway sent up a long wisp of smoke.

Farther away, on the flat ground in front of the rock outcrop, was a larger fire pit with boulders arranged in a semicircle around it. On the other side of the clearing, two crude crosses stood above mounds of rock, which I assumed with a shudder were graves.

I hesitated in confusion, but Jack didn't stop. Without breaking stride he walked toward the hut. “Father!” he called.

A figure emerged, stooping to negotiate the makeshift doorway. Despite the sun, he was dressed in a long dark blue coat with a thick fur collar. The coat was cinched by a leather belt that also held a long-bladed knife. On the man's head was a wool cap similar to Jack's but with long ear flaps on either side. As he stood, I got a good look at his face. It seemed even
more starved than John's. The sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones highlighted what was already a long, thin face. The skin was weather-beaten and wrinkled, and grey hair straggled from beneath his cap. A matching grey beard covered his cheeks and chin. The eyes were the same pale blue as his son's, yet the sparkle was missing. They looked haunted.

“Ah, Jack,” the man said as he came forward, “Staffe and Wydhowse have gone hunting, and I would talk with you before their return. What would be—” The man stopped in mid-sentence as his gaze fell on me.

In the pause Jack took the opportunity to speak. Half turning, he waved his arm in my direction. “I have found a companion. He is not like the salvages we have seen and has an odd sense of the year. Yet he professes to the Christian faith, speaks a version of English, and may be of use in our predicament. He goes by the name of Al.” With a smile Jack gestured to the bearded man. “Al,” he said, “this is my father, the explorer Henry Hudson.”

For a moment we regarded each other carefully. Then Hudson stepped forward and held out his hand. “How do you do Master Al? I am much honoured to make your acquaintance.”

I moved forward and took his hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Hudson,” I said formally. “I've heard a lot about you.”

Almost instantly I realized my mistake. Hudson withdrew his hand and stepped back, shock on his face. “How can this be? Are you, too, a lost voyager from England?”

“No,” I replied, wondering how I was going to explain to Henry Hudson circumstances I couldn't even explain to myself. “I'm from the south. Ottawa,” I added rather pointlessly.

“How then is it,” Hudson continued, “that you are, as Jack says, Christian, know the king's English, and have heard tell of me?”

There was no sane answer to these questions. I could
hardly tell this man I had studied him for a school project almost four hundred years after he died! I kept my answers as vague as I could.

“Where I'm from,” I said cautiously, “we take a great interest in the world. People travel all over and report back what they see.” It was weak, but easier than trying to explain television, cell phones, and the Internet. It would do for the moment, and it appeared to make sense to Hudson, who nodded understandingly.

“Then you are a nation of travellers and traders,” he said thoughtfully, “much like the Portuguese and the Genoese.”

It was my turn to nod. If I could keep my responses vague and let Hudson make assumptions that fitted me into his world, it would give me time to think.

A frown crossed Hudson's face. “How is it then that I have not heard of your people? By what name do you call yourselves?”

“Canadians,” I answered.

“And where is this Ottawa of which you speak? Is it near to New France?”

New France! Where was that? I searched my mind for what had been happening in Canada in the early 1600s. Wasn't that when Champlain was exploring and setting up a settlement at Quebec City? I decided to chance dropping a name.

“It is to the west of Champlain's settlement at Quebec,” I said.

The effect on Jack was electrifying. He jumped forward and said excitedly, “You know of the French. And you have travelled here. There must therefore be a route we might follow to this Quebec to seek succour.” He turned from me to his father. “See, this is a sign. It is possible. We must march south if we are to survive.”

“Aye!” a new voice joined us. “It is surely a sign.”

Looking past Hudson, I saw a gaunt figure emerge from the hut. The man was small and looked deathly ill. He held on to one of the upright doorposts for support. His voice was almost a whine and grated on my ears.

“A sign of the Devil,” he continued, “come to tempt us into the wilderness. We must trust to God's mercy. Succour will find us if we but keep faith.”

“Syracke Fanner,” Hudson said, turning to address the man, “I think not that this boy is the Devil nor in league with the hellish hosts. I think he is but of an unknown tribe—one of the many wonders of this land—and it may be that, if he is to be our salvation, he has been sent by the Lord God himself.”

Syracke Fanner stood away from the post and took a few faltering steps toward us. I noticed that he was lame and favoured his right leg heavily. Despite his difficulties, he raised his arm and pointed at me.

“The Devil can take many forms and need not show us his cloven hoof. The Lord God provided manna for his followers as they were starving in the desert. So, too, shall he provide for our wants in this extremity. Our faith is being tested. We must not be found wanting.”