Who was I?
Who had I been—before?
Why had I still no name? I ought to have one—in fact I did have one. I grew increasingly certain of that, but I could not remember what my name was.
The fact of my actual presence on board remained a secret. But from mutterings I overheard among the crew I understood that they were aware, as sailors will be aware, that something or someone strange was on board—they heard or smelled or dreamt enough to suggest to them a strange and invisible presence—but they never got a good look at me.
There were days when what tormented me more than anything else was that there was no place below decks where I could stand up straight.
Later_So far, during my present journey, feeding myself has presented no real problem. The walrus and the whale are beyond my powers as a hunter, but fish, birds, wild hare, and berries are not.
Only once since leaving my friends have I encountered other human beings, and on that occasion I made no effort to approach or speak with them. They were a small group of hunters, at least half a mile away, and headed in a direction I had no wish to go. Whatever human contact I might have achieved with them would almost certainly have been brief, and I saw no reason to think that it would be satisfactory; indeed, having some sense that I must be nearer to civilization now, I felt virtually certain that my appearance would once more excite disgust and suspicion.
Later, the same day_Much has happened, and quickly. Another small group of men came into my sight, and at the same time, beyond them to the east, a large body of water, too broad for the farther shore to be visible at any point.
These men were not embarking upon a hunting expedition, but were busy with something on the shore. This time I did approach my fellow beings, in hopes of establishing some contact with civilization. I experienced a familiar sight as I drew near them—how, as my exceptional stature became apparent, their attitudes were changed; and how, when my face was near enough for them to see it clearly, a still greater change came over theirs. These men were much warier than the Inoot had been, confirming my idea that civilization in some form might not be far distant now.
I smiled gently and spoke softly, as I have learned to do. One of those before me had a few words of English, and from him I learned that I have now reached the shore of Hudson Bay, though I cannot yet determine at what point on that immense length of coastline I have arrived. Dealing with this man and his fellows through gestures, I have now bargained away all of my remaining trade goods for a well-used kayak, with which I now mean to continue my journey southward along the shore. Today the sea in front of me is calm, free, or almost free, of floating ice, and the wind mild and favorable.
A day later_I write this by the light of a small fire, as I attempt to dry my clothing. The kayak, though as I thought purchased cheaply, proved to be no bargain. After an hour's use it began to leak so badly that, though I was no more than a hundred yards from shore at any time, I had all I could do to get back within wading distance of the shoreline before the craft sank. I endured a partial wetting, but retained everything I had of value, and was able to light a fire of twigs and driftwood.
Thoughts of revenge afflict me. But to pursue the man who sold me the cursed boat would be pointless, and achieve nothing but to take me farther from my true goal. Think of it no more. Or, if I am to dream of vengeance, let my wrath be directed against those who have done me far greater harm.
Onto the south, once more on foot. In some curious way I am glad that the boat is gone, glad to be traveling on my legs again.
Chapter 5
August 14,1782_At last, a date to be written down almost with certainty. And a pair of eyes, other than my own, to read these words
After the incident of the sunken boat, I traveled south along the shore on foot, seeing now and then traces of human passage or occupation, but no living man or woman. The third morning brought me to a small cove, and, on the low cliff at its head, a permanent human habitation. The largest of the two or three buildings—ambitiously larger than necessary, as I soon realized—was obviously a church or chapel. I had reached the home of Father Jacques-Marie Alibard.
As I slowly approached the door of the small central cabin, wondering how to present myself with a minimum of shock to whoever might be within, the door opened and the priest came out, a slender figure in a fur jacket, the wind off the Bay ruffling his iron-gray hair. If what he saw in my countenance engendered horror, or if my size had terrified him when he beheld me through his window, he had mastered those emotions before allowing me to see him. He spoke in kind tones, using what must have been one of the languages of the inhabitants of this land, and was surprised when I answered him in quite passable French. I was made to feel welcome at once; it is plain that the poor man has been suffering intensely from isolation. He has been here—in this territory at least—for more than ten years as a missionary.
I write this evening's entry in this journal seated on a wooden floor—there are chairs available, but I distrust them—within a furnished room, by lamplight. My host's cabin is high enough inside for me to stand erect, if I take care to keep under the ridgepole log. The good father is, I am sure, bursting to hear my story, but he will not allow the least bit of curiosity to show regarding what I might be writing in my book—and I am not anxious to tell more than I must.
He said, a little while ago: "You are European, then."
"I am."
"French by birth?"
"No."
"I did not think so, though you speak the language well. You did not tell me your name."
"Alas, Father, I have none."
He considered that for a moment before replying: "You mean that it has been—lost?" I do not know precisely what he had in mind—perhaps that I had been somehow disgraced, and my family had disowned me.
"No. To my knowledge, I have never had one."
"Ah." If he was very much surprised at this claim he did not show it. "If you do not mind my asking, how old are you?"
"Not yet three years, to the best of my knowledge."
He said "Ah" again, and looked at me carefully, and fell silent. He has yet to resume his questioning. In a way I wish he would.
It has become plain to me in the hours I have been here with him that the priest is not a well man. He is quite alone here at present; had he been healthy he would not have been at home when I arrived, but on the trail somewhere among the tiny, far-flung settlements whose inhabitants he is pleased to think of as his parishioners. I have not seen any of them as yet, and do not know what they think of him.
His color is bad and he coughs a great deal. He is about fifty years of age, I estimate, and spare of frame. He was a Jesuit, I have learned, until the suppression of that Order some eight years ago. What exactly his ecclesiastical (if that is the right word) status may be now is not yet clear to me, but apparently he remains a missionary of some kind, in good—or at least tolerable—standing with his superiors, who are far to the south of here, in Montreal.
It is obvious that tonight we are going to talk. I will let him read of this book if he should ask directly—but I think he is not likely to do that.
August 15_The Father and I have come to know each other a little better now. He has declined to respond to my hints that I thought he must be curious about my journal. Instead he is curious about me. Naturally enough. But he is not impatient. As I look back on my arrival now, it is almost as if I had been expected here.