becoming one of these wilderness savants, if only a start. Dru had worked with him on his shooting, though he didn’t own a gun yet. His fire-making skills were coming up. His eyes had improved a lot—now he saw the still, silent animals they passed, and knew where other animals hid and where they lived. He had a start on reading sign of man and beast. What he didn’t know—didn’t have a clue about—were the Indians. An homme du nord knew Indians. From this point, the jumping-off place into the real interior, Dylan would begin to learn.
His heart was set on it, and for a special reason. He had come to the wilds to see Indians, get to know them, learn to help them. He had discovered that you couldn’t know them without knowing the land they lived on. Their life was a kind of weave, and its threads were, as Dru put it, all the four-legged, winged, crawling, burrowing, swimming, and rooted creatures. The red man, unlike the white man, seemed to Dylan somehow of this congregation, intimately part of the weave.
Dru had been teaching him both to understand and appreciate. That was the advantage of being apprenticed to the Druid, the master of woodcraft.
The pleasure was how much Dylan loved the learning. The canoeing had become a kind of idyll for him, hardening the body, yes, and uplifting the spirit. Often, it was learning, seeing with Dru’s eyes, listening with his ears. And often it was a sense of blessing, a subtle glory that came to him, especially on the long evenings as they approached the summer solstice. The sun, arcing far to the north, shed a kind of splendor through the long twilight. The water glowed gold, and the air turned a lilac-tinged silver, pearly, liquid, crystalline.
Yes, he was a civilized man, Dylan said to himself as he pushed the canoe gently through evenings like this, and proudly so. Somehow he was a civilized man who belonged here. He felt that, breathed it. And he would show the hommes du nord that he belonged.
Now Dylan had an appointment with Duncan Campbell Stewart, one of the wintering partners. He didn’t know exactly what the appointment was about—Dru had arranged it. He did know that through it he might get a job that would make him a hivernant . Dru warned Dylan that Duncan Campbell Stewart was a man of many prejudices and peculiarities. A Campbell like my father, thought Dylan. He shook the thought off. Campbell was no longer a clan, really, nothing but a name, and not any longer Dylan’s name. He wondered what the fellow’s peculiarities were.
Dylan walked through the main gate of the depot, between buildings, and into the large quadrangle faced by the main buildings. The big building across the way, he’d been instructed, was the Great Hall. Here, said Dru, the partners lived and dined in absurd luxury.
Dylan entered the Great Hall. A bust scowled at him from atop a pedestal. Simon McTavish, the first head of the NorthWest Company, said the identifying tablet. Dylan recognized Lord Nelson in a huge portrait, and a painting of the Battle of Trafalgar. Having little feeling for such painting or sculpture, he passed on and knocked at the door on the left. A low, hard-edged voice bade him come in.
Duncan Campbell Stewart stood to an immense height, perhaps an entire foot taller than Dylan. “Welcome, Mr. Davies,” he said. He pointed to a chair on the other side of the small Queen Anne writing desk. The room was sumptuously appointed: bed, couch, writing desk, chairs of a luxury that would befit even the elder Mr. MacDonald, and silver candelabra.
This wintering partner, on the other hand, was skeletally slender. He had great, shelving brows, and eyes so deeply recessed as to be invisible. His craggy face made Dylan conscious of bone beneath flesh—he might have been looking at a fleshless skull.
Stewart gave him a dry, lifeless handshake, his fingers like withered stalks, and Dylan sat.
“Now, according to the word Mr. Bleddyn sends, you’re looking to become a
His heart was set on it, and for a special reason. He had come to the wilds to see Indians, get to know them, learn to help them. He had discovered that you couldn’t know them without knowing the land they lived on. Their life was a kind of weave, and its threads were, as Dru put it, all the four-legged, winged, crawling, burrowing, swimming, and rooted creatures. The red man, unlike the white man, seemed to Dylan somehow of this congregation, intimately part of the weave.
Dru had been teaching him both to understand and appreciate. That was the advantage of being apprenticed to the Druid, the master of woodcraft.
The pleasure was how much Dylan loved the learning. The canoeing had become a kind of idyll for him, hardening the body, yes, and uplifting the spirit. Often, it was learning, seeing with Dru’s eyes, listening with his ears. And often it was a sense of blessing, a subtle glory that came to him, especially on the long evenings as they approached the summer solstice. The sun, arcing far to the north, shed a kind of splendor through the long twilight. The water glowed gold, and the air turned a lilac-tinged silver, pearly, liquid, crystalline.
Yes, he was a civilized man, Dylan said to himself as he pushed the canoe gently through evenings like this, and proudly so. Somehow he was a civilized man who belonged here. He felt that, breathed it. And he would show the hommes du nord that he belonged.
Now Dylan had an appointment with Duncan Campbell Stewart, one of the wintering partners. He didn’t know exactly what the appointment was about—Dru had arranged it. He did know that through it he might get a job that would make him a hivernant . Dru warned Dylan that Duncan Campbell Stewart was a man of many prejudices and peculiarities. A Campbell like my father, thought Dylan. He shook the thought off. Campbell was no longer a clan, really, nothing but a name, and not any longer Dylan’s name. He wondered what the fellow’s peculiarities were.
Dylan walked through the main gate of the depot, between buildings, and into the large quadrangle faced by the main buildings. The big building across the way, he’d been instructed, was the Great Hall. Here, said Dru, the partners lived and dined in absurd luxury.
Dylan entered the Great Hall. A bust scowled at him from atop a pedestal. Simon McTavish, the first head of the NorthWest Company, said the identifying tablet. Dylan recognized Lord Nelson in a huge portrait, and a painting of the Battle of Trafalgar. Having little feeling for such painting or sculpture, he passed on and knocked at the door on the left. A low, hard-edged voice bade him come in.
Duncan Campbell Stewart stood to an immense height, perhaps an entire foot taller than Dylan. “Welcome, Mr. Davies,” he said. He pointed to a chair on the other side of the small Queen Anne writing desk. The room was sumptuously appointed: bed, couch, writing desk, chairs of a luxury that would befit even the elder Mr. MacDonald, and silver candelabra.
This wintering partner, on the other hand, was skeletally slender. He had great, shelving brows, and eyes so deeply recessed as to be invisible. His craggy face made Dylan conscious of bone beneath flesh—he might have been looking at a fleshless skull.
Stewart gave him a dry, lifeless handshake, his fingers like withered stalks, and Dylan sat.
“Now, according to the word Mr. Bleddyn sends, you’re looking to become a
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