I hear myself. My voice, an echo, a reminder… I’m alive, I’m alive. I’m here. I’m Now. And I pretend to encircle myself with memories, binding me with all of you. I fear the worst knowing hope is no resolution. We lived through the Cold War. We marched as children on Ouellette Avenue in the Blue Army, the army of the Virgin Mary, and we strode in the May Day parades – I saw the Russians strutting in Moscow Square, the Red Army sending dread and trepidation into the world, threatening to bomb us when we were asleep in our beds… There we were, boys filing into line, nightfall shrouding us as we paraded to Jackson Park’s bandshell, Bishop Cody presiding at the podium like Dwight Eisenhower surveying the Allied troops. We were soldiers. Members of the Blue Army, a religious group born out of the Fatima revelations right before Elvis Presley took America by storm. We were the answer to Communism, that godless society of Bolsheviks. This was the Cold War. We were the children of Hope. We were the children of McCarthyism. We saw spies everywhere. We walked in single file, that sweet scent of incense trailing in the air. Life was important. We were important. We were defending our faith… But it was never perfect. Especially for me. In that first parade, I was maybe ten, and feeling ill over having stuffed myself with too much chocolate. Walking didn’t help. As I made my way in the street, I glanced over at my brother Bill and told him I was sick. He fired back a frown and made it clear that if I broke ranks I’d embarrass the parish. I persevered. Kept marching. This was for God. This was for country. This was for Mary. This was me signalling to Khrushchev that Communism was evil! And now, just as we were nearing the bandshell, where the Knights of Columbus in their plumed hats and swords flanked the bishop, I started retching. It was like a scene out of the 1973 film The Exorcist. Projectile vomiting. The starched white surplice of an altar boy in front of me was where the first volley landed, like being hit by winter slush from a passing car. The next settled on the shoes of one of the organizers. I was bawling my eyes out. Moments later, there was my father rescuing me, driving me home, gritting his teeth and not saying anything at all. I expected a Blue Army court martial.

  SAINT AUGUSTINE

  ALEXANDRE AMPRIMOZ

  His mother died during the winter. Her last words were, “Continue your research and you won’t be lonely.”

  The idea of courting one of the eight girls who lived down the street with their mad father crossed his mind. It would be easier now, with the house all to himself, his mother no longer there to check up on him.

  But he’d never thought women were essential. He had other ways of fighting his loneliness. He decided to get a rattlesnake.

  It was a pleasure, coming home with a few rodents for Saint Augustine. That was the name he gave his pet (a thing he would never confess to anyone). He never tired of watching the “snake dance and song of death” and when the reptile finally sank his fangs into a rat, he felt shivers of pleasure travel up his spine. The same game with mice had been a lesser thrill.

  Spring. One evening he was too tired to read even a few pages of The City of God before retiring (though he hadn’t yet reached forty-five). In his sleep, in his dream, he spoke to his mother. “Mother, on the purple hill, you left me alone by the first gate where the river boils, but thank you, Mother, for the two mermaids. I will chew them properly. Then I will take the train that drips down from the moon like a slow slug and…”

  The next day Saint Augustine had two heads. He didn’t mind going to a funeral home with the madman and his six daughters. Two of them had just died in a car accident.

  “The party at the funeral home is for them. I’m bringing a bottle of Cold Duck, get it?” asked the madman.

  That night, he gave Saint Augustine a rat and went to bed. Then in his dream he spoke to his mother. “You should see Augustine. For a long second it is too beautiful. You should see, Mother, the way he swallows the two witches…”

  The next morning the snake had four heads. Two more of the madman’s daughters had died during the night, drowned in the lake.

  There are no more dreams and Saint Augustine has eight heads. He is rather happy: four of the girls are still alive. That proves that there is no relation between his snake’s extra heads and the madman’s daughters’ deaths.

  “It was only a coincidence,” he murmurs.

  He is sitting in his living room looking at Saint Augustine. “I should have bought an octopus.” He falls asleep. The City of God drops from his hands. Saint Augustine bangs one of its eight heads against the glass, the terrarium begins to break…

  THE DEAD COW IN THE CANYON

  JACQUES FERRON

  François Laterrière, the fifth son of Esdras Laterrière of Trompe-Souris rang, Saint-Justin de Maskinongé, came of good stock. When he was sixteen years old he already looked twenty. His father said to him:

  “You’re not a child anymore.”

  “No,” he admitted.

  The conversation went no further. Several months passed, and the old man continued: “Well then, my boy, seeing as how you’re not a child any more, have you thought what you’re going to be in life?”

  “Yes, Pa: a habitant like you.”

  A strange idea, this, coming from the youngest son! The old man made up his mind to give it some thought. A year later he asked his son:

  “Hey, François, who was it put such an idea into your head?”

  “What idea?”

  “Lord love us! The idea of becoming a habitant.”

  “The priest, Pa.”

  The priest. Now, that was a serious matter. Esdras Laterrière, his brow knit, realized the going could be tough. Whatever I do, he thought, I must be sure and not rush things.

  “François,” he said, “I have great respect for the priest. You know that. But the harder I think about it, the harder it is to understand. Why ever did he advise you to become a habitant?”

  “Because that’s what you are, because that’s what your father was, and because we must preserve the heritage of our ancestors.”

  “The heritage of our ancestors?”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  The old man waited to hear no more. He hitched up the old grey mare, jumped onto the cart, and with a “Giddap!” was off to the presbytery.

  “Monsieur le curé, I’ve come to pay my tithe.”

  “There was no hurry, my friend.”

  When the calculations were completed and the arithmetic done, the habitant did not budge from his chair.

  “And there’s something else,” he said

  The priest had suspected as much.

  “There’s my son François,” the habitant continued. “He’s stirring up trouble at home.”

  The priest expressed surprise. The habitant explained.

  “But there’s been a misunderstanding!” the priest objected. “François has no intention of ousting his eldest brother! The land will go to him, whole and undivided. François knows that as well and you and I do. He simply wants to follow in your footsteps and become an honest farmer himself, Monsieur Laterrière.”

  “He doesn’t want my land?”

  “No, he doesn’t, I can assure you.”

  “Then I have to agree, Father. He’s not a bad boy at all.”

  The habitant, however, was not entirely reassured. He had nothing against his son becoming a farmer, but where was he going to get his land?

  “That’s a mere detail, Monsieur Laterrière!”

  “A detail! There’s no land left in the parish, and there’s none in the county either!”

  The priest rose to his feet.

  “There was no more land in France. Our ancestors found it in Canada. There’s no more in the county, no more in the province, you say? Your son won’t let that stand in his way. He’ll find land somewhere else!”

  “Where?” the habitant asked.

  “In the Farwest,” the priest replied.

  Esdras Laterrière had never heard of any such country. The Farwest, Patagonia…they were one and the same to him. But no matter. His worries were over. His boy would not be setting himself up at his expense.

  Back home again, he said:

  “François, I’ve found you some land.”

  François thanked him. The next day he set out for the Farwest. Two years later he arrived in Regina.

  “Monsieur,” he asked the first man to come along, “is the Farwest still here?”

  “No,” said the man, “it’s moved to Calgary.”

  The lad from Trompe-Souris was beginning to find the Farwest a little too much for him. In Toronto, they had told him it was in Winnipeg; in Winnipeg they had said it was in Regina; and now he had reached Regina only to discover it had already moved to Calgary. The land of Edras Laterrière had never shifted an inch. True, it was very well fenced…

  “It’s a strange country, this Farwest, Monsieur!”

  The first man to come along agreed with him politely, then bade him good day. This man was followed shortly after by a second man, but François did not speak to him, nor to any of the others who came his way. Without further pause, he continued on to Calgary.

  Calgary is a city with wide avenues, where there are no longer any horses to be seen. There are, however, a great many horsemen, whose sleek boots, thick belts, steel spurs and high hats all attest to the fact that they have left their mounts at the city gates. The avenues themselves tell you nothing you do not already know, show you nothing that cannot be seen elsewhere. But close your eyes for a moment and you hear the hard jangle of spurs on the pavement. In an instant, the ordinary world is abolished, for the place is surrounded by a thousand horses, impatiently pawing the dust. You breathe the air they blow from their ardent nostrils; it is the air of the Farwest. François inhaled it with satisfaction, but before long his throat was dry. He went into a tavern.

  “I’m happy,” he said to the landlord.

  The landlord slid two glasses his way.

  “Why two?” asked François, whose tastes were modest.

  “In my tavern that’s how it is, my boy,” replied the landlord. “You have one drink because you’re happy, and I offer you another because I’m happy to see you happy.”

  This friendliness, the beer, and the joy he felt at finding himself at last in the Farwest put the young man in a confiding mood.

  His chin over the glasses, his hand in his mane, a faraway look in his eyes, he began to tell his story. The landlord interrupted him, banging on the counter with his fist. The glasses jumped, but the young man did not flinch.

  “You’re from Trompe-Souris?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “And you want to be a habitant in the Farwest?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. A habitant like my father, like my grandfather, like all the Laterrières, because we must preserve the heritage of our ancestors.”

  The landlord leaned over to Timire, his assistant.

  “Take off your apron,” he told him. “Run and tell the Chief: the Chosen One has arrived.”

  Timire took off his apron and hurried out. François, however, protested that he was not the Chosen One. The landlord hastened to reassure him.

  “You’re from Trompe-Souris, I’m from Crête-de-Coq. You’re from Saint-Justin, I’m from Sainte-Ursule. We’re from the same county. Could I possibly wish you any harm?”

  “No, not if it’s like you say.”

  “If it’s like I say? It’s even better than I say. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if you weren’t my cousin. My name is Siméon Désilets!”

  “Well, how about that! My mother is a Désilets!”

  “Her first name?”

  “Wait now…”

  “Georgina?”

  “No.”

  “Valeda?”

  “No… Wait now… I’ve got it; Victoria!”

  “She’s my sister; I’m your uncle.”

  The landlord wasted no time. He seized a glass and filled it. Uncle and nephew raised their glasses. The drinks overflowed: they were deeply moved. The beer spilled onto the counter; the landlord mopped it up, himself scarcely able to hold back the tears. When you’re a French Canadian you can’t possibly know all your relatives, but you’re overjoyed to make their acquaintance all the same. Family spirit is strong!!

  When they had drunk, the landlord asked for news of the old country, then he continued: “You’re not the Chosen One, Nephew. I know that as well as you do. You’re no fool and I’ve still got my head screwed on. But we can make the Chief believe you are.”

  “The Chief?”

  “Yes, the Chief. One of the feathered breed, a kind of Iroquois. When I first arrived here I traded with him. Then I bought my tavern. A good-hearted fellow, but not much of a head for business. I owe a lot to him. He’s right at home here. I let him drink as much as he likes. He’s always paid me. If he weren’t my friend, I sometimes think he’d be my best customer.”

  The landlord drained his glass. François did the same. With the glasses empty, the acoustics were much improved.

  “Why should we make him believe you’re the Chosen One? I’ll tell you why, Nephew. He has a daughter. Her name is Eglantine. He wants to marry her to a white man. The fellow’s nuts. He says the spirits have spoken to him. The spirits, they’re the good Lord’s flying curés. When they command, you have to obey, otherwise you go mad. So there’s the Chief, looking for a white man. Not that there aren’t plenty of them about. You can find white men of every race and religion in the Farwest. The trouble is my friend is fussy; to him all whites are savages. He wants to obey his priests, but he doesn’t want to give his Eglantine to a savage. He’s in a right quandary. So what does he do? He comes to see me. ‘You good white,’ he says to me, and to the good white he offers his daughter. Now, if ever any man has cheated, robbed, taken advantage of the old Chief – I can tell you this, you’re my nephew – that man is me. Hearing him talk like that just about breaks my heart. ‘Chief,’ I says, ‘I’m good, all right as good goes. But that doesn’t mean I’m the man to marry your daughter. I’d consider myself lucky, make no mistake, but alas, I’m old, the tavern ties me down, and there’s Beauty Rose, my Irish girl. You know her: she’d spit fire of hell in your face if she heard of your offer.’ Before I could finish my speech, the Chief was in tears. It was the first time I’d ever seen him in such a state. I was touched. I said to him, ‘There, there, don’t cry. I’ll pray to God and ask him to send you my cousin, a fine lad from Maskinongé, not savage at all, and white as milk. We’ll marry him to your Eglantine.’ That was the promise made to the poor Chief, out of the goodness of my heart. Tell me, François: wouldn’t you have done the same?”

  “Yes, of course,” replied the young man.

  “Ah, Nephew, you are indeed the son of my sister Victoria, the kindest girl in the world.”

  And the landlord proceeded to fill the glasses.

  “To your mother, to my own kind heart, to the goodness of the Désilets!”

  They drank.

  “After hearing my promise,” the landlord continued, “the Chief went away rejoicing. I can see him now. And that was more than two years ago. He went away, but he came back. At the end of every season he’d come down from his canyon to ask for news of the promised cousin. I’d do what I could to keep him happy. The last time, at my wit’s end, I promised him he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. The old boy went home. The season ended. Yesterday he arrived with his Eglantine to greet the Chosen One. There wasn’t a cousin anywhere I could lay my hands on. I didn’t know which way to turn, I cursed my promise. But I didn’t have the heart to disappoint them. They were so happy, so trusting. So I said to them, ‘Come back tomorrow.’ Oh, what a night I spent! And then morning brought you, dear Nephew! Even if you’re not the Chosen One, you must admit you couldn’t have come at a better moment!”

  The landlord paused for a moment and banged his fist on the counter. The glasses jumped. François did not flinch.

  “Thanks to you,” cried the landlord, “your uncle’s word will not be broken!”

  The young man was uneasy. He’d have liked nothing better than to help an uncle keep his word, but it wasn’t for that that he’d walked for two years, crossed four provinces, worn out fifteen pairs of cow-hide boots. Besides, the Commandment that told him to honour his father and mother made him no mention of any other relatives, least of all an uncle with a tavern in the Farwest, who he hadn’t even known existed until one day, feeling particularly dry, he’d entered this tavern to wet his whistle.

  “What’s the problem, Nephew?”

  “The problem, Uncle, is that I’d like very much to oblige you…”

  “I know that.”

  “It’s also that I didn’t wear out fifteen pairs of cow-hide boots and come all this way just to meet an Indian maiden from the Farwest.

  “Now you’re talking! Have another drink, you deserve it.”

  And the landlord slid one over to him.

  “All the same, Nephew, what would you say if this Indian maiden, a fine-looking girl, as it happens, also brought you a canyon the size of a whole parish for a dowry?”

  “A canyon?”

  “A piece of land surrounded by mountains as high as the sky.”

  “Hey,” said François, “then I’d ask to see her.”

  He saw her, found her to his liking, and the next day they went to the church. A priest with carrot red hair, not one inch a Métis, married them with a wave of his sprinkler. The ceremony continued at the landlord’s tavern. After eight days of revelry, the Chief stopped drinking, pushed away his glass and said:

  “It’s no good.”

  He still wasn’t drunk. His thirst was intact. So why go on drinking? This wasn’t the first time he’d tried. His previous attempts had all ended in failure. He’d never managed to get himself drunk. To bring him to his senses, it had always been necessary to knock him out. With age he’d grown wiser. This time, before he lost patience, he’d cut short the drinking, thus avoiding the final fury.