The Land God Gave to Cain (32 page)

I nodded. “It's only twenty miles now,” I said. “Tomorrow or the day after we should know the truth—if the going's good.”

“I hope you're right.” He had turned his head towards me and his craggy, weather-beaten face was set in deep lines. “I sure hope you're right,” he reiterated. “Because my guess is that right now we're lost.” And then he added, “If we have to go casting about in search of this lake, then our bellies are going to feel the pinch. The last two days we've got no fish. The only game we've had is that one goose. Just remember that when it comes to a decision whether to go on or turn back.”

It was cold that night, so cold that I lay shivering on the edge of sleep, and when Laroche stirred and sat up, my eyes were instantly open. There must have been a moon, for the inside of the tent was quite light and I could see him staring at me. And then he crawled quietly out through the flap. I was on the point of following him, but then I realised it was only nature that had called him because of the cold, and a moment later he was back and had lain down in his place on the other side of the tent.

I suppose I slept after that, for the next thing I knew it was morning and Darcy was coaxing the fire into a blaze, and when I crawled out, it was to find the world frozen into stillness and all the lake-shore rimmed with new ice. “And how are you to-day?” Darcy said.

“Fine,” I replied, and it was true; I did feel fine. The air was so clean and fresh it seemed to sparkle.

“A dandy morning like this, we should make good progress.” He put the coffee on, humming tunelessly to himself. And when the others emerged, they, too, seemed affected by the frozen stillness that surrounded our camp. After being battered by the wind for two days, it had a quality of peace about it that was balm to our frayed nerves, and all the tension of the previous night seemed to have vanished away.

The sky turned to palest blue, and as we started out, the sun rose. And it wasn't only the weather that had improved; it was the country, too. We seemed to have left the muskeg behind. Ahead of us, it was all gravel, flat as a pan and full of water; small featureless lakes that ran into one another or were separated only by short portages.

By midday we had covered well over ten miles and all along the horizon there was a black, jagged line of hills. They were only small hills, little more than rock outcrops, but they marked the rim of the gravel pan; and when Darcy asked Laroche whether he remembered this stretch of country, he nodded. But though he stood for a long time looking at the line of little hills, he didn't seem able to recall any particular feature. “All I remember is that I came out of the rock into this flat country and the going was easier for a time.” His voice sounded flat and tired in the windless cold.

“But can't you see something you recognise?” Paule asked.

He shook his head.

“I don't understand,” she cried, and the note of exasperation was back in her voice. “Surely you must have marked the spot where you came out into the flat country here.”

“You seem to forget I was injured,” he said sharply. “Just to keep going was about all I could manage.”

“But you knew you would have to go back and look for my father. You knew it was important to have some landmark to guide you.”

“I tell you I was too ill and exhausted to care.”

She was about to make some comment, but Darcy stopped her. “It doesn't matter,” he said. “Bert's already told us we'll be within about five miles of the lake when we get back into rock country. And if Mackenzie's map was accurate, then the river runs right across our line of march. When we reach it, we've only got to scout along it till we find the falls, and then we're almost there. That shouldn't be difficult.” And he picked up his end of the canoe again and we started forward.

Two hours later we reached the hills. They were covered with a dense growth of conifer, and as we started in, we lost the wide Labrador skies, and the going became rough and difficult. It was all rock outcrops, most of them so steep that there was no question of keeping to a compass course, and we went into camp early at the first lake we came upon.

It was a sombre little stretch of water, and though Darcy and Paule both fished it all the time Laroche and I were making camp, they had no luck, and we went to bed very conscious that if we didn't find Lake of the Lion within the next two days we should be forced to turn back for lack of supplies. There was some talk of abandoning the canoe at this stage, but I don't remember what was decided because I fell asleep in the middle of the discussion.

I had meant to stay awake, for now that we were so close to our objective, I was afraid Laroche might make some desperate attempt to stop us. But though I was too tired to fend off sleep, my senses must have remained alert, for I woke suddenly in the early hours to the certainty that something was wrong and saw that Laroche was no longer in his place beside Paule. I could hear him moving about outside, and for a moment I thought the cold had driven him out as it had the previous night. But his movements were different, and when he didn't immediately return, I leaned forward and peered out through the flap of the tent.

I could see him quite clearly in the moonlight. He was standing over the embers of the fire, shouldering his way into his pack. I opened my mouth to ask him what he was doing, but my voice seemed suddenly to have deserted me. I watched him pick up his axe and fit it into his belt, and then he was gone from my line of vision and I heard his boots on the rocks of the lake shore. The sound gradually faded. I scrambled out of the tent then to see his tall figure moving like a ghost in the moonlight down the far end of the lake.

He was heading south—south, not north—and without stopping to think, I laced up my boots and went after him, moving quickly through the timber. I emerged at the far end of the lake, and from the shelter of the trees watched him climb to the top of a bare outcrop of rock that stood at its southern end. He stood a moment on the very summit of the outcrop, a lone, black, figure against the moon's light, gazing back at our camp and then all round him, as though to get his bearings. Finally he turned and disappeared from sight.

I found my voice then and called to him as I scrambled after him up the steep rock slope of the outcrop. I shouted his name all the time I was climbing, and when I reached the top I hesitated. Clouds were beginning to cover the moon. But I could hear him ploughing his way down through the timber on the far side, and a streak of grey light in the east told me that it would soon be dawn. Without thinking what the clouds might mean in that country, I plunged after him, suddenly determined that he shouldn't escape us, that I'd catch up with him and confront him with the truth, whatever the risk.

It was a stupid thing to do, for I'd no compass, no food, no equipment, nothing but what I was wearing, and the conifer growth was so thick that I could only follow him by ear. This meant pausing every so often to listen and, as a result, he gradually drew away from me, until I lost the sound of his movement entirely. I didn't know what to do then, and I stopped, undecided, in a small clearing. It was almost daylight, the sky was heavy and overcast and a light sprinkle of snow falling, and suddenly I realised that I didn't know my way back. Travelling by sound only I had lost all sense of direction.

I had a moment of sheer panic then and stood screaming Laroche's name at the top of my voice. And then, because there was nothing else I could do, I plunged forward again in the desperate hope of catching up with him. Luck was with me, for not more than a hundred yards farther on I came suddenly out of the timber on to the shores of a small lake, and there was Laroche, skirting the far end of it. I could only just see him, for it was snowing heavily now. “Laroche!” I yelled. “Laroche!”

He stopped abruptly and turned, and then he stood staring back at me in silence. “Laroche! Wait!” I called. He was on the very edge of visibility and I knew, as I started towards him, that he'd only to turn and dive into the bush and I should have lost him for ever.

But instead of trying to escape, he stood quite still, waiting for me. It was only when I was a few yards from him that I saw the dull blade-gleam of the axe gripped in his hand, and I halted with my heart in my mouth, for I'd no weapon with which to defend myself.

II

That bleak little lake with the snow falling softly—it might have been the lake where he'd tried to kill the others. My knees were trembling as I stood there, facing him; there was only a few yards between us and I thought that this was how it had been before, when he'd had the brainstorm, with him standing so still and the axe gripped in his hand, and all my body was tense, waiting for the attack.

But instead, his gaze went past me, down along the edge of the lake. “Where are the others?” he asked. “Are they following, too?”

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

His dark eyes came back to me. “Just you—alone?” And when I nodded, he seemed to relax. “I guess you saw me leave the camp, eh?” He swore softly to himself, using the Canuk word “Tabernac!” “I thought I'd slipped away without any of you seeing.” And then he added, “Well, you'd better go back to them now.”

It was my chance to escape. I started to edge away from him, and then I stopped. “But I don't know …” The words died in my throat, for I didn't dare admit that I was lost. Once he knew that … My body was suddenly still with fear, a fear that was greater than any fear of him.

“Try and persuade Paule and Ray to wait there for me,” he went on, his voice still reasonable, his gaze fixed now on the far end of the lake. “I'll be about two days,” he added.

I stared at him, puzzled by his manner. He seemed so sane. And yet … “Where are you going?” I demanded.

“That's my business,” he answered sharply.

And then, suddenly reckless, because anything was better than being left to die of cold and starvation: “You ran out on him when he was still alive, scared at what had happened. Isn't that the truth?”

He was staring at me, his dark eyes wide in their shadowed sockets. And then suddenly his gaze shifted to the ground. “You're so damned logical, aren't you?” It was said without any trace of hostility. And then he murmured, “Well, it's true—in a way. I was scared. I was certain Baird was dead, and there seemed nothing else …” His voice trailed away as though at some ghastly recollection. And after a moment, he lifted his head and looked straight at me again. “If I told you history had repeated itself there at that lake, then you'd think I'd gone mad, wouldn't you?”

“How do you mean?” My throat was suddenly dry.

He stared at me a moment longer and then he shook his head. “No, it's no good,” he murmured. “I guess you can only see it the one way. I knew what you were thinking that first day at Seven Islands.
Mon Dieu!
” His voice was no more than a whisper. “Why did it have to be you? Queer, isn't it?” He gave a little, nervous laugh. “If I told you …” But he stopped there and shook his head again. “No, you'd twist it round in your mind. But I'll tell you this much—that Indian was right. It's a bad place.”

“Then it
was
Lake of the Lion?”

“Sure it was Lake of the Lion.” He was still looking at me and his lips were drawn back from the even line of his teeth in that same wry little smile. “Yeah,” he said. “The place where my grandfather killed yours.” And he added, “The body's still there. A heap of bones—that's all that's left of James Finlay Ferguson, and there's a hole drilled in the skull where the bullet struck him. In the back of the skull. Pierre Laroche must have come up behind him and shot him in cold blood. The forehead's all splintered.” His eyes stared at me unblinkingly a moment, and then: “It's not a pretty thing,” he muttered, “to discover that your grandfather is a murderer.” His tone was suddenly bitter.

The fascination that old tragedy had for him, his bitterness—if I had needed to be convinced, this would have convinced me. It was the sight of my grandfather's remains, the evidence of his own grandfather's guilt that had unhinged his mind. “And what happened—afterwards?” I heard myself ask, and my voice shook slightly. “What happened then between you and Briffe?”

But he shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “I'm not telling you that. Or what happened to Baird.” He hesitated, and then he added, “But you can come and see it for yourself, if you want to.”

“You mean now?”

He nodded.

“You're going to Lake of the Lion?”

“But of course.” He said it impatiently. “Where else did you think I was going?”

And I stared at him, the skin crawling on my scalp. It was incredible—quite horrible. He was going back to the scene of the tragedy. Why? To gloat? Or was it the murderer's subconscious fascination for his crime? Whatever it was, I knew now he was mad and my voice trembled as I said, “But you're going south.” Fact—anything to keep him to facts.

“South—yes.” He nodded. “I have to pick up my route out.”

“But you told us that was to the north.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “What does it matter what I told you?” And then he added, “If you come with me, you can see for yourself what happened to Baird. Then maybe you'll believe me.”

But I knew I could never believe anything he said, now or in the future, for his mind seemed so confused. Perhaps, to him there was no truth any more. “You said Baird was injured in the crash,” I whispered. “You told me they were both injured in the crash.”

But he shook his head. “No,” he said. “Nobody was injured in the crash.” And then he suddenly smiled with that touch of boyish charm that I had found so frightening before. “You mustn't think, because I told you they were injured in the crash, that it was so. I had to tell you that, because I didn't want you to pursue your inquiries.” It was said with such an appalling candour that I felt almost sick. And then he said, “Well, are you going to come on with me or are you going back to join the others?”