Gil Marsh Read online

  “Do you know how many Québécois are called Adèle?”

  His father fumed, but his mother calmed him.

  “Let Gil pull himself together first.”

  The next morning, over breakfast, his mother told him she had spoken to Enko’s mother.

  “She told you where to find Enko’s grave,” Gil said.

  Mom nodded.

  Gil put down his fork. His stomach fluttered angrily. “Will you take me?” His voice cracked.

  “Your paperwork will be ready this afternoon,” his father said. It sounded like a discouraging warning.

  His mother glanced at his father. “We should be able to make it there and back.”

  They left his father in the hotel room, hard at work on his laptop, and rode to Laval, the island to the north of Montreal. Gil cried again when he saw the plot. Someone had planted a bush near the headstone. His mother had bought flowers, and she laid them across the grave.

  She put a hand on Gil’s shoulder. “I’ll be in the car.”

  Gil waited until he heard her door shut. Then he crouched at the foot of the grave and dug a narrow hole in the damp earth with his fingers. He took off the silver band with its broken prongs, thrust it in as deep as it would go and covered the hole once again.

  “It belongs here,” he said, “with you. In Quebec.” He wiped his fingers on his sweatpants and stood, breathing deeply. “You come from a beautiful land. I only wish … I only wish you were here to show me around.” He couldn’t say anything more.

  His mother was quiet when he finally returned to the car. On the highway, he watched the passing suburban sprawl and cityscape—office buildings, warehouses, parking lots, malls, overpasses, billboards, apartment houses, a domed church on a hill. Yet there were no people—none visible anyway. Although every square inch had been touched by human hands, it felt empty. The loneliness overwhelmed him.

  People began dotting the sidewalks when they reached downtown.

  Mom spoke up. “We have time for lunch.”

  Gil thought for a moment. “I know a place.”

  The Apropoulis bustled as much as ever. Richeline winked at Gil. He gave her a sheepish smile. She led them to a booth.

  “How about here?”

  Mom scanned the plastic menu after they sat down.

  “A Greek diner?” she whispered. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  The food was as good as Gil remembered. Halfway through their meal, a large man walked in. Gil didn’t recognize Maurice at first: he wore pressed slacks, a long-sleeve shirt and a tie, and his hair had been combed neatly about his face. But Maurice recognized Gil and waved. Gil waved back. He introduced him to his mother, who said hello—politely, but without warmth.

  “The last time I saw Adèle,” Maurice said, “she told me you went north.”

  Gil didn’t want to talk about this. Not now.

  But his mother had caught the name. “You know Adèle?”

  “Yes. She’s an old friend, I’m sorry to say.”

  Sorry? Gil stared in surprise.

  Mom saw her opening. “Do you know how to find her?”

  Maurice looked pained. “I wish I could. She disappeared a few days ago.”

  “Disappeared?” Gil asked.

  “Her apartment is empty. No one knows where she went. I’m pretty sure she skipped town.”

  “What makes you say that?” Mom asked.

  “She owed money to too many people,” Maurice replied. “Including me.”

  So that was what they had argued over. A lot of things made sense to Gil now.

  “Could she have gone back to where you grew up?” he asked.

  “Marieville? Not likely. She doesn’t have any family there, not anymore. Her mother died a few years ago, and she never had a father.”

  Mom frowned. “Too bad.”

  “She took money from you, too?” Maurice asked.

  “Almost all of it,” Gil said.

  “I am sorry. I tried to warn you.”

  “Yes. You did.”

  Maurice’s eyes strayed to Gil’s hand. “Did she steal the ring, too?”

  Gil hesitated before answering. This was still too raw. “No.” He swallowed. “It … it broke.…” He looked down at his plate.

  “That is too bad,” Maurice said. “I know it meant something to you.”

  “It’s okay,” Gil said, trying to recover. “It was just a stone set in poor silver.”

  He was parroting Miller’s words. Sounding brave. Wouldn’t do to break down in the middle of the lunch rush.

  But somehow, the words did make him feel better. Even if only a little.

  Mom seemed to have warmed to Maurice, now that she knew that he also held a grudge against Adèle. “Would you like to join us for lunch?” she asked.

  “No. Thank you. I’m just picking up coffee. I teach a class in forty-five minutes.”

  “You’re a professor?” she asked.

  “Not yet. An assistant. I study engineering.”

  At least Adèle hadn’t lied about that. Gil wished him luck with his class.

  “And better luck to you,” Maurice replied.

  The check listed only Mom’s chef’s salad.

  “There’s a mistake,” she told Gil.

  “I don’t think so. Just give them a big tip.”

  His mother stared at him, then nodded. When they went to pay the bill, Renée stepped out from behind the counter and gave Gil a motherly hug.

  “He is a good boy, this one.”

  Gil blushed. Mom seemed surprised but nodded. Tony waved from the back.

  “Come again!”

  Gil started his senior year a week late. He didn’t try out for any sports, but he resumed his daily runs up Overhang Rock. He spent afternoons working at a pharmacy, and every two weeks he mailed his paycheck to Hervé.

  That fall was mild. The weather didn’t turn cold until late in December, and even then, Gil could run with a sweatshirt. The knee he had beaten up so badly in Quebec had not only healed, it was stronger than ever.

  Early one Saturday morning, he climbed to the top of the Rock, ready to greet the sun. His welcomes were muted now, but he figured someone should give the sunrise its due. A police cruiser was parked next to the war memorial. He ignored it. He stretched his arms up, extended his hands and brought them back down—to any observer, just a loosening stretch.

  “Where’s your partner?” the officer said.

  She stood behind him. She must have been walking around the top. He turned around.

  She held a paper coffee cup, her hands wrapped around the heat it generated.

  “He’s dead,” Gil said.

  “I’m sorry,” the officer said. After an awkward moment she added, “Glad to see you’re still running, though.”

  Gil gave her a small smile. “Thanks.”

  And as he headed back down the Rock, he realized how much her words had warmed him.

  By the time he returned home, he was sweating despite the cold air. He felt alive. More alive than he had felt in months. In the shower, he vowed that someday he’d return to Quebec. He’d find a way to get a job. And he’d help Hervé float the white chaloupe in his barn.

  The French used in Quebec differs from the French spoken in France. It has its own accent, slang and turns of phrase. Some common words are different. I have translated the French words and phrases found in the novel as they would be understood by the Quebec residents using them. I have also included some English Canadian idioms.

  absolument: Absolutely.

  Ah non! Oh no!

  américain: American.

  anglo: Someone who speaks English. (A minority in Quebec.)

  ben oui: Of course. (A contraction of bien oui.)

  ben sûr: Definitely. (A contraction of bien sûr.)

  bibliothèque: Library.

  Bienvenu au Québec: Welcome to Quebec.

  bon: Good.

  bon Dieu: Good Lord (“good God”).


  bonjour: Hello.

  Bouge pas! Don’t move! (A contraction of Ne bouge pas.)

  bûcheron: Lumberjack.

  café: Coffee.

  casse-croûte: Fast-food restaurant.

  Ce n’est pas sérieux: It’s not serious.

  C’est qui, ça? Who is this?

  chaloupe: An open boat, usually with benches, oar locks, a pointed prow and a square stern. It can range from very small, holding one or two people, to very large, capable of carrying heavy cargo and many people.

  cimetières: Cemeteries.

  cultivateur: Farmer.

  décembre: December.

  dépanneur: Convenience store.

  De rien: You’re welcome (“for nothing”).

  douze et cinquante: Twelve-fifty (twelve dollars and fifty cents).

  draveur: Log driver. (A lumberjack who works on log drives over lakes and rivers in the spring.)

  eh oui: Ah yes.

  et: And.

  étudiant: Student.

  Fais ’tention! Pay attention!; Be careful! (A contraction of Fais attention!)

  forgeron: Blacksmith.

  frites: French fries.

  grenat: Garnet.

  Je peux t’aider: I can help you.

  Je peux t’aider? Can I help you?

  Je peux vous aider? Can I help you? (formal or plural).

  jeune: Kid (“young”).

  Laurentides: Laurentian Mountains. A range in Quebec spanning northeast, to the north of the Ottawa and St. Lawrence Rivers. It is one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world.

  le, la, l’: The. (Le is masculine. La is feminine. L’ is used before a vowel.)

  librairie: Bookstore.

  loonie: Coin worth one Canadian dollar. The coin has a loon on one side, giving it its name.

  mais: But.

  mais oui: But of course (“but yes”).

  mécanicien: Mechanic.

  médecin: Doctor.

  mémento: Keepsake; souvenir.

  merci: Thank you.

  monsieur: Sir.

  non: No.

  occupations régionales: Regional professions.

  oui: Yes.

  pardon: I’m sorry; excuse me.

  peut-être: Maybe.

  plus tard: Later.

  poutine: A dish usually made of french fries, cheese curds and gravy. There are many variations.

  privé: Private.

  Québécois: Someone or something from Quebec.

  Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici? What are you doing here?

  Qu’est-c’est ça? What is this? (A contraction of Qu’est-ce que c’est que cela?)

  Qui es-tu? Who are you?

  quincaillerie: Hardware store.

  scientifique: Scientific.

  stade: Stadium.

  toonie: Coin worth two Canadian dollars.

  Tu reviens? Will you come back?

  un, une: One; a/an. (Un is masculine. Une is feminine.)

  un autre: Another one.

  Université de Montréal: University of Montreal. It is the second-largest university in Canada and offers higher education in French.

  Université Laval: Laval University. Located in Quebec City, it is the oldest university in Canada and was the first in North America to offer higher education in French.

  Un peu. Juste un peu: A little. Only a little.

  viens: Come along.

  Voilà! There!

  voyageur: A crew member on one of the large canoes that transported fur pelts across a wide swath of North America during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Literally, “traveler.” Most voyageurs were French Canadian.

  voyons: Come on now (“look”).

  Thousands of years ago, a man named Gilgamesh ruled over Uruk, a Sumerian city-state in ancient Mesopotamia. Over time, legends about him grew, and more than three thousand years ago these were turned into an epic, written on twelve cuneiform tablets. Filled with gods, beasts, monsters, people from all walks of life, extraordinary deeds and wondrous settings, the epic told the very human story of a man who lost his best friend and had to confront his own mortality.

  Gilgamesh, according to the tale, was a demigod and king. Enkidu was a man who lived with beasts. Yet they became inseparable. After many adventures they angered the gods, and Enkidu died. Gilgamesh, crazed by the loss of his beloved friend, went on a quest to secure immortality. He sought out Utnapishtim, who became immortal after he saved people and animals from a worldwide flood by building an ark. Though Gilgamesh tracked down Utnapishtim, he did not become immortal. He returned to Uruk defeated, but in the process, he became a better person and king.

  Although Gil’s story is not the same as Gilgamesh’s, I kept to the epic’s basic structure. I set Gil’s quest in Quebec, a beautiful province with as much wilderness as Sumer ever had, filled with people as diverse as those in the Gilgamesh epic.

  Although the settings in the novel are based on actual places, I have fictionalized them a great deal. Overhang Rock is similar to but distinctly different from East Rock in New Haven, Connecticut; I have moved buildings and paths around Mount Royal in Montreal; you will not find the Apropoulis nor Adèle’s apartment in Montreal, although there are many buildings that might fit their description; and there is no town called Le Gros-Curé or lake called Lac de Couleurs in the Laurentians, though there are villages and lakes that resemble both.

  I invented the legend of Antoine and Clotilde. However, garnet was once mined in the Laurentians, and for a long time lumber camps were ubiquitous.

  I thank Gilbert Cholette of the Société d’Histoire de Chute aux Iroquois (Historical Society of Chute aux Iroquois) for the time he spent with me discussing the history of the Labelle region in Quebec, and for his detailed history of garnet mining in L’exploitation minière à Labelle: Le grenat, Le graphite. He introduced me to Madeleine Perreault-Cholette, author of Labelle—La vallée de la Rouge—Tremblant, which provides a delightful and useful history of the area. I would also like to thank the librarian at the Labelle public library who helped me find the historical information I needed, but whose name I am ashamed to say I did not write down.

  Among my many early readers, I wish to thank Jed Backus and Sanna Stanley, who were willing to pick up the manuscript more than once and give me great feedback within a ridiculously short period of time. And I am immensely grateful to my daughters and husband, who read, gave feedback and set me straight on too many details and plot points to recount. (You could have said no. Really.)

  My task was made immeasurably easier thanks to the advice and support I received from the talented members of Write Up Our Alley (Kate Duke, Deborah Freedman, Kay Kudlinski, M. W. Penn, Sanna Stanley, Leigh Ann Tyson and Cat Urbain), the folks at the Shoreline Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, and my friends and family.

  Special thanks go to my agent, Rachel Orr, whose guidance was invaluable; to the hardworking copy editors at Random House, who kept me on my toes; and to R. Schuyler Hooke, editor extraordinaire, who deserves several gold stars (not to mention a raise) for this one.

  has been telling and writing stories since childhood. Gil Marsh is her first novel for young adults. Her previous middle-grade novels are No Castles Here, an ALA Rainbow List Selection, and Come Fall, a CCBC Choices Book. Born and raised in Montreal, she spends most of the year in New England and much of the summer on a lake in Quebec. To learn more about A. C. E. Bauer and her writing, visit her website at acebauer.com.