Gil Marsh Page 12

  Gil felt elation sweep through him, flushing his face. He reached over to take it, and Miller closed his fist.

  “But …”

  Miller shook his head and brought his hand down. “It’s not yours anymore.”

  “But they stole it!” Gil couldn’t believe it. He had just finished telling Miller what had happened, how the thugs had mugged him, yet nothing he said moved the man. “They attacked me!”

  Miller still shook his head. “It was a fair trade. I made a new mudguard; they paid me with a ring.”

  Gil spat out his next words. “I thought you weren’t a blacksmith anymore.”

  “Not much call for it.”

  His responses were infuriating.

  “But how did they get here? You’re cut off—”

  At first, Gil didn’t recognize Miller’s growl as laughter.

  “The road’s at the bottom of the bay. If you had kept walking instead of knocking yourself over, you’d have run into it.”

  Gil whirled, slamming his fists onto the porch railing. The man thought he was laughable.

  “The ring was a gift!” he yelled. “To me!”

  Miller shrugged. “A stone. Set in poor silver. That’s all it is.”

  “It was from someone I loved!” Gil yelled louder.

  Miller looked him up and down. “She’ll get you something else.”

  Miller’s smirk crowded everything out from Gil’s vision. Damn the man! Gil lunged, swinging.

  Miller caught Gil’s fist and held it in midair. Then he leaned forward without any evident effort. Gil stumbled. Although he felt no pain in his knee, the sharp pressure on his arm and shoulder forced him to step back. Gil pulled his fist to his chest, clasping it with his other hand. Miller squared off—more than ready, it seemed, to take Gil on.

  “It’s he,” Gil said between his teeth. “And he’s dead.”

  “That isn’t my fault.”

  Gil raised his other fist. A chipmunk whistled shrilly from one of the trees. Gil began to shake.

  And at that moment, Gil saw himself as if from a distance, standing on the porch, one arm up, facing Miller. The old man crouched slightly, ready to fight. To defend himself. Against someone he had doctored and fed.

  It dawned on Gil. He had just attacked Old Man Miller! The one man on this sorry, misbegotten trip who had the answers he needed.

  Before Gil knew what he was doing, he threw his head backward and screamed. Wave after wave of bottled-up pain, anger and frustration rushed and tumbled through him. He clenched his arms. He arched his back. And when he couldn’t breathe anymore, the long, ragged yell subsided.

  Gil dropped his arms and took a great, shuddering breath. Then, one breath at a time, he steadied himself. He couldn’t look Miller in the eye.

  His voice cracked when he spoke next. “I’m sorry.”

  Miller’s shoulders relaxed. Despite everything, he didn’t appear angry—almost as if he had expected the outburst. And now he waited for Gil to say more.

  “Can you …” Gil swallowed. “Can you at least tell me something about it? About the ring?”

  Miller didn’t answer right away. He stood straighter, appraising the boy. The chipmunk in the tree trilled. Another chipmunk across the way replied. Miller took a step forward.

  Gil flinched.

  Slowly, Miller brought the ring up so Gil could see the stone up close. “Garnet. You’ll find it in a tapped vein a few kilometers from Le Gros-Curé. This one was polished. Someone thought it was beautiful.”

  “It is,” Gil said in his strangled voice.

  The stone’s color was so deep, the red almost hidden in blackness, it made it both warm and mysterious. Yet it shone as well, reflecting the light.

  Miller pointed to the band. “The silver isn’t very pure—you can see by the black streaks. It came from someone’s spoon, brought from France with the early settlers.”

  Gil blinked. How did Miller know this?

  The man seemed far away. “The ring was meant as a gift—for a young woman.”

  Gil swallowed again. He was afraid to move, lest he interrupt. Little by little Miller retold the story of Antoine and Clotilde. As he warmed to the tale, he rocked almost imperceptibly. He recounted their courtship and her untimely death, adding details Gil had not heard before. Through Miller, he saw the rough and beautiful land gouged by European axes and plows; he smelled the dirt and manure of the settlers’ farms; he heard the bangs of the small hammer the blacksmith used to form the slim silver rod into a ring.

  “Antoine Larivière was too young,” Miller said. “Lost love makes young men do foolish things.”

  And Gil heard the thunder of the logs tearing down a swollen river, destroying anything in their path.

  “I thought it was a legend,” Gil said.

  “It has become one,” Miller said.

  Gil let that sink in. A breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

  “Do you know the Labette family?” Gil asked.

  Gil thought he saw a flicker in Miller’s eyes, as though Gil had finally given him some sort of confirmation.

  “Yes. I know of them.”

  “How did they get the ring?”

  Miller paused, appearing to weigh what he should say next. And then he told him.

  When Antoine Larivière left for the lumber camps, his father expected the worst. When they brought his son’s body home for the funeral, M. Larivière didn’t cry. His heart had broken months before, and he saved his strength to care for his family. After the undertaker returned the ring, M. Larivière walked through the spring mud to the smithy.

  “I don’t want this.”

  The blacksmith was perplexed. “I have no use for a ring.”

  “It brings bad luck. Get rid of it.”

  “I can melt it down. Make you a new spoon.”

  “No. Bad luck will taint the silver.”

  The smith scratched his bushy beard. “I can at least return the stone.”

  M. Larivière refused. The smith placed the ring on a high shelf across from the forge.

  A few weeks later, a young man appeared, heading north with a wagon full of supplies for sale. He needed his cart horse shod. As the man held the docile beast’s head, the smith worked on one hoof at a time. The man noticed the garnet that reflected the red light from the forge.

  “That a precious stone?” he asked.

  The smith put the hoof down to fetch the ring. “It’s garnet. I set it for a pair of lovers, but they both died.”

  The young man examined it. “That’s poor silver.”

  The smith grinned. “I’ll trade stone and silver for a good pot.”

  The young man agreed. “It’ll bring me fortune, I predict.”

  The blacksmith waved goodbye when the young man headed north. The printing on the clapboard of the peddler wagon read “Léopold Labette.”

  “Do you know what happened to the peddler after he left?”

  Miller smiled now, wrinkles crowding around his eyes and nose. “He did very well, I heard, over by James Bay—a merchant in a godforsaken country. He found a wife, grew a family and staked some land. His heirs cashed in when the province built the dam.”

  “Dam?”

  “Hydroelectric,” Miller said. “The province bought up a bunch of land. By then the Labette clan had moved south, but the family still owned thousands of acres.”

  James Bay! That was on Hudson Bay, even farther north. Could Enko have been buried there? Miller must have read his mind.

  “It’s flooded now. You won’t find anything underwater.”

  Gil stared at Miller, unsure if he understood. “You mean there’s nothing there—nothing of the Labettes’?”

  “Nothing,” Miller said.

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s what I’ve heard. And I’ve heard a lot.” He gave Gil a glance. “You knew the young Labette, the one who died in the States.”

  Gil nodded, unable to say more.

  “That was a trag
edy,” Miller said.

  Gil let himself sink into one of the chairs. Miller sat next to him and placed the ring on his armrest, within reach of them both.

  “You were the blacksmith, weren’t you?” Gil said.

  “Oui.”

  Miller said it quietly, but to Gil, it sounded like a thunderclap, one that reverberated down his spine. He sat next to an immortal man.

  “How did you live so long?”

  Miller now grinned in earnest. “By not asking that question.”

  “But …”

  Miller became serious. “It is the only answer I have. It is how I am. I don’t think about it anymore.”

  “There must be something that you do, or eat—”

  Miller scowled. “There is nothing.” He sighed deeply, as if he were trying to rid himself of a memory. “I am not heartless, Gil. I nurse wounds and heal sicknesses. Yet every single person I have ever helped has died eventually, no matter what I did.”

  “You can’t … bring back the dead?”

  Miller shut his eyes. “No.” He paused. “Lord knows how much I wish I could.”

  Gil wondered how many people Miller had watched die; how many of those he had cared about, maybe even loved. And suddenly, he felt sorry for this old man who lived by himself.

  “Maybe there’s something about your DNA—”

  Miller waved a hand. “I am not a lab rat to be poked at. I live here. I bother no one. And no one bothers me.” He gave Gil a sideways glance. “Unless they’re foolish.”

  They sat in silence for a while longer. Looking through the trees, Gil could see the lake. Ripples of light reflected up, and the water’s edge glowed a bright green, contrasting with the deep greens and browns within the woods.

  “Did you ever think of living somewhere else?” Gil asked.

  “This isn’t my first home. Nor my grandest. But it suits me.”

  How many places had Miller lived? But Gil could tell that the time for questions was over. Miller had risen, pocketed the ring and begun gathering the cooled loaves on the bench.

  Gil rose, too.

  Miller eyed him. “You can rest.”

  Gil stood straight. “You fixed my knee, and fed me, and told me what I wanted to know.”

  “So you’re ready to go.” Miller seemed to approve.

  “No. I’m ready to work.” Gil owed the man at least this much.

  For the first time, Miller looked puzzled.

  “Tell me what to do,” Gil said.

  Miller raised an eyebrow. “Can you stack wood?”

  Miller had him carry armloads of firewood from one of the lean-tos and stack it along the side wall, as high as Gil could reach.

  When he finished, Miller fed him some more bread with slices of a hard, cheddar-like cheese, and another mug of the bitter coffee. Gil consumed it all gratefully.

  “Now it’s time for you to go,” Miller said.

  The sun had already begun slipping behind the western hills. Gil stared at his feet. “Couldn’t I stay? I’d help you. I’m strong and a fast learner.”

  Miller scowled. “No. You don’t belong here. You’re soft and young. And I don’t want company.”

  The reply stung. Hadn’t Gil proved his worth? “But—”

  Miller’s eyebrows lowered farther. “No. Leave. I gave you hospitality. Don’t make me regret it.” The man stood by the stairs, immobile, his utter stillness as threatening as the rifle he had held to Gil’s head.

  Gil knew there was no point arguing. He put on the jacket he had removed to stack wood, and found his sack next to one of the chairs. He walked past Miller, silently seething. Why was the man so stubborn?

  When Gil reached the lean-tos he had encountered on his way to the cabin, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He jumped.

  Miller stood next to him. Gil hadn’t heard him follow.

  “Don’t leave mad, young man,” Miller said. “You have lost someone you love, but you don’t have to be a fool.” He took Gil’s hand and placed the ring in it. “It is neither good luck nor ill omen. It’s a stone set in poor silver. Remember that.”

  Gil couldn’t answer. His throat seemed to have closed up.

  Miller pointed between two trees. “If you follow that deer track, you’ll come to a clearing. Then head east. Durocher’s boat is still there.”

  Gil glanced down at the garnet, amazed that it was his again, and slipped it onto his finger. He coughed once. “Thank you.”

  Miller turned, walked down the bend by his cabin and was gone, as if Gil had imagined him all along.

  The sun was truly setting when Gil reached the boat. He had to struggle to remove the oars he had driven into the muck. When they came up, they were covered in stinky black slime.

  It also took him more effort than he had planned to pull the boat out. He almost lost his balance a half dozen times, tugging and pushing. He scraped the bottom hard when he finally pried it loose, but he didn’t slow down. He wanted to be on his way before dark. He kept an eye on the opposite shore: the trees still reflected pink light from the sunset.

  With relief, he launched himself out of the cove.

  He had a surprising amount of energy and rowed with steady, quick motions. He passed the two islands that marked the end of Old Man Miller’s territory, and decided to cross to the eastern shore while there was still enough light for him to be visible—he feared getting hit by a speedboat in the darkness. He propped the flashlight on the seat next to him as a beacon, glad that he had thought to bring it.

  The wind had died down, and he didn’t drift. He was about halfway across when he noticed how wet his feet were getting. Almost two inches of water filled the bottom. All the scraping must have further damaged the bottom of the boat. The plug no longer covered the drain completely. The leaks had sped up.

  He redoubled his efforts. He couldn’t swim back to Hervé’s, not from here. By the time he neared the opposite shore, the water had risen by another inch, he was sure. The boat slowed, too, with all the extra weight. Gil kept rowing. He had another half a mile—three-quarters at the most.

  But the water seemed to rise faster. A large speedboat whizzed by, and its wake threatened to swamp the boat. Gil lost precious time holding on to the gunnels, desperately trying to steady his sinking vessel.

  He avoided a rocky outcrop and headed closer to shore, but the water inside the boat lapped at his bench. He didn’t have a choice. He aimed for the tiny beach in the cove beyond the outcrop. Thirty feet from shore, the boat sank.

  The aluminum vessel drifted down slowly but steadily. Gil tried to swim away but his sneaker snagged on the oarlock. The boat began to drag him under! Gil thrashed furiously. The sneaker yanked loose. But still Gil had trouble keeping himself afloat. His clothes had become waterlogged and weighed him down. Panic mounted. Gil kicked off his sneakers. He peeled off his jacket. Pulled off his pants. He abandoned them to the lake. Coughing and sputtering, his pulse pounding in his ears, he swam to shore.

  Gil stumbled onto the sand and rolled onto his back. He gulped air. His heart thumped in his chest. He needed to calm down, but he also knew he couldn’t rest here for long. Night was falling, the temperature was dropping quickly, his shirt and underwear were soaked through and he was cold. He sat up. The beach fronted a tiny cabin on stilts. The road must be behind it. He stood—a little shaky still, but he could walk the rest of the way. He ran his fingers through his hair. The ring snagged.

  What?

  He untangled it, took it off his finger and stared. The stone was missing. At least two of the prongs were broken.

  No. His chest clenched. No! This couldn’t be.

  He dropped onto all fours and searched the sand. Light was failing, but Gil used the tips of his fingers, touching every square inch in larger and larger concentric circles.

  He didn’t find the stone.

  It had to be here. All this effort, only to lose his final link to Enko?

  He stared at the lake. Maybe it was by the waterline, burie
d under the gently moving sand. He needed to dig. Starting at one end, inch by inch, he sifted the sand along the small shoreline. But his efforts were fruitless. He couldn’t find it anywhere. He went deeper. The sand turned to muck. The bottom sloped rapidly.

  By now the sky had filled with stars, and a light breeze blew in. Gil straightened and shivered, knee-deep in the lake. Somewhere, somewhere in that black water, he had lost the stone—probably when he had yanked off his jeans or struggled out of his jacket.

  “NO!”

  The scream echoed. “No-o-o-o-o.” A second of silence followed the echo’s fade, and a loon cried in the distance. It sounded like maniacal laughter.

  Gil had lost everything. Enko. The garnet. Hervé’s boat. His own clothes. He hugged himself, fresh pain stabbing at his chest, struggled to shore and sank to his knees.

  “No, no, no, no, no.…”

  He curled into a ball and let the sobs overtake him.

  Gil had reached the end of his road. He had no idea how long he spent on the beach, but the cold bit him. He needed to find shelter. Hervé’s house was only a quarter mile away. Gil plodded there, barefoot and shivering. An SUV was parked next to Hervé’s truck. His parents had arrived. He was too numb to care.

  His mother folded her arms around him, but he stood immobile, like a statue.

  Hervé tried to bottle his anger, but it remained palpable. “You sank my chaloupe? You lost my best flashlight?”

  Gil hung his head, staring down at his cut-up feet. “I’ll repay you. I promise.”

  His father looked grim. “I’ll make sure he keeps that promise.”

  They bundled him into the rented car and took him to the hotel across the street from the quincaillerie, where he shared a room with his parents.

  “I’m sorry, Gil,” his mother said. “We have to keep an eye on you.”

  The next few days passed in a blur. Gil’s mind was stuck on the beach, searching for the stone, while they purchased clothes for him and drove to the U.S. consulate in Montreal to get him the necessary paperwork to return home. His parents pressed him with questions, only some of which he was able to answer.

  When he told them how he had lost all his money to Adèle, his father was furious. “You sure you can’t find that girl? We’ll call the police.”