The Book of Dreams (52 page)

Though I hold these hunters and trappers in great esteem, for their bravery and resourcefulness knows no bounds, at the same time I cannot but be horrified at the ceaseless slaughter of wild animals. All summer long, brigades of boats and canoes arrive deep-laden with the skins and pelts of countless creatures. Surely this is greed beyond all necessity and comprehension.

“Oh I do like him so much,” Dana murmured. “My dear great-great-granddaddy.”

After their meal, the two walked to the outskirts of Creemore and stopped on a bridge that spanned the Mad River. The water was shallow, trickling slowly over a stony bottom. Trees lined the shore.

“The river got its name from one of the earliest settlers,” she told him, remembering a story of her grand-mother’s. “Bridget Dowling was one of those tough Irish pioneers. She settled north of here with her husband and loads of kids. One day she was coming back from the mill with a sack of flour on her back and a baby in her arms and she had to ford the river. It was wild and rushing. She said later she almost drowned in ‘that mad river,’ and that’s what everyone has called it ever since.”

Jean smiled at the tale. “You are part of here,
n’estce pas
?” he commented. “You know all the story. This is what the Old Man say, I think.”

She gazed into the waters below. “Funny thing. I always thought of myself as Irish, and I used to think of my family here as Irish too. But the Book of Dreams makes me see I really am part of Canada as well.”

They were standing close together, leaning over the bridge. Well out of sight of anyone, Jean put his arm around her and gave her a long kiss.

“That’s the hello I don’t get at the bus.”

She laughed. Everything around her seemed suddenly brighter.

“I missed you,” she said, “even though it was only a day.”

“Do you tell your
grand-mère
I come?”

“I didn’t get the chance. I …,” she winced at the steady look he gave her and was driven to confess, “I chickened out.”

“
C’est
okay,” he laughed. “I go home as wolf.”

They found a place to sit by the river and returned to Thomas’s journal.

July 2, 1850. Eight years have passed since I last saw my family and today I am restored to them. It is to my shame and sorrow that I have not returned until this sad occasion, the untimely death of my beloved mother. Father is broken-hearted and so too are my brothers and my dear sister. Despite Mother’s goodly forbearance, I fear the hardship of life on a bush farm was too much for that brave woman. Father knew this too and I believe that is the reason he moved the family earlier in the year to the new settlement of Creemore. Alas, the move came too late for Mother’s health. I shall bide here a while to help comfort the bereaved, though it is not my nature or inclination to linger long in one place.

I will write something of the settlement, for it is worthy of mention. Though it has not long been established, only five or a little more years, it is already a very promising village.
A flour and saw mill have been built on the south side of the river, making good use of its strength. A school and church have also been erected; there has been an Orange Hall since early days. The street names demarcating the allotments are that of Edward Webster’s family, he being the distinguished founder. Though only a few houses have been constructed as of yet, there are many families on outlying farms who feel themselves to be members of the community. Most hail from either Ireland or Scotland, in this generation or the one preceding.

Father and I had a mild but unhappy disagreement today. He was not pleased when I introduced the notion of my departure. While it grieves me to add to his pain, it is not in my temperament to settle. I am thinking of going east to Nova Scotia or Cape Breton. Or perhaps I shall visit the lands of French Canada. I know something of their language from my time in the Red River.

“That’s odd.” Dana stopped reading for a moment. “Gran said he settled down after his mother’s death. It doesn’t sound like he planned to.”

“Something happen to make him stay?” Jean suggested. “Do we come near to the secret?”

“I hope so,” she said, flipping through the last pages. “There’s not much left.”

• • •

July 12, 1850. This is the day so esteemed and respected by all Orangemen everywhere no matter their station. In truth I do not count myself amongst their number, for I am not of like mind with certain aspects of the society that would despise Roman Catholics. I have made many friends amongst Romish people in this country especially the Canadiens as the French settlers do call themselves. Still, I would not like to offend my father or my brothers by disdaining their celebrations, and I agreed to join them.

There being not much of a main street in Creemore to make a parade, the good members of the Purple Hill Lodge determined that we should walk to the home of one of their group, Mr. Edward Galloway. The Galloway farm is some distance outside of Creemore, thereby providing us with a worthy challenge. Both the Bowmore and Tory Hill Lodges joined the walk.

When we reached out destination, we were well rewarded for our efforts. What a feast awaited us! The fatted calf had duly been slain. Such well-laden tables as ever I saw stood amidst the trees. For our pleasure and consumption were dishes of venison, eel, legs of pork, roast chickens and ducks, fish of several kinds and plentiful potatoes or “pritters” as they call them here. Most delicious and varied were the pies of pumpkin, raspberry, cherry, huckleberry, gooseberry and blackberry currant. Fresh loaves of bread were served with new butter and green cheese, maple molasses, preserves and pickled cucumbers. As is customary at these gatherings, a great deal of whiskey was provided along with the sober beverages of tea and coffee. The latter is a favourite drink in this part of the world and some say it will replace tea one day. I do not think so. It has a bitter taste and is only palatable when generously sweetened with sugar.

What trifles do I write here! It is done to calm the riotous state of my mind and emotions. Of all that happened on this day, I cannot bring myself to speak of the one event which lies at the heart of it.

“Come on, Thomas,” Dana murmured, turning the page.

July 13, 1851. There is a belief in the Old Country that “a year and a day” is the spell of time necessary for the working of a “cure” or the lifting of a curse. A year and a day have passed since that fateful occurrence in the forest near Galloway’s farm. Still I tarry in this place, unwilling to leave. What happened has marked me. I am a changed man. I cannot but look back on that day with awe and wonder. Was it a dream? A madness or delusion brought on by too much sunshine and whiskey? Though doubt assails me, in my heart I choose to believe that the events were real. For if they were, then all hopes and dreams are real and to know this is to be the most fortunate of men.

• • •

Dana and Jean stared at the next entry in disbelief. Holding their breaths, heads bent so close to the page they might have dived in, they found themselves reading a series of poems. The rhyming couplets were short and sentimental, conveying old-fashioned notions of romance.

“
Câlisse!
What this is?” said Jean, exasperated.

The poems were followed by an entry dated in the year 1876.

“There is no fool like an old fool,” my dear sister said to me today in a teasing but not unkind manner. I do not feel old, though perhaps I do feel a little foolish. A suitor cannot help but feel so, especially when he is courting a lady much younger than himself. Miss Harriet Steed has let me know that she is more than happy to encourage my attentions. I expect we shall be married before the year is out. I may be fifty-three years old, but truth to tell I feel as young as I did at thirty. I wonder sometimes if this youthfulness might not have been a gift that was bestowed upon me for the part I played that day.

Many years have passed since the Galloway picnic and I have lived a life of quiet and contentment. It seems to me, and I do not believe I am being too fanciful, that whatever once drove me in my ceaseless search for I-know-not-what was satisfied that day in the Canadian woods. Peace of mind and heart was granted to me. I have been blessed with good friends and neighbors as well as my family and I have helped to build this settlement into a thriving village. Whether big or small, we each have our part to play in the history of this nation as it unfolds in time. While I had thought to be a bachelor to my dying day, leaving the preservation of the Gowan name to my brothers, it seems not to be. I look forward to raising a family with my beloved Harriet.

Another poem followed called “Our Wedding Day.” Dana thought it was sweet and the best of the lot, but Jean snorted with impatience. They continued to read.

The shivaree for my beloved Harriet and me went not as badly as I had feared. The usual ruffians were strangely absent. Those who sang so sweetly beyond our window had the voices of angels. While it may have been my own imagining, I thought I also heard the sound of silver bells, like those one hears on sleighs in the wintertime. Truly we both felt blessed that night.

“What’s a shivaree?” Dana wondered.

“
Charivari,
” Jean told her. “They make the word English. When the peoples marry, their friends come outside the house on that night and they make a lot noise. It can be not so good if they drink too much. They do it still now in Québec in the countryside. It’s an old thing, a
tradition
.”

• • •

“This is it,” said Dana. “We’re coming to the last page.”

Born March 17, 1878 William Patrick Gowan.

“That’s Gran Gowan’s dad,” said Dana. “My great-grandfather.”

Born April 1, 1880 Harriet Frances Gowan.

Born June 23, 1882 Caroline Maisy Gowan.

Born February 16, 1885 Thomas Robert Gowan.

“
What?” Dana cried. She turned the page over and stared at the blank sheet. “There’s got to be more! Where’s the secret? What happened in the woods?”

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream or cry. How could they come so close and find nothing at all?

“Is this some joke?” said Jean, stunned. “This is the Book of Dreams we look for,
non
?”

“It must be,” Dana said, trying to calm down. “Look, something happened to him that day in the forest. It made him stay in Creemore. Maybe even gave him youth and long life, as he said himself. The secret’s here. Somewhere in this book. It’s got to be!”

Frantically she rifled through the pages of the journal.

Then she noticed that the endpaper at the back was thicker than that at the front.

“Hey, wait a minute, what’s this? Under the lining!”

“There is something there,” said Jean, excited.

He took a penknife out of his pocket. At Dana’s raised eyebrows, he shrugged. “In the bush it’s good. In the city maybe too.”

He slit the lining of the back cover and there they were, tucked away as if in an envelope, several sheets of folded paper.

The writing was still that of Thomas Gowan but it was scrawled and shaky; the hand of an old man.

In the Year of Our Lord 1901, I enclose this addendum to my Book of Dreams for the sake of posterity, and the one in the future who will come to read this.

“Oh.” Dana shivered. “A goose just walked over my grave.”

Before I set to paper the record of events which did happen on that day, I must duly confess. There have been times these past many years when I have doubted the substance and reality of that extraordinary day. Indeed I have often wondered if such fancies were not the inevitable result of plenteous sunshine and the imbibition of homemade liquor. The sun did shine gloriously upon that day and it must be said I had taken more than my usual glass of strong whiskey. Perhaps it was these doubts which stayed my hand from putting pen to paper till now. What then do I credit for the peculiar reluctance I have suffered at each attempt to broach the matter with my dearest Harriet? For not one small part of my life save this have I kept privy from my beloved helpmeet. In truth I am more inclined to believe that the thing itself has commanded my silence through the years, even as now it insists that I write.

I remember that day as if it were but yesterday. It has a place in my memory as rich and as vivid as anything that has happened to me before or since. I have called my journal the Book of Dreams in honor of that which has brightened my life. Herein lies the tale of the brightest dream of all.

It was the 12th day of July in the Year of Our Lord 1850, that day when Orangemen everywhere celebrate the Battle of the Boyne. I was not a member of the Purple Hill Lodge nor had I any interest in it, but I was happy to walk through the forest with my father and brothers to the Galloway farm. There we feasted and drank well into the day.