Ghosts of James Bay

GHOSTS OF JAMES BAY

John Wilson

Copyright © John Wilson, 2009
Originally published by Beach Holme Publishing in 2001.
Third printing

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

Editor: Michael Carroll

Cover and interior design and production: Jen Hamilton

Cover art by Doug Sandland

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Wilson, John (John Alexander), 1951–

Ghosts of James Bay / John Wilson.

ISBN 978-1-55002-827-0

1. Hudson, Henry, d. 1611—Juvenile fiction. I.Title.

PS8595.15834G56 2009             jC813'.54                C2009-900820-3

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through the
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through the
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and the
Ontario Media Development Corporation.

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For Sue and Allan

The surface of James Bay in Northern Ontario was cold and calm the morning I disappeared. As the canoe glided along, the glassy water hardly made a sound against its hull. The rocky, tree-lined shore was only a few hundred metres away, but I could barely see it through the shroud of mist rising around me. From a hidden lake over the trees, a solitary loon cried mournfully as it patrolled its territory. The dawn sun, which had lured me out onto the water, was now only a pale disk in the bank of thicker fog rolling toward me.

That fog should have been my warning. I knew the dangers. It was September, Labour Day weekend, and the weather could change quickly and dramatically. A wind could rise from nowhere, creating choppy waves that would swamp the canoe or force me onto the shore. Fog could roll in and make me lose all sense of direction. I might paddle aimlessly for hours as the cold ate at me and hypothermia drew me into its shivering clutches. As soon as I saw the fog, I should have turned back to the camp where my father would be waking
up, building a fire, and cooking breakfast.

My name is Al Lister, and this was my dad's and my last day in camp and my final chance to go out in the canoe. I love canoeing. When I'm out in the wilderness with Dad, I go off in the canoe at every opportunity. On some remote lake I can lose myself in the water, the air, and the coastline drifting by. Sometimes I feel this is what it must have been like hundreds of years ago. I can almost imagine a crew of voyageurs with a load of furs paddling in front of me, or a wildly painted Iroquois raiding party slipping through the trees at my back. Of course, now the voyageurs have powerboats and the Iroquois have all-terrain vehicles, but it's nice to dream occasionally and the past offers lots of unthreatening possibilities. Then there's my father.

My dad is strange. It isn't that I don't love him or that he doesn't love me; it's just that he's sometimes a difficult person to live with. At times it's as if he comes from a different planet. Dad is so intense that I sometimes need to get away on my own, and the canoe is ideal for that. And I'm not the only person who needs to escape from Dad occasionally. Mom found him so odd that she eventually had to move us both out last year.

That was tough, having two homes, but it wasn't unusual among my buddies, and I probably ended up seeing more of both my parents when they started living apart. Maybe they both felt so guilty about the effect their split would have on me that they went overboard whenever it was their turn to see me. They were always taking me out to eat or renting a movie so we could have time together. It got so I couldn't even look at a burger, and I could have written one of those fat books that give a star rating to every movie ever made.

Anyway, one of the weirdest things Dad ever did happened when he and Mom were still together. Mom had just invited a few friends around. They were talking after dinner, and Dad
was silently dreaming.

We were in the loft of our A-frame house, which is where we ate when company came because the best views over the Ottawa Valley were from there. Beside us there was a railing and a five-metre drop to the living area. I was half listening to Mom and her friends discuss the latest movies and books when Dad got up, went over to the railing, and peered into the living room. No one paid much attention; we all knew Dad. The first thing I noticed was the conversation dying around me and people looking over at the railing. I turned just in time to see Dad step over the railing and begin climbing down the wall. He had the funny, almost apologetic half smile on his face that he wore when he was doing something even he realized was a little bizarre. We all moved to the railing to see what was going on.

Dad is a rock climber. On hikes or walks he's always going off and scaling rock outcrops. For him it's an intellectual exercise—can he think his way up the challenge presented by a cliff? Dad has taught me and I've become pretty good, but I don't have his fanaticism, and I've never attempted a descent of the north face of our living room.

By the time we looked over, Dad was a third of the way down. He was holding on to the base of the railing and had his left foot on some moulding that ran across the wall. I could see his route. He had to get his right foot over and down onto the edge of the brick facing around the fireplace, then it would be easy. The only problem was that it was a long, awkward stretch. To do it he would have to reach first with his right hand and grasp the peg that protruded from the wall at shoulder level about a metre away. The peg had supported a large metal abstract sculpture, which had been taken down because Mom was planning on redecorating the room. It was the only possible handhold on the otherwise smooth wall.

Silently we watched as Dad reached out and grabbed the peg. At full stretch he tested it for strength. It seemed okay; the sculpture was a heavy one. Slowly Dad transferred his weight and stretched down for the foothold. At exactly the point where he had to commit the bulk of his weight to the peg and had no chance of recovering his hold on the railing, the peg came out of the wall. I guess he was heavier than the sculpture. In any case, for a fraction of a second Dad was in an impossible position, defying gravity. Then, with a slightly puzzled expression on his face, he peeled off the wall and fell to the floor.

Even up on the balcony we heard the crack as Dad's arm snapped beneath him. He had tried to turn on the way down but had only half managed it. For a moment there was silence. Then one of the guests asked, “Are you okay?”

It was a dumb question really—we all knew a bone had broken somewhere—but someone had to ask it. It was only later that I thought it should have been Mom who asked it.

Dumb question or not, as Dad rolled onto his good side, he replied with his longest sentence of the entire evening: “Yes, but I think I might have broken my arm.”

We took him to the hospital where they put a cast on his arm and sent us home. Mom wasn't happy. “What on earth did you think you were doing?”

“Climbing down the wall,” he said. One of Dad's annoying habits is answering a question literally. It used to drive Mom crazy.

“In the middle of a dinner party,” she said in a voice noticeably higher than before, “you decide, out of the blue, to climb down the living-room wall? This is not normal behaviour!”

Dad looked thoughtful for a moment. “I should have tested that peg more and not made assumptions. Assumptions can kill you. It was a good reach, though.”

Mom groaned in hopeless frustration. To her it had been an insane, stupid, dangerous thing to do, and she had been proved right. To Dad it had been an interesting technical problem that had popped into his mind, and the only way to solve it was to do it. He had miscalculated, but that didn't negate the fact that the underlying exercise was worthwhile. This was the pattern with Mom and Dad for a long time before they split. Sometimes they seemed to inhabit completely different worlds, and I had to live in them both. Often it was difficult.

When I went out in the canoe that morning, I wanted to be on my own for a while and get a bit of peace and quiet before the return to the stresses of school and the city. The floatplane was due in after lunch to begin moving our supplies and Dad's discoveries back to Matagami and the road south, and I had to help pack up the camp. An hour in the canoe would help me centre myself and make the transition smoother. I didn't want to cut my last canoe trip short, so I ignored the fog. And I was glad I did. If I had turned around, life would have been simple, comfortable, and safe instead of confused, exhausting, and scary. But then I would never have met Jack and the others, or had the adventure of a lifetime.

The warrior crouched among the trees, watching. The canoe, the largest he had ever seen, sat in the bay. It was held fast by the ice, but lines of open water snaked across the view, indicating that breakup was close. The long sticks that grew from the canoe lay over at an angle. Soon, as the birds returned to the open water, the ice would melt enough for the strangers to put the white wings back on the sticks and the canoe would leave. The white wings were one of the marvels of these people
that the warrior did not understand. They allowed the canoe to move through the water on the wind and meant that no one had to paddle such an unwieldy craft.