there was not a damn thing they could do about it. That, above everything else, was what gave Pâtit-Gus the most pleasure.
Standing in the room, behind the glare of his hunting lamp, the joke was almost as good. This young man, he mused, this student from Ste-Ãmilie who has come to Washika to work and earn money during the summer months, has only one prayer in the evening and thatâs for it to rain hard enough in the morning so that he wonât have to go out to work.
The rain pattered softly on the tarpapered roof. Pâtit-Gus smiled. He could hear the stretching of the flat springs of the bunk as the student who had spoken to him rolled over onto his side and pulled the blankets up over his head.
During the summer months the inner door was held open by a wire twisted around the latch and wrapped around a nail on the wall. Pâtit-Gus removed the wire and closed the door behind him. As he shut the screen door, another student awoke and Pâtit-Gus could hear him and the one he had spoken to swearing, and then a third one yelling at them to shut up.
Chapter 8
W hen Henri opened his eyes that morning, he was not sure that he was really awake. He tried looking about the room. It was dark. He could not see where the windows were. The first bell had not sounded. He was sure of that. He was a sound sleeper and, except for the first night at Washika, always slept until the very last moment when Dumas Hébert, standing outside on the cookhouse landing, would lift the steel rod from its hook, place it inside the triangle, beat all three sides with a circular motion of his arm and fill the camp with a sound that no one could ignore.
It was warm under the grey blankets and his throat was dry. He lay on his side with his head resting on one arm. He could smell the ointment. He closed his eyes and he saw Lise Archambault lying in her bed, with her hair untied and floating across the pillow. Because it was so warm, she had rolled the covers back and unlaced her nightdress. Henri could see one of her breasts pointing upwards from her chest. He ran his hand along his chest. It was greasy, and he could feel the scales, like when he had once ran his hand over the back of a dead fish.
He listened to the quiet. Someone was snoring. There was another sound. At last, he was sure. It was not a dream. He listened to the puffing of the oil stove and remembered Pâtit-Gus saying that it was raining. But he also remembered Pâtit-Gus saying that it was not raining hard enough. He raised himself on his elbows and listened through the quiet, and the snoring, and the puffing of the oil stove. It was raining. He could hear the soft but steady patter of rain on the tar-papered roof. It was raining! Henri smiled in the darkness. Please God, he prayed, let it keep on. Let it be thunder and lightning if You want, I donât care. But just keep it coming. Harder and harder. Alphonse is a good man. Heâs a good and kind man but itâll take more than this to convince him. Just a little harder, Lord. Please. And lots of black clouds. If it keeps on like this, heâll want us out there by seven. And besides, dear God, if it doesnât rain, even a little, I wonât be able to go out to work. I canât work in the sun, remember. Thatâs what she said.
He rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes. He no longer heard the stove, or the snoring, not even the rain. It was soft and warm in his bed and he could see the little green eyes looking into his and smell her good smell and feel the touch of her hair on his arm.
Chapter 9
A t a quarter to six Dumas Hébert stepped out onto the landing of the cookhouse and rang the bell. Almost immediately lights could be seen through the windows of the camp buildings and there were sounds of low murmuring voices, boots shuffling, doors closing and, throughout the camp, the older men could be heard enduring their morning cough. Some of the men were worse than
Standing in the room, behind the glare of his hunting lamp, the joke was almost as good. This young man, he mused, this student from Ste-Ãmilie who has come to Washika to work and earn money during the summer months, has only one prayer in the evening and thatâs for it to rain hard enough in the morning so that he wonât have to go out to work.
The rain pattered softly on the tarpapered roof. Pâtit-Gus smiled. He could hear the stretching of the flat springs of the bunk as the student who had spoken to him rolled over onto his side and pulled the blankets up over his head.
During the summer months the inner door was held open by a wire twisted around the latch and wrapped around a nail on the wall. Pâtit-Gus removed the wire and closed the door behind him. As he shut the screen door, another student awoke and Pâtit-Gus could hear him and the one he had spoken to swearing, and then a third one yelling at them to shut up.
Chapter 8
W hen Henri opened his eyes that morning, he was not sure that he was really awake. He tried looking about the room. It was dark. He could not see where the windows were. The first bell had not sounded. He was sure of that. He was a sound sleeper and, except for the first night at Washika, always slept until the very last moment when Dumas Hébert, standing outside on the cookhouse landing, would lift the steel rod from its hook, place it inside the triangle, beat all three sides with a circular motion of his arm and fill the camp with a sound that no one could ignore.
It was warm under the grey blankets and his throat was dry. He lay on his side with his head resting on one arm. He could smell the ointment. He closed his eyes and he saw Lise Archambault lying in her bed, with her hair untied and floating across the pillow. Because it was so warm, she had rolled the covers back and unlaced her nightdress. Henri could see one of her breasts pointing upwards from her chest. He ran his hand along his chest. It was greasy, and he could feel the scales, like when he had once ran his hand over the back of a dead fish.
He listened to the quiet. Someone was snoring. There was another sound. At last, he was sure. It was not a dream. He listened to the puffing of the oil stove and remembered Pâtit-Gus saying that it was raining. But he also remembered Pâtit-Gus saying that it was not raining hard enough. He raised himself on his elbows and listened through the quiet, and the snoring, and the puffing of the oil stove. It was raining. He could hear the soft but steady patter of rain on the tar-papered roof. It was raining! Henri smiled in the darkness. Please God, he prayed, let it keep on. Let it be thunder and lightning if You want, I donât care. But just keep it coming. Harder and harder. Alphonse is a good man. Heâs a good and kind man but itâll take more than this to convince him. Just a little harder, Lord. Please. And lots of black clouds. If it keeps on like this, heâll want us out there by seven. And besides, dear God, if it doesnât rain, even a little, I wonât be able to go out to work. I canât work in the sun, remember. Thatâs what she said.
He rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes. He no longer heard the stove, or the snoring, not even the rain. It was soft and warm in his bed and he could see the little green eyes looking into his and smell her good smell and feel the touch of her hair on his arm.
Chapter 9
A t a quarter to six Dumas Hébert stepped out onto the landing of the cookhouse and rang the bell. Almost immediately lights could be seen through the windows of the camp buildings and there were sounds of low murmuring voices, boots shuffling, doors closing and, throughout the camp, the older men could be heard enduring their morning cough. Some of the men were worse than
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