darkness.
He turned and lay on his side and stared into the moon shadows. A strange world, moon shadows, where nothing was solid, all shapes were shifting, objects became phantoms and phantoms objects. “Holy Mary Mother of God,” he murmured faintly.
He had a dream—or maybe it wasn’t a dream—he thought his eyes were open, and he was seeing a fantasy. He was at the bottom of a lake in winter, when it was frozen, swimming around with a family of beavers. He could breathe perfectly, and felt content enough, except that he was cold—not painfully, terminally cold, just chill, sometimes miserably chill. The beavers could go into their lodge, but for some reason he couldn’t. Then he noticed that they were going up out of the lake. He saw that the ice had melted, and a world was half visible beyond the surface. The beavers went into this world and built dams and ate and played. For some reason, he couldn’t go. He might go, but he was afraid to. The world out there, he knew, was brightly lit, and you could even feel the warmth of the sun, like melted butter on your skin. Down here everything was tinted aquamarine, half lit, and half cold—chill, chill, chill.
Chapter Eight
Dylan was standing where, all his life, he had wanted to be. They called it simply the depot. It was the wilderness center of operations for the NorthWest Company. A thousand miles deep into the pays sauvage . Even a gray June day couldn’t keep it from glistening, not in his eyes.
True, his fantasy had been different—he had dreamed of wearing a black robe. He had dreamed of coming as a savior, not an adventurer. Nevertheless, to be here was the fulfillment of a dream.
Though he wasn’t wearing a black robe, he was handsomely decked out. Dru had helped him get outfitted at the company headquarters in Montreal, and today, for the first time, he was wearing his finest country clothing. Though it was also almost his only covering, it was fine—cap of knit wool against the cool evening, cloth shirt with pleats and drop shoulders, drop-front pants of a homespun wool called etoffe du pays —they had belled legs and were helped up by braces—moccasins made by Marguerite, and a splendid, colorful sash to give it that je ne sais quois .
He felt grand. He was sashaying out into the society of the NorthWest Company’s depot, all the half-breed wives and children and les sauvages , and he was looking fine. Maybe he was only a mangeur de lard now, a fellow just out from the city, with no real time in the interior, no knowledge, and no ties, but he intended to fix himself today toward becoming a hivernant , the canoemen’s term for a fellow who had passed a winter in this remote country, an initiate, an experienced man. Which would give him the right to strut.
The depot was no rude wilderness outpost. Forty-two buildings palisaded in a rectangle faced the loading docks near the mouth of the Kaministikwia River and a grand vista of Lake Superior.
Dylan had been busy in camp since they got in this noon, but Dru had told him all about the doings at the depot. Every June the city partners brought trade goods out from Montreal, and the partners who wintered in the pays d’en haut brought furs in from the most remote wilds. They did not just exchange goods. They sat and planned how to fling their empire even farther, to stay ahead of the bloody Hudson’s Bay Company, which was Here Before Christ and thought it owned North America, and how to twist its tail in the bargain.
They always succeeded, said Dru, not because they had the best plans, but because they had the best men of the wilderness. While the nabobs of Hudson Bay studied maps and developed theories about trading for furs from a boardroom in London, the NorthWest Company’s hommes du nord —men of the north—knew the land, knew the peoples, knew the ways, knew how to get the furs, knew how to live in wild country. It was an advantage no gentlemen could match.
Dylan had a start on
He turned and lay on his side and stared into the moon shadows. A strange world, moon shadows, where nothing was solid, all shapes were shifting, objects became phantoms and phantoms objects. “Holy Mary Mother of God,” he murmured faintly.
He had a dream—or maybe it wasn’t a dream—he thought his eyes were open, and he was seeing a fantasy. He was at the bottom of a lake in winter, when it was frozen, swimming around with a family of beavers. He could breathe perfectly, and felt content enough, except that he was cold—not painfully, terminally cold, just chill, sometimes miserably chill. The beavers could go into their lodge, but for some reason he couldn’t. Then he noticed that they were going up out of the lake. He saw that the ice had melted, and a world was half visible beyond the surface. The beavers went into this world and built dams and ate and played. For some reason, he couldn’t go. He might go, but he was afraid to. The world out there, he knew, was brightly lit, and you could even feel the warmth of the sun, like melted butter on your skin. Down here everything was tinted aquamarine, half lit, and half cold—chill, chill, chill.
Chapter Eight
Dylan was standing where, all his life, he had wanted to be. They called it simply the depot. It was the wilderness center of operations for the NorthWest Company. A thousand miles deep into the pays sauvage . Even a gray June day couldn’t keep it from glistening, not in his eyes.
True, his fantasy had been different—he had dreamed of wearing a black robe. He had dreamed of coming as a savior, not an adventurer. Nevertheless, to be here was the fulfillment of a dream.
Though he wasn’t wearing a black robe, he was handsomely decked out. Dru had helped him get outfitted at the company headquarters in Montreal, and today, for the first time, he was wearing his finest country clothing. Though it was also almost his only covering, it was fine—cap of knit wool against the cool evening, cloth shirt with pleats and drop shoulders, drop-front pants of a homespun wool called etoffe du pays —they had belled legs and were helped up by braces—moccasins made by Marguerite, and a splendid, colorful sash to give it that je ne sais quois .
He felt grand. He was sashaying out into the society of the NorthWest Company’s depot, all the half-breed wives and children and les sauvages , and he was looking fine. Maybe he was only a mangeur de lard now, a fellow just out from the city, with no real time in the interior, no knowledge, and no ties, but he intended to fix himself today toward becoming a hivernant , the canoemen’s term for a fellow who had passed a winter in this remote country, an initiate, an experienced man. Which would give him the right to strut.
The depot was no rude wilderness outpost. Forty-two buildings palisaded in a rectangle faced the loading docks near the mouth of the Kaministikwia River and a grand vista of Lake Superior.
Dylan had been busy in camp since they got in this noon, but Dru had told him all about the doings at the depot. Every June the city partners brought trade goods out from Montreal, and the partners who wintered in the pays d’en haut brought furs in from the most remote wilds. They did not just exchange goods. They sat and planned how to fling their empire even farther, to stay ahead of the bloody Hudson’s Bay Company, which was Here Before Christ and thought it owned North America, and how to twist its tail in the bargain.
They always succeeded, said Dru, not because they had the best plans, but because they had the best men of the wilderness. While the nabobs of Hudson Bay studied maps and developed theories about trading for furs from a boardroom in London, the NorthWest Company’s hommes du nord —men of the north—knew the land, knew the peoples, knew the ways, knew how to get the furs, knew how to live in wild country. It was an advantage no gentlemen could match.
Dylan had a start on
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