Ghosts of James Bay (14 page)

The battle wasn't going to last long. I doubted if anyone could have kept up the violence of the attack or the desperation of the defence for long. There were only a few of the defenders still on their feet.

I was almost beginning to breath normally again when a figure detached itself from the throng. It was the wounded leader. Despite having only one usable arm, he must have fought ferociously to have survived this long. Now he was heading toward us, his body covered in blood and his eyes wild with hate. I glanced over, but the spear had landed too far away. The man was heading straight for me, bloody club raised. He was determined to exact revenge for the wound I had inflicted on him.

The only thing I could think of in the few seconds it took him to cover the distance was to try to jump aside at the last minute and then run as fast as I could. It wasn't a very good
plan and, fortunately, I didn't have to put it into practice. The charging man was almost on me when he appeared to shudder. As if by magic, a long arrow appeared in his neck, the point on one side, the feathered shaft on the other. He probably died instantly, but his momentum carried him onward. I was so surprised that I completely forgot my plan and his body cannoned into me. I was thrown backward against the rock and my head hit with a blinding pain. Then I was on the ground feeling far away. The noise of the battle, the weight of the dead warrior on my legs, even the ground beneath me were receding rapidly. Everything was feeling less real, as if it were drifting away. Through the fog of my pain I heard a distant voice—Jack's.

“Al! Al! I think you are returning home. I will miss you. But I will always be by this rock to talk to you. Farewell.”

It was a great victory. One that would be talked about proudly by the warrior's grandchildren's grandchildren. Every one of the hated
Iri-akhoiw
was dead. It would be many seasons before they dared venture this far into the warrior's territory again. The fools had been so intent on their dance that it had been easy for the warrior to sneak, unnoticed, around the stockade and open the gate.

The battle had been violent but short. Two of the warrior's people were dead and several others, including the
okimah,
were wounded, but that was a fair price. The dead would be mourned with honour and the wounded would recover in time, although the
okimah's
arm was so badly smashed by a club that the warrior doubted it would ever be much use again.

The only thing that bothered the warrior was what had happened to the boy who had led him over the rock. The other had been found, wounded in the thigh and thin, but otherwise
all right. He had been standing, dazed, at the foot of the rock. Of the other boy there was no sign. The warrior had searched, fearing he had been killed and that his body was lying in some dark corner, but he was not within the stockade. It was a mystery. To leave, the boy would either have had to pass through the battle or climb back over the rock. Both would be difficult, and the warrior could see no reason why the boy should want to run away. The warrior had made a special effort to do the boy no harm and to avoid frightening him. And the boy had smiled at him on the rock. It made no sense. Could it be that this stranger, who was different even from the hairy-faced one's band, was not human? Was he a trick of the spirits, sent to guide the warrior and his people to this great victory? He was like no spirit the warrior had ever seen before, but then who could possibly know all the ways and forms of the spirits?

The warrior shook his head in confusion. These were certainly strange times. The warrior looked over at the other boy standing amid the carnage. He looked frail and scared, and yet he was important. The warrior sensed that. The world was different now than it had been only a year ago before the strangers had come. In what way different and how this would all change in the future, the warrior had no way of knowing, but he was certain his world would never be the same again and that this boy was a part of the change. The
okimah
and the others would laugh at him if he tried to explain his feelings, but he was convinced of them nonetheless. The boy was important and something would have to be done with him. But what? At least there was some time.

The warrior let his gaze wander over the scene in the stockade. His companions were busy collecting their booty and dispatching any
Iri-akhoiw
who still showed a flicker of life. It would be a glorious homecoming, and the feasting and dancing would go on for days. Time enough then to think over
the mysteries of the past weeks. Walking over to the boy, the warrior put a hand on his shoulder and said some reassuring words. Then, gently, he led the limping, frightened figure through the chaos of the stockade and into the darkness.

Al! Al! The voice kept echoing in my head. I recognized it, but I couldn't remember who it belonged to. My head hurt. In fact, my entire body ached. Painfully, slowly, I opened my eyes. I was lying at the foot of the rock where I had fallen. But much had changed. It was no longer night and the stockade, the battle, my attacker, and Jack had all vanished. Instead the sun shone high in the sky and my dad was standing over me, a look of concern on his face.

“Al, what's wrong? Are you all right? Where have you been?”

Shaking my head, as much at the barrage of questions as in an attempt to clear it, I struggled to sit up. Dad helped to prop me against the rock. Carefully I reached up and felt the back of my head. There was no blood, but there was a large, painful lump. Needing time to collect my confused thoughts, I took refuge in questions of my own. “What time is it? How long have I been out?”

“It's twelve o'clock,” Dad replied, glancing at his watch. “I
was just going to start making some lunch. I looked over and saw you lying here. You can't have been out long because I've been looking for you all over. What were you doing gallivanting off in the canoe and leaving me to pack up?” He paused. “But to be honest, I was getting worried, too. I was beginning to think something had happened. Obviously something did. What was it?”

I smiled involuntarily. It was so good to hear Dad's voice again, and I had been treated to more words than he often said in a whole day. And it was the same day I had left. I had only been gone a few hours. That made it easier.

Oddly the idea of telling the truth about my experiences never crossed my mind, perhaps because I had no answers to what had happened and, in any case, even I was a little unsure of the reality of it. Certainly it had seemed real and vivid when I was there, but a sense of the impossibility of it was growing rapidly in my mind now that I was back. I needed time to think things through, so a simple explanation would have to serve for now.

“I went out in the canoe before you woke up,” I began slowly, thinking as I went. “I just wanted to be on my own for a while. I kind of hoped you would make breakfast while I was away, but I intended to come back in time to pack up. I guess I was preoccupied. Anyway, I drifted too far up the coast. This fog bank rolled in and got me all disoriented. I made it to the shore, but I put a rock through the canoe and had to walk back. I don't remember, but I must have slipped and hit my head coming around the rock.”

The last bit sounded weak, but Dad didn't appear to notice. “Yeah,” he said after a pause, pointing at my legs, which were covered with scratches and blossoming bruises, “you do look a bit beat-up. Do you feel okay?”

“Yes,” I replied. “My head hurts, but it's just a bump and
the rest are just cuts and scratches. Some of that bush is hard to get through.”

Dad nodded thoughtfully. “Well, look,” he said eventually, “we're just about packed up, and the floatplane won't be here for an hour yet. You sit here and rest for a bit. I'll make us some tea.”

“Sounds good,” I said, relieved that I would have a bit of time with my thoughts. Dad moved back over to the camp stove and fired it up.

So what had really happened? I had gotten lost in some mysterious fog, travelled back in time four hundred years, met Henry Hudson, got mixed up in a local war, spent two days there, and got home in time for lunch. My instinct to say nothing about it had been right. That kind of explanation would land me in a psychiatrist's office before I could say Jack Hudson. But there had to be an explanation. Either it was some kind of complex dream or hallucination or...

Then I thought of something. Looking down at the index finger of my right hand, I saw an angry red line. It was one cut among many on my aching body, but I knew how I had received this one—on the arrowhead in the pouch that Jack Hudson wore.

I shuddered. Somehow, against everything that made any kind of sense, it had happened.

Watching Dad work, I let the warm sunlight soak into my body and thought back over everything. The excitement, the fear, the hunger—all had been real. And Jack. My friend. His last words came back to me: I
will always be by this rock to talk to you
. What had he meant? Instinctively I looked around, but there was no quaintly dressed boy standing beside me.

I shook my head again. No explanation fitted everything. The intellectual part of my mind rebelled at what I knew to be true. I had travelled in time. I was sure, but no one else would be. The coin proved nothing. I would have to keep this
awesome secret for the rest of my days.

Then my stunned gaze fell on the disturbed ground where we had dug up the coin last season. A wild idea struck me with the force of a bullet. When I climbed the rock to escape the stockade, the ground had been almost a metre lower than it was now. That was where anything from Henry Hudson's time would be. So how could the coin have been on the surface? Then I remembered something Dad had told me about archaeology.

“One of the problems we have,” he had said, “is that things move in the ground. Freezing and thawing every season, plant-root action, water-table changes, even the tiny movements of surface rocks, all have an effect. Hard objects, like arrowheads and musket balls, tend to migrate upward. In northern France, for example, unexploded shells and human bones from World War I, which were originally buried deep in the ground, are still showing up every spring on the surface of farmers' fields. Special bomb-disposal units drive the roads in ploughing season, picking up piles of these artifacts. Occasionally one will go off and injure or kill a farmer. Of course, the ploughing of the fields each year speeds up the process, but it does occur more slowly wherever there is any disturbance of the soil.”

If that applied to an old shell or a human bone, then it could apply to a gold coin. Last season we'd only dug down thirty centimetres below the coin. We didn't go deep enough. Gingerly I got to my feet and shuffled over to where Dad was bent over the stove.

“Hi,” he said, turning around. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Have you packed all the trowels?”

“Yes, but they're just in that box over there. Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” I said as casually as possible. “Just an idea.”

“Okay, but don't go wandering off again. I'm making us some soup.”

Quickly I picked out a trowel and returned to the rock. Dad watched me oddly as I began to dig, but he soon went back to his cooking. The ground was easy to dig through— mostly sand and small rocks, laced with a network of fine root hairs. It only took me a few minutes to get down as far as we had last year. Then the going got harder, but I still made good time. I wasn't using archaeological techniques, painstakingly checking each layer and sieving it, but then I knew where I was going.

After about ten minutes, I was down about as far as my arm could stretch. It wasn't a metre, but if I wanted to go deeper, I would have to dig a much larger hole. Then I saw it—a black line in the soil about five centimetres long. Carefully I lifted it out. It was a piece of leather strap. Jack's last words came flooding back to me. I knew what this strap was from.

I also knew I should call Dad over. This could be incredibly important, and I wasn't an archaeologist. My crude diggings could destroy valuable information. But this was mine. If what had happened was true, then this was a message to me. I had to find it.

As carefully as possible, I continued scraping the earth away. Other fragments of leather turned up. They were unrecognizable as anything definite, but I placed them carefully to one side. Then I found it. It was a rectangular package wrapped in heavy, oily, canvaslike material. It was brittle, but appeared in remarkable condition.

Not daring to breathe, I unwrapped the package. It was what I had thought—Henry Hudson's journal, which I had last come across as I searched for the arrowhead in Jack's leather pouch. My hands shook violently as I looked at the book and realized what it meant. Henry Hudson's story would be told at last.

With tears in my eyes I opened the book and peered at the ancient pages. There were words scrawled in a spidery hand by Henry Hudson himself. And what a story of horror and disaster they told. In here was Hudson's version of the mutiny and the answer to what had happened to the boat after it had been cast adrift. Also, somewhere in these pages was the story of the dying sailor from the
Jonathan
—the proof my father needed. The gaps I could fill in.