Bab Bab 2 · 第2章

In the morning the camp was astir before the sun. There had been a

light fall of snow during the night and the air was sharp. Punk had done

his duty betimes, for the odors of coffee and fried bacon reached every

tent. All were in good spirits.

"Wind's shifted!" cried Hank vigorously, watching Simpson and his guide

already loading the small canoe. "It's across the lake--dead right for

you fellers. And the snow'll make bully trails! If there's any moose

mussing around up thar, they'll not get so much as a tail-end scent of

you with the wind as it is. Good luck, Monsieur Défago!" he added,

facetiously giving the name its French pronunciation for once, "_bonne

chance!_"

Défago returned the good wishes, apparently in the best of spirits, the

silent mood gone. Before eight o'clock old Punk had the camp to

himself, Cathcart and Hank were far along the trail that led westwards,

while the canoe that carried Défago and Simpson, with silk tent and grub

for two days, was already a dark speck bobbing on the bosom of the lake,

going due east.

The wintry sharpness of the air was tempered now by a sun that topped

the wooded ridges and blazed with a luxurious warmth upon the world of

lake and forest below; loons flew skimming through the sparkling spray

that the wind lifted; divers shook their dripping heads to the sun and

popped smartly out of sight again; and as far as eye could reach rose

the leagues of endless, crowding Bush, desolate in its lonely sweep and

grandeur, untrodden by foot of man, and stretching its mighty and

unbroken carpet right up to the frozen shores of Hudson Bay.

Simpson, who saw it all for the first time as he paddled hard in the

bows of the dancing canoe, was enchanted by its austere beauty. His

heart drank in the sense of freedom and great spaces just as his lungs

drank in the cool and perfumed wind. Behind him in the stern seat,

singing fragments of his native chanties, Défago steered the craft of

birch bark like a thing of life, answering cheerfully all his

companion's questions. Both were gay and light-hearted. On such

occasions men lose the superficial, worldly distinctions; they become

human beings working together for a common end. Simpson, the employer,

and Défago the employed, among these primitive forces, were simply--two

men, the "guider" and the "guided." Superior knowledge, of course,

assumed control, and the younger man fell without a second thought into

the quasi-subordinate position. He never dreamed of objecting when

Défago dropped the "Mr.," and addressed him as "Say, Simpson," or

"Simpson, boss," which was invariably the case before they reached the

farther shore after a stiff paddle of twelve miles against a head wind.

He only laughed, and liked it; then ceased to notice it at all.

For this "divinity student" was a young man of parts and character,

though as yet, of course, untraveled; and on this trip--the first time

he had seen any country but his own and little Switzerland--the huge

scale of things somewhat bewildered him. It was one thing, he realized,

to hear about primeval forests, but quite another to see them. While to

dwell in them and seek acquaintance with their wild life was, again, an

initiation that no intelligent man could undergo without a certain

shifting of personal values hitherto held for permanent and sacred.

Simpson knew the first faint indication of this emotion when he held the

new. 303 rifle in his hands and looked along its pair of faultless,

gleaming barrels. The three days' journey to their headquarters, by lake

and portage, had carried the process a stage farther. And now that he

was about to plunge beyond even the fringe of wilderness where they were

camped into the virgin heart of uninhabited regions as vast as Europe

itself, the true nature of the situation stole upon him with an effect

of delight and awe that his imagination was fully capable of

appreciating. It was himself and Défago against a multitude--at least,

against a Titan!

The bleak splendors of these remote and lonely forests rather

overwhelmed him with the sense of his own littleness. That stern quality

of the tangled backwoods which can only be described as merciless and

terrible, rose out of these far blue woods swimming upon the horizon,

and revealed itself. He understood the silent warning. He realized his

own utter helplessness. Only Défago, as a symbol of a distant

civilization where man was master, stood between him and a pitiless

death by exhaustion and starvation.

It was thrilling to him, therefore, to watch Défago turn over the canoe

upon the shore, pack the paddles carefully underneath, and then proceed

to "blaze" the spruce stems for some distance on either side of an

almost invisible trail, with the careless remark thrown in, "Say,

Simpson, if anything happens to me, you'll find the canoe all correc' by

these marks;--then strike doo west into the sun to hit the home camp

agin, see?"

It was the most natural thing in the world to say, and he said it

without any noticeable inflexion of the voice, only it happened to

express the youth's emotions at the moment with an utterance that was

symbolic of the situation and of his own helplessness as a factor in it.

He was alone with Défago in a primitive world: that was all. The canoe,

another symbol of man's ascendancy, was now to be left behind. Those

small yellow patches, made on the trees by the axe, were the only

indications of its hiding place.

Meanwhile, shouldering the packs between them, each man carrying his own

rifle, they followed the slender trail over rocks and fallen trunks and

across half-frozen swamps; skirting numerous lakes that fairly gemmed

the forest, their borders fringed with mist; and towards five o'clock

found themselves suddenly on the edge of the woods, looking out across a

large sheet of water in front of them, dotted with pine-clad islands of

all describable shapes and sizes.

"Fifty Island Water," announced Défago wearily, "and the sun jest goin'

to dip his bald old head into it!" he added, with unconscious poetry;

and immediately they set about pitching camp for the night.

In a very few minutes, under those skilful hands that never made a

movement too much or a movement too little, the silk tent stood taut and

cozy, the beds of balsam boughs ready laid, and a brisk cooking fire

burned with the minimum of smoke. While the young Scotchman cleaned the

fish they had caught trolling behind the canoe, Défago "guessed" he

would "jest as soon" take a turn through the Bush for indications of

moose. "_May_ come across a trunk where they bin and rubbed horns," he

said, as he moved off, "or feedin' on the last of the maple leaves"--and

he was gone.

His small figure melted away like a shadow in the dusk, while Simpson

noted with a kind of admiration how easily the forest absorbed him into

herself. A few steps, it seemed, and he was no longer visible.

Yet there was little underbrush hereabouts; the trees stood somewhat

apart, well spaced; and in the clearings grew silver birch and maple,

spearlike and slender, against the immense stems of spruce and hemlock.

But for occasional prostrate monsters, and the boulders of grey rock

that thrust uncouth shoulders here and there out of the ground, it might

well have been a bit of park in the Old Country. Almost, one might have

seen in it the hand of man. A little to the right, however, began the

great burnt section, miles in extent, proclaiming its real

character--_brulé_, as it is called, where the fires of the previous

year had raged for weeks, and the blackened stumps now rose gaunt and

ugly, bereft of branches, like gigantic match heads stuck into the

ground, savage and desolate beyond words. The perfume of charcoal and

rain-soaked ashes still hung faintly about it.

The dusk rapidly deepened; the glades grew dark; the crackling of the

fire and the wash of little waves along the rocky lake shore were the

only sounds audible. The wind had dropped with the sun, and in all that

vast world of branches nothing stirred. Any moment, it seemed, the

woodland gods, who are to be worshipped in silence and loneliness, might

stretch their mighty and terrific outlines among the trees. In front,

through doorways pillared by huge straight stems, lay the stretch of

Fifty Island Water, a crescent-shaped lake some fifteen miles from tip

to tip, and perhaps five miles across where they were camped. A sky of

rose and saffron, more clear than any atmosphere Simpson had ever

known, still dropped its pale streaming fires across the waves, where

the islands--a hundred, surely, rather than fifty--floated like the

fairy barques of some enchanted fleet. Fringed with pines, whose crests

fingered most delicately the sky, they almost seemed to move upwards as

the light faded--about to weigh anchor and navigate the pathways of the

heavens instead of the currents of their native and desolate lake.

And strips of colored cloud, like flaunting pennons, signaled their

departure to the stars....

The beauty of the scene was strangely uplifting. Simpson smoked the fish

and burnt his fingers into the bargain in his efforts to enjoy it and at

the same time tend the frying pan and the fire. Yet, ever at the back of

his thoughts, lay that other aspect of the wilderness: the indifference

to human life, the merciless spirit of desolation which took no note of

man. The sense of his utter loneliness, now that even Défago had gone,

came close as he looked about him and listened for the sound of his

companion's returning footsteps.

There was pleasure in the sensation, yet with it a perfectly

comprehensible alarm. And instinctively the thought stirred in him:

"What should I--_could_ I, do--if anything happened and he did not come

back--?"

They enjoyed their well-earned supper, eating untold quantities of fish,

and drinking unmilked tea strong enough to kill men who had not covered

thirty miles of hard "going," eating little on the way. And when it was

over, they smoked and told stories round the blazing fire, laughing,

stretching weary limbs, and discussing plans for the morrow. Défago was

in excellent spirits, though disappointed at having no signs of moose to

report. But it was dark and he had not gone far. The _brulé_, too, was

bad. His clothes and hands were smeared with charcoal. Simpson, watching

him, realized with renewed vividness their position--alone together in

the wilderness.

"Défago," he said presently, "these woods, you know, are a bit too big

to feel quite at home in--to feel comfortable in, I mean!... Eh?" He

merely gave expression to the mood of the moment; he was hardly prepared

for the earnestness, the solemnity even, with which the guide took him

up.

"You've hit it right, Simpson, boss," he replied, fixing his searching

brown eyes on his face, "and that's the truth, sure. There's no end to

'em--no end at all." Then he added in a lowered tone as if to himself,

"There's lots found out _that_, and gone plumb to pieces!"

But the man's gravity of manner was not quite to the other's liking; it

was a little too suggestive for this scenery and setting; he was sorry

he had broached the subject. He remembered suddenly how his uncle had

told him that men were sometimes stricken with a strange fever of the

wilderness, when the seduction of the uninhabited wastes caught them so

fiercely that they went forth, half fascinated, half deluded, to their

death. And he had a shrewd idea that his companion held something in

sympathy with that queer type. He led the conversation on to other

topics, on to Hank and the doctor, for instance, and the natural rivalry

as to who should get the first sight of moose.

"If they went doo west," observed Défago carelessly, "there's sixty

miles between us now--with ole Punk at halfway house eatin' himself full

to bustin' with fish and coffee." They laughed together over the

picture. But the casual mention of those sixty miles again made Simpson

realize the prodigious scale of this land where they hunted; sixty miles

was a mere step; two hundred little more than a step. Stories of lost

hunters rose persistently before his memory. The passion and mystery of

homeless and wandering men, seduced by the beauty of great forests,

swept his soul in a way too vivid to be quite pleasant. He wondered

vaguely whether it was the mood of his companion that invited the

unwelcome suggestion with such persistence.

"Sing us a song, Défago, if you're not too tired," he asked; "one of

those old _voyageur_ songs you sang the other night." He handed his

tobacco pouch to the guide and then filled his own pipe, while the

Canadian, nothing loth, sent his light voice across the lake in one of

those plaintive, almost melancholy chanties with which lumbermen and

trappers lessen the burden of their labor. There was an appealing and

romantic flavor about it, something that recalled the atmosphere of the

old pioneer days when Indians and wilderness were leagued together,

battles frequent, and the Old Country farther off than it is today. The

sound traveled pleasantly over the water, but the forest at their backs

seemed to swallow it down with a single gulp that permitted neither echo

nor resonance.

It was in the middle of the third verse that Simpson noticed something

unusual--something that brought his thoughts back with a rush from

faraway scenes. A curious change had come into the man's voice. Even

before he knew what it was, uneasiness caught him, and looking up

quickly, he saw that Défago, though still singing, was peering about him

into the Bush, as though he heard or saw something. His voice grew

fainter--dropped to a hush--then ceased altogether. The same instant,

with a movement amazingly alert, he started to his feet and stood

upright--_sniffing the air_. Like a dog scenting game, he drew the air

into his nostrils in short, sharp breaths, turning quickly as he did so

in all directions, and finally "pointing" down the lake shore,

eastwards. It was a performance unpleasantly suggestive and at the same

time singularly dramatic. Simpson's heart fluttered disagreeably as he

watched it.

"Lord, man! How you made me jump!" he exclaimed, on his feet beside him

the same instant, and peering over his shoulder into the sea of

darkness. "What's up? Are you frightened--?"

Even before the question was out of his mouth he knew it was foolish,

for any man with a pair of eyes in his head could see that the Canadian

had turned white down to his very gills. Not even sunburn and the glare

of the fire could hide that.

The student felt himself trembling a little, weakish in the knees.

"What's up?" he repeated quickly. "D'you smell moose? Or anything queer,

anything--wrong?" He lowered his voice instinctively.

The forest pressed round them with its encircling wall; the nearer tree

stems gleamed like bronze in the firelight; beyond that--blackness, and,

so far as he could tell, a silence of death. Just behind them a passing

puff of wind lifted a single leaf, looked at it, then laid it softly

down again without disturbing the rest of the covey. It seemed as if a

million invisible causes had combined just to produce that single

visible effect. _Other_ life pulsed about them--and was gone.

Défago turned abruptly; the livid hue of his face had turned to a dirty

grey.

"I never said I heered--or smelt--nuthin'," he said slowly and

emphatically, in an oddly altered voice that conveyed somehow a touch of

defiance. "I was only--takin' a look round--so to speak. It's always a

mistake to be too previous with yer questions." Then he added suddenly

with obvious effort, in his more natural voice, "Have you got the

matches, Boss Simpson?" and proceeded to light the pipe he had half

filled just before he began to sing.

Without speaking another word they sat down again by the fire. Défago

changing his side so that he could face the direction the wind came

from. For even a tenderfoot could tell that. Défago changed his position

in order to hear and smell--all there was to be heard and smelt. And,

since he now faced the lake with his back to the trees it was evidently

nothing in the forest that had sent so strange and sudden a warning to

his marvelously trained nerves.

"Guess now I don't feel like singing any," he explained presently of his

own accord. "That song kinder brings back memories that's troublesome to

me; I never oughter've begun it. It sets me on t' imagining things,

see?"

Clearly the man was still fighting with some profoundly moving emotion.

He wished to excuse himself in the eyes of the other. But the

explanation, in that it was only a part of the truth, was a lie, and he

knew perfectly well that Simpson was not deceived by it. For nothing

could explain away the livid terror that had dropped over his face while

he stood there sniffing the air. And nothing--no amount of blazing fire,

or chatting on ordinary subjects--could make that camp exactly as it had

been before. The shadow of an unknown horror, naked if unguessed, that

had flashed for an instant in the face and gestures of the guide, had

also communicated itself, vaguely and therefore more potently, to his

companion. The guide's visible efforts to dissemble the truth only made

things worse. Moreover, to add to the younger man's uneasiness, was the

difficulty, nay, the impossibility he felt of asking questions, and also

his complete ignorance as to the cause ...Indians, wild animals, forest

fires--all these, he knew, were wholly out of the question. His

imagination searched vigorously, but in vain....

* * * * *

Yet, somehow or other, after another long spell of smoking, talking and

roasting themselves before the great fire, the shadow that had so

suddenly invaded their peaceful camp began to shift. Perhaps Défago's

efforts, or the return of his quiet and normal attitude accomplished

this; perhaps Simpson himself had exaggerated the affair out of all

proportion to the truth; or possibly the vigorous air of the wilderness

brought its own powers of healing. Whatever the cause, the feeling of

immediate horror seemed to have passed away as mysteriously as it had

come, for nothing occurred to feed it. Simpson began to feel that he had

permitted himself the unreasoning terror of a child. He put it down

partly to a certain subconscious excitement that this wild and immense

scenery generated in his blood, partly to the spell of solitude, and

partly to overfatigue. That pallor in the guide's face was, of course,

uncommonly hard to explain, yet it _might_ have been due in some way to

an effect of firelight, or his own imagination ...He gave it the benefit

of the doubt; he was Scotch.

When a somewhat unordinary emotion has disappeared, the mind always

finds a dozen ways of explaining away its causes ...Simpson lit a last

pipe and tried to laugh to himself. On getting home to Scotland it would

make quite a good story. He did not realize that this laughter was a

sign that terror still lurked in the recesses of his soul--that, in

fact, it was merely one of the conventional signs by which a man,

seriously alarmed, tries to persuade himself that he is _not_ so.

Défago, however, heard that low laughter and looked up with surprise on

his face. The two men stood, side by side, kicking the embers about

before going to bed. It was ten o'clock--a late hour for hunters to be

still awake.

"What's ticklin' yer?" he asked in his ordinary tone, yet gravely.

"I--I was thinking of our little toy woods at home, just at that

moment," stammered Simpson, coming back to what really dominated his

mind, and startled by the question, "and comparing them to--to all

this," and he swept his arm round to indicate the Bush.

A pause followed in which neither of them said anything.

"All the same I wouldn't laugh about it, if I was you," Défago added,

looking over Simpson's shoulder into the shadows. "There's places in

there nobody won't never see into--nobody knows what lives in there

either."

"Too big--too far off?" The suggestion in the guide's manner was immense

and horrible.

Défago nodded. The expression on his face was dark. He, too, felt

uneasy. The younger man understood that in a _hinterland_ of this size

there might well be depths of wood that would never in the life of the

world be known or trodden. The thought was not exactly the sort he

welcomed. In a loud voice, cheerfully, he suggested that it was time for

bed. But the guide lingered, tinkering with the fire, arranging the

stones needlessly, doing a dozen things that did not really need doing.

Evidently there was something he wanted to say, yet found it difficult

to "get at."

"Say, you, Boss Simpson," he began suddenly, as the last shower of

sparks went up into the air, "you don't--smell nothing, do you--nothing

pertickler, I mean?" The commonplace question, Simpson realized, veiled

a dreadfully serious thought in his mind. A shiver ran down his back.

"Nothing but burning wood," he replied firmly, kicking again at the

embers. The sound of his own foot made him start.

"And all the evenin' you ain't smelt--nothing?" persisted the guide,

peering at him through the gloom; "nothing extrordiny, and different to

anything else you ever smelt before?"

"No, no, man; nothing at all!" he replied aggressively, half angrily.

Défago's face cleared. "That's good!" he exclaimed with evident relief.

"That's good to hear."

"Have _you?_" asked Simpson sharply, and the same instant regretted the

question.

The Canadian came closer in the darkness. He shook his head. "I guess

not," he said, though without overwhelming conviction. "It must've been

just that song of mine that did it. It's the song they sing in lumber

camps and godforsaken places like that, when they're skeered the

Wendigo's somewhere around, doin' a bit of swift traveling.--"

"And what's the Wendigo, pray?" Simpson asked quickly, irritated because

again he could not prevent that sudden shiver of the nerves. He knew

that he was close upon the man's terror and the cause of it. Yet a

rushing passionate curiosity overcame his better judgment, and his fear.

Défago turned swiftly and looked at him as though he were suddenly about

to shriek. His eyes shone, but his mouth was wide open. Yet all he said,

or whispered rather, for his voice sank very low, was: "It's

nuthin'--nuthin' but what those lousy fellers believe when they've bin

hittin' the bottle too long--a sort of great animal that lives up

yonder," he jerked his head northwards, "quick as lightning in its

tracks, an' bigger'n anything else in the Bush, an' ain't supposed to be

very good to look at--that's all!"

"A backwoods superstition--" began Simpson, moving hastily toward the

tent in order to shake off the hand of the guide that clutched his arm.

"Come, come, hurry up for God's sake, and get the lantern going! It's

time we were in bed and asleep if we're going to be up with the sun

tomorrow...."

The guide was close on his heels. "I'm coming," he answered out of the

darkness, "I'm coming." And after a slight delay he appeared with the

lantern and hung it from a nail in the front pole of the tent. The

shadows of a hundred trees shifted their places quickly as he did so,

and when he stumbled over the rope, diving swiftly inside, the whole

tent trembled as though a gust of wind struck it.

The two men lay down, without undressing, upon their beds of soft balsam

boughs, cunningly arranged. Inside, all was warm and cozy, but outside

the world of crowding trees pressed close about them, marshalling their

million shadows, and smothering the little tent that stood there like a

wee white shell facing the ocean of tremendous forest.

Between the two lonely figures within, however, there pressed another

shadow that was _not_ a shadow from the night. It was the Shadow cast by

the strange Fear, never wholly exorcised, that had leaped suddenly upon

Défago in the middle of his singing. And Simpson, as he lay there,

watching the darkness through the open flap of the tent, ready to plunge

into the fragrant abyss of sleep, knew first that unique and profound

stillness of a primeval forest when no wind stirs ... and when the night

has weight and substance that enters into the soul to bind a veil about

it.... Then sleep took him....