The Witchin' Canoe

Chapter 1: Montreal 1886, The FloodMcGauran didn’t get much rest last night, and though he tries to stay awake, the gentle rocking of the canoe is slowly putting him to sleep. For a moment, he surrenders to the weariness, and with his eyes closed, imagines he’s somewhere out west, beyond the great plains, in a log cabin he built with his own two hands, instead of drifting down this flooded street in the human swamp they call Griffintown: The city beneath the hill. “Watch it there, O’Dowd,” Linus warns him with a smile in his voice. “Paddling works better with your peepers open. And by the way, you got arms the size of tree trunks, so why am I doing all the work here?” “Sorry about that.” McGauran quickly resumes his paddling. A few feet away, around Prince Street, he spots old man Waits perched up on a rotten caboose, playing the fiddle like it’s Christmas Eve. In Saint-Anne’s ward, even a flood is cause for celebration. It means a couple of days off work—a break from the grinding monotony. With the warmer spring weather melting the ice, the Saint-Lawrence River swelled over its banks, bringing devastation into their neighborhood. Some say this is the worst flood the city has ever known. Folks have been up all night, resting only during Sunday mass, and the moment Father Hayes gave the parishioners his blessing, everyone hurried out of church to organize the cleaning crews. McGauran glances down into the water but looks away from the waste and filth drifting by. Outdoors privies have overflowed and people are going to get sick again. Thousands have already died in this supposed land of hope. Ten years ago, typhoid fever took his infant brother and sister. Then last year, he lost his father to the Red Death. And though his mother barely escaped the smallpox outbreak, she still refuses to be vaccinated, as most of the folks around here do. Under his brown derby hat, Linus’s freckled face turns grim. “I don’t think my baby sister’s gonna make it to her first birthday. Poor thing. She doesn’t even have a mother to nurse her.” McGauran doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been good with words. What he could do for Linus’s baby sister, he did this morning. After church, he offered to take Linus to the O’Donnells’ for some of that disinfecting powder his mother says is supposed to keep sickness away from a home. Chloride of lime, they call it. “Hey, by the way, GT is hiring again,” Linus says, changing the subject. “I can put in a good word for you. I have some clout there now, ‘cause of my uncle’s promotion. I’m sure they’d be willing to forget what you did last year.” “No, Linus, don’t even ask him. It’s not worth it. Don’t associate your name with mine. You got all those brothers and sisters to feed.” McGauran paddles harder. “Just forget it. Don’t make things worse for yourself.” Last August, he got involved in a violent strike out by the canal. So since then, jobs don’t come easy around town. Anyway, he doesn’t want to work for the Grand Trunk railroad company. Can’t stand to be indoors all day, hunched over a machine for hours on end, building pieces for a train he’ll probably never ride. “I’m thinking of going off to the lumber camps this winter.” “You’re a big guy, Mac, but that’s rough work.” Linus shakes his head. “Worse than the docks.” “The docks aren’t that bad,” he lies. He hates the steamboats, the noise, the dumb routine of lifting and lugging. He always feels like a beast of burden down there. “And, Linus, you don’t even work for GT. You pour liquor for a living, remember?” “That’s where you’re wrong,” Linus retorts with a playful smirk, his green eyes lighting up. “I tend to men’s spirits with spirits.” Ever since he and Linus were kids, Linus has always known how to find humor in their common misery. McGauran can’t help smiling a little and the smile feels strange on his face. He’s been in a bad mood for weeks. Sickness, death, rioting, and political upheaval are all the city has to offer him. He says a quick silent prayer. Lord, get me out of here. Help me. Show me how to get out of here. As they maneuver through the traffic of various canoes, makeshift boats, and people, McGauran notices the Callaghans floating by on wooden planks they’ve roped together. The Callaghans live in a side street by the Darling Foundry, in a rickety old house the city keeps threatening to tear down. The luck of the Irish. Right. He takes pity on them. “Sir,” he calls out, as they approach his house, “you can have my canoe. I don’t need it anymore. It’ll be easier for you to get around.” Immediately, the old man and his young son jump off their planks and trudge through the water to reach the canoe. The river water is thigh high in some places. The Callaghans thank and bless him profusely, and after Linus and McGauran have climbed out of the canoe, the old man and his son paddle off in it, promising to return the boat by sundown. But McGauran doesn’t mind parting with it. Last week, he found the old canoe propped up on a crooked fence. After a few days, no one had claimed it, so he lugged the boat to his courtyard, thinking he’d probably need it around flood season. Turns out he was wise. Maybe his luck is changing, after all. When they’ve reached the red brick duplex they share on Young Street, Linus turn to him and tips his hat. “McGauran O’Dowd, you gave them your boat. And you call me a bleeding heart.” He shrugs. “It’s Sunday, so I figured I’d do something nice, right?” “Yeah, well, it’s gonna take a little more than a canoe to get you into Heaven,” Linus teases him with a grin. “Amen.” McGauran pushes the door open into the narrow staircase leading up to Widow Leary’s home where he and his mother are boarding. “Hey, Mac, my sister asked about you again,” Linus says in a casual tone, though his eyes say more. “Rose and me can chaperon. We could take a stroll. Liza would fancy that a lot. She’s been sewing a new dress all week. You know…she’s been downhearted since our Ma passed.” Uneasy, McGauran pauses in the doorway. The whole neighborhood is conspiring to fix he and Liza Brogan up. Especially his mother and Linus. Ever since Liza turned eighteen last winter, people have been asking about his intentions. “Well…I’ll see if I can get away,” he says, entering the staircase before Linus can add anything else. He remembers Father Hayes’s sermon this morning. The priest believes the small pox outbreak and flood are a punishment to the men for all the loafing, brawling, and drinking they’ve been doing in the last year. But he could have sworn Father Hayes was looking directly at him while he delivered his long oration on the importance of resisting the Devil’s temptations. Time is running out. He’s twenty years old. He needs to get out of this city before the year is done, or he’ll be a married man come New Year’s Day, making Liza Brogan one unhappy and…unsatisfied bride. Then everyone will know what he is.