any old thing, and make a joke of it—certainly not admit to any elevated thoughts. But when I looked in Gwyneth Davis’s eyes, I told the truth. Couldn’t help myself. When she asked me what I wanted to do with my life, I spoke from the heart. Asked about my family, spoke from the heart. Asked about my feelings about things, spoke from the heart. Thus did she teach this pilgrim about himself.
“She wanted to know about Wales, and that was easier. She’d left the homeland as a schoolchild, never to go back. I told her the old stories, Owain Glendower, and Merddyn, whom you know as Merlin, and Arthur the King, and far older ones—the druid tales my granfer raised me on.
“Perhaps that was me hold on her. Certainly I wasn’t much in myself, a good-for-nothing voyageur . But the old stories, they cast a spell.
“We saw each other regular that winter. She skated most days, and I walked her home and had tea. I was mad for her. Up to then I’d thought of little but adventuring.” He looked up at Dylan. “Adventuring into the wilds, and into Indian girls. Your mam raised me from lust to love, a feeling a young man scoffs at. One he thinks he’ll never have. Made me yearn to have a wife, a home, children. To find out what’s next in life. That’s what she wanted too, a home, children.”
He looked up at Dylan. “You.”
He chuckled, remembering. “I’d go away from her and wonder what was wrong with me. I thought I must be crazy. I’d find my mates and go to the taverns and the whores. Wake up in a barn, hung over, smelling of putain , and tell myself that was the life. That afternoon I’d be back at the river, looking for your mother. Looking with a yearning I’ve hardly ever felt since. And go home with her and drink tea instead of ale.
“Come spring, right about this time, I was supposed to go back to the depot. Voyageur me, braving the wilds. I thought maybe your mother wanted me to stay. I thought maybe there was a different kind of life for me here. She didn’t say, except maybe with her eyes.”
The Druid stared down at the ground now. “My other thought was, I’m kidding myself. A girl like your mam, above the rest of us, really, wouldn’t consort with the likes of me. She wants a family—she’s eager for children. She wants a proper home for them, respectability—she’ll marry a merchant.
“Come April, I headed upstream in a canoe. She came to see me off—a merry scene, that always is. I told her I’d be back in the fall. I told her I loved her and ran like a coward for the boats. She said naught, save perhaps with her eyes.
“When I did come back, she was married to your father. Her mother told me, in a superior way—‘Ian Campbell the fur trader,’ she said haughtily. Not a voyageur like me with no prospects, but the owner of a fur company, even if it was a small one.
“Just before I left the next spring, she died.”
For a moment he stared at the ground.
“I’ve always wondered, if I stayed in Montreal that summer, if my life would have been different. And hers.”
He looked into Dylan’s eyes. “I look at you,” he said, “and think I might have been your father.”
He studied Dylan. “You’re a good laddo.” He grinned. “I’d be proud to be your father. But I found something grand out there in the wilds too.” A flash of something gleeful in his eyes. “They call it life.”
What will I do? No matter what, I’ll never go back to my father.
“To appreciate this treat,” said the Druid confidentially, “you have to understand some things.”
They were walking back to Notre Dame ahead of the sexton, who was snacking again, nibbling chocolate with a sensual pleasure that made Dylan feel like a Peeping Tom.
The Druid pointed up at the bell tower. “This sexton understands nothing,” Dru went on. “He has no feeling for the bells. He rings them mechanically, as a monkey plays the barrel organ. If he’s here another ten years, the bells will be all
“She wanted to know about Wales, and that was easier. She’d left the homeland as a schoolchild, never to go back. I told her the old stories, Owain Glendower, and Merddyn, whom you know as Merlin, and Arthur the King, and far older ones—the druid tales my granfer raised me on.
“Perhaps that was me hold on her. Certainly I wasn’t much in myself, a good-for-nothing voyageur . But the old stories, they cast a spell.
“We saw each other regular that winter. She skated most days, and I walked her home and had tea. I was mad for her. Up to then I’d thought of little but adventuring.” He looked up at Dylan. “Adventuring into the wilds, and into Indian girls. Your mam raised me from lust to love, a feeling a young man scoffs at. One he thinks he’ll never have. Made me yearn to have a wife, a home, children. To find out what’s next in life. That’s what she wanted too, a home, children.”
He looked up at Dylan. “You.”
He chuckled, remembering. “I’d go away from her and wonder what was wrong with me. I thought I must be crazy. I’d find my mates and go to the taverns and the whores. Wake up in a barn, hung over, smelling of putain , and tell myself that was the life. That afternoon I’d be back at the river, looking for your mother. Looking with a yearning I’ve hardly ever felt since. And go home with her and drink tea instead of ale.
“Come spring, right about this time, I was supposed to go back to the depot. Voyageur me, braving the wilds. I thought maybe your mother wanted me to stay. I thought maybe there was a different kind of life for me here. She didn’t say, except maybe with her eyes.”
The Druid stared down at the ground now. “My other thought was, I’m kidding myself. A girl like your mam, above the rest of us, really, wouldn’t consort with the likes of me. She wants a family—she’s eager for children. She wants a proper home for them, respectability—she’ll marry a merchant.
“Come April, I headed upstream in a canoe. She came to see me off—a merry scene, that always is. I told her I’d be back in the fall. I told her I loved her and ran like a coward for the boats. She said naught, save perhaps with her eyes.
“When I did come back, she was married to your father. Her mother told me, in a superior way—‘Ian Campbell the fur trader,’ she said haughtily. Not a voyageur like me with no prospects, but the owner of a fur company, even if it was a small one.
“Just before I left the next spring, she died.”
For a moment he stared at the ground.
“I’ve always wondered, if I stayed in Montreal that summer, if my life would have been different. And hers.”
He looked into Dylan’s eyes. “I look at you,” he said, “and think I might have been your father.”
He studied Dylan. “You’re a good laddo.” He grinned. “I’d be proud to be your father. But I found something grand out there in the wilds too.” A flash of something gleeful in his eyes. “They call it life.”
What will I do? No matter what, I’ll never go back to my father.
“To appreciate this treat,” said the Druid confidentially, “you have to understand some things.”
They were walking back to Notre Dame ahead of the sexton, who was snacking again, nibbling chocolate with a sensual pleasure that made Dylan feel like a Peeping Tom.
The Druid pointed up at the bell tower. “This sexton understands nothing,” Dru went on. “He has no feeling for the bells. He rings them mechanically, as a monkey plays the barrel organ. If he’s here another ten years, the bells will be all
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